Davy Crockett 7 Read online

  “Of course. But I wasn’t worried. So long as I stayed within regulations, I felt I was safe from reprisal.” Tar’s voice dropped to a gravelly rasp. “I was wrong. They waited for an incident they could exploit, then trumped up charges against me.”

  “What incident?”

  “One of the men was caught drunk on watch. A serious offense. Punishable at the captain’s discretion. Since we were in pirate waters at the time, and might have been boarded and overwhelmed because of the sot’s carelessness, I had him flogged. Sixty lashes.”

  “He lived?”

  “Of course. What do you take me for? He was as solid as a brick wall. But I can guarantee he thought twice about taking a nip when on duty from then on.” The giant tilted his face into the brisk breeze. “Regulations, though, said the most any man could receive was thirty strokes. So the lieutenant reported it to his uncle, and the admiral saw fit to convene a board of inquiry. The whole circus was rigged. I knew I wouldn’t get a fair hearing. Just as I knew the admiral would have me thrown into gaol. Or, worse, sent to a penal colony.”

  “So you skipped out on your own,” Davy surmised.

  “What choice did I have, Yank? Yes, I busted the heads of my guards and stowed away on a merchant vessel.” Tar’s teeth shone white in the night. “But before it set sail, I paid that squirt of a lieutenant a visit. Broke every bone in his body, I reckon, and left him whimpering on the floor, his jaw shattered in five or six places.”

  “They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. Why do you think I became a pirate? Deserters are always welcome. Men of my ability are rare and can easily become masters of their own vessels. If not for my falling-out with that bloody Frenchman, Laffite, I’d be on the open ocean right this moment, the deck rolling under me like a sultry wench, the salt air in my lungs, doing what I do best.”

  Davy had a lot to ponder. There was more to the giant than met the eye, much more. But it didn’t excuse Tar for the atrocities he had committed. It didn’t atone for the slaughtered innocents. “What happened with Laffite?”

  “Bloody hell. Jean claimed I cheated the company out of plunder. But the truth is, Laffite’s woman had grown too fond of me to suit him. He wanted me off Galveston Island, so he spread a pack of lies. Now here I am, passing the time of the day with a duffer who wears a coon butt for a hat. God knows, life is strange, Crockett.”

  The next several miles were covered without comment. As they came to the crest of a rise, Tar twisted. “I was serious before when I said I liked you, Yank. You’d make a fine drinking companion. So I truly am sorry I’ll probably have to kill you before too long. No hard feelings, eh?”

  “As my grandma used to say, never count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

  The Englishman laughed good-naturedly. “You Americans. I jolly well swear, coming up with stupid sayings must be a national pastime.”

  For a few warm seconds the two of them shared a special bond that Davy Crockett would never have granted was possible. A few seconds of friendship, of feeling a common kinship. The interlude was all too short. For barely had Davy grinned when a darkling shape materialized beside his bay.

  “What’s going on here, Crockett? Pards with this butcher now?” Farley Tanner had a hand on the butt of a pistol. “I thought maybe my ears were deceiving me.”

  “No one is all bad,” Davy said lamely.

  Blackjack Tar’s smile was gone. “To this young scamp, I am. I’m all the evil in the world. I’m Attila the Hun and the bloody Khan rolled into one. I’m the worst human being who ever lived in the whole history of the world. Isn’t that so, Texican?”

  “You said it, not me,” Farley answered.

  “So be it, then,” the giant said, and without warning he lunged, sending Davy flying from the saddle and into Farley, whose draw was a fraction too slow. The flintlock cleared Farley’s belt but went off prematurely, the shot missing Davy by a whisker and whizzing into thin air.

  Laughing lustily, the Englishman reined into the forest. Instantly, Mexicans streamed after him. Davy, flat on his back with the bay prancing nervously on one side and Farley’s mount trying to stomp him on the other, could do nothing. Yells rippled along the column as Farley applied his spurs and raced on around the bay.

  Davy heaved up from the grass, grabbed the saddle horn, and hauled himself astride his mount. He started to go in pursuit, then abruptly hauled on the reins and simply sat there, listening to the crash of brush and the giant’s coarse mirth recede rapidly to the west. He didn’t look to his right when another horseman arrived.

  “What happened? Why are you just sitting there?” Flavius asked. The commotion had brought him on the fly, in dread his friend had been harmed.

  More Mexicans clattered into the night.

  Flavius was confused by the Irishman’s lack of interest. “It’s Tar they’re after, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we help? We’re better hunters than they are any day of the week.”

  “We don’t have to bother,” Davy said.

  “Why not, pray tell? What do you know that I don’t?”

  “If Tar gets away, he’ll be back.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “We licked him. We made him eat crow in front of his whole band. Now he has to kill us, whether he wants to or not. He has to show his men he still has what it takes to be the top dog.”

  The explanation only added to Flavius’s confusion. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘whether he wants to or not’? He’s slain women and children, for God’s sake. Why would he think twice about making wolf meat of us? We’re nothing to him. Enemies, to be snuffed out at his leisure.”

  “Are we, you reckon?”

  Flavius dogged his friend’s steps as Davy trotted on down the line to where the women tensely waited. Over half the men, including Farley and Taylor, were gone. Now would be an ideal time for the freebooters to strike, Flavius mused, resting Matilda across his thighs. He realized Priscilla was speaking and tried to pay attention.

  “—believe that polecat gave us the slip. If there’s any justice in this world of ours, my son will catch him and finish him off once and for all. It’s what my Walter would do. What I would do.”

  Heather Dugan, who had hardly said two words since her rescue, now piped in with. “Yes, you Texicans are strong believers in justice, I’ve noticed.”

  Priscilla turned. “Do I detect a hint of reproach?”

  “More than a hint. I can’t get over how your son ordered those freebooters to be shot down in cold blood. And now you want him to kill an unarmed man?”

  “Hrammm.” The matriarch was thoughtful. “I credited you with more sand. A Tanner doesn’t get all squeamish over squashing a few bugs.”

  “Men aren’t insects.”

  “These aren’t butterflies we’re talking about, dear. These are two-legged cockroaches. And I don’t know about you, but when I see a cockroach in my house, I smash it.” Priscilla laid a wrinkled hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “This isn’t St. Louis. The social amenities don’t apply here, Heather. There’s little law to speak of, and the courts of final appeal are hundreds of miles away in Mexico City. So when we have to, we hold our own court and save the government the expense.”

  “See? Even you do it.”

  “Do what, child?”

  “Justify the endless killing by claiming it’s your only choice. If you ask me, you’re simply making excuses to justify behavior no civilized person would ever condone.”

  Priscilla was a long time replying. “Tell me. When those freebooters were pawing you at their camp, when they were drooling over you and doing things not fit for a lady to repeat, did you want them dead?”

  “That was different.”

  “I don’t think so. If you’d had a gun, you’d have shot every last one. You didn’t care about them being taking into custody or being held for formal trial. You wanted those shiftless vermin to pay. What my son did today, and what
, God willing, he might do now, is no different from what you wanted in that meadow. Judge not, Heather, lest you be judged.”

  Crackling undergrowth heralded the return of Farley and Taylor and the men who had gone with them. “We lost him, damn it,” Farley declared, then brought his horse in close to the Irishman’s bay. “And I hold you partly to blame, friend. I saw how you were treating that filthy beast. For all I know, you let Tar escape.”

  “I did no such thing,” Davy said.

  Farley was inclined to debate the point, but Taylor interceded. “It’s no use fighting among ourselves. Pretty soon we’ll be up to our necks in freebooters, when all the rest show up, and we’ll have all the fighting we can handle.”

  “How long, do you reckon?” Priscilla asked.

  “Depends on whether they’re leery of jumping us at night and wait until broad daylight.” Taylor scanned the heavens. “Our only hope is to ride like the wind and pray we reach the ranch before they catch us.”

  “Then why are we sitting here squabbling?” Priscilla demanded. With a smack of her hand, she and Heather were off, leading the way, sparking a headlong rush into the vastness of the Texas night.

  Davy Crockett found himself shunned by the Texicans, Americanos, and Mexicans alike. They treated him as if he didn’t exist. Which, by noon the next day, might well be the case.

  Ten

  By midnight it was apparent they would never reach the Tanner rancho by morning. The horses were winded, severely in need of rest. Priscilla was worse off. She gamely clung on to Heather and tried to stay awake, but her chin constantly drooped and she couldn’t keep her eyes open for more than a minute.

  Davy Crockett didn’t say anything. Not at first. He felt Farley should be the one to call a halt. The son stayed close to his mother at all times and was aware of her condition, as the many worried looks he cast at her proved. Yet Farley never acted. Davy waited, and waited, and around one in the morning decided enough was enough. Urging his horse up next to the tall Texican’s, he got straight to the point.

  “What in tarnation has gotten into you? Do you want Priscilla to fall off and crack her noggin?”

  Farley was still upset about the incident with Tar. “You have no say in this anymore. None at all.”

  “Fine. Be that way. I’ll bring fresh flowers to lay on your mother’s grave.”

  Glowering, Farley sped on. But not for long.

  The thickest of the woodland was behind them. Scattered hills dotted a broad plain split by arroyos. For some time Taylor had been rising in the stirrups now and again and intently scouring the murky terrain as if in search of a landmark. Suddenly he hollered and reined to the right, bringing them to the rim of a shallow basin half an acre in extent and carpeted by high grass.

  “What do you think?” the older man asked after they stopped. “It’s the best we’re liable to find. Large enough for all of us and the animals, yet small enough that we can hold our own for as long as our ammunition lasts.”

  “We’ll only stay here until first light,” Farley said. “Then we light a shuck. The hacienda can’t be more than twenty- five miles away.”

  The news sent a ripple of apprehension down Flavius’s spine. He’d calculated it couldn’t be more than ten. “Might as well be the moon,” he absently said, and was treated to glares from Farley and Taylor. Their motive eluded him until he saw anxiety afflict Heather.

  Davy kneed the bay into the basin, slid off, and roved the rim. A small arroyo slashed the plain forty yards to the east. To the south the nearest cover was a stand of cottonwoods. To the west it was a hill two hundred feet distant. To the north the woodland ended just beyond rifle range. Taylor had picked wisely.

  Farley posted the caballeros at regular intervals. Each had a loaded rifle and a brace of pistols. As Davy watched them spread out and lie prone, it dawned on him he didn’t know a single one. The Tanners had never introduced him.

  Here they were, risking life and limb together, brothers in peril, as it were, and they were complete strangers.

  Smiling, Davy cradled Liz and went to the closest, holding out his hand. The Mexican was puzzled but shook it warmly. Davy said his name and learned the caballero was called Juan. In turn he shook hands with each, repeating their names so he would be sure to remember them. Stocky Carlos. Dapper Dominguez. Dark, deadly Baca. Pleasant Chaves. Friendly Mariano. He met them, one and all, and flattered himself they sincerely appreciated the gesture.

  As he walked from caballero to caballero he noticed little things about them and their style of dress, things he had overlooked. Most, for instance, wore bands of tinsel cord on their sombreros. Their jackets, or chaquetas, sported fancy buttons and braids. The outer parts of their pants flared open from the hip to the ankle and had been decorated with buttons or lace. Many wore bright sashes around their waists. Some favored serapes, blankets with holes in the middle, thrown over the shoulders and worn with their heads poking through the holes.

  They presented dashing figures, these caballeros. Carefree, strong, independent, filled with zest for life.

  No less dashing were their horses. As befitted men who spent most of their lives in the saddle, they spared no expense in the equipment they used. Big, heavy saddles lavishly embossed with silver were the norm. So were solid silver bridles, spurs with rowels five inches long, and gaily decorated saddlebags.

  If this was the day he would die, Davy mused, he could not do it in finer company. He took his position at the southeast corner.

  “What was that all about?” Flavius asked. The Irishman was forever doing peculiar things. It was part of what made being his friend so interesting.

  “I figure if we’re due to show up at the Pearly Gates together,” Davy said, “we might as well line up in alphabetical order.”

  “If you don’t beat all,” Flavius said, and meant it. The notions his fellow Tennessean came up with boggled his brain. There were times when Flavius half suspected Davy had twice the brainpower of most men—or was partly addlepated.

  The waning hours of night passed uneventfully. Slowly the inky black lightened to a deep blue, which brightened as the eastern sky was suffused by radiant bands of orange and yellow. The wolves ceased howling, the coyotes stopped yipping. Robins and sparrows and larks greeted the new day merrily.

  Through it all, Priscilla slept the sleep of the dead. She was so exhausted, she would not rouse when Farley tried to awaken her shortly before dawn. “Mother? It’s time for us to go. Let her be,” Heather said. “Another five minutes won’t hurt.”

  The Texican faced the woman he had been on the verge of proposing to when his life came crumbling down around him. “Something is bothering you. I can tell.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Later?” Farley said wryly. “Awful optimistic.”

  “Just know this, Farley Tanner,” Heather declared. “Whatever happens to us, I have never loved anyone more than I love you.”

  Davy saw the Texican open his mouth to reply, but a shout from Taylor brought the peaceful interlude to a crashing end. “Here they come, muchachos! Get ready!”

  A dust cloud to the northeast signaled that the moment of truth had arrived. Soon the cloud hovered over a high hill on which stick figures were silhouetted. As the freebooters swarmed down the slope they resembled a horde of ants. They grew in size quickly, into solid ranks, ten wide and eight or nine deep, nearly ninety of the worst killers to ever tread soil.

  The caballeros rose onto their knees, their rifles resting on the basin’s rim. Farley stood at the northeast corner where the brunt of the charge would be, a pistol in each hand. “Don’t fire until I say so,” he hollered, and smirked. “Not until we can see the whites of their eyes.”

  There was no mistaking the rider at the forefront. Blackjack Tar’s bulk was akin to that of a hulking Cyclops out of antiquity. His cloak flew in his wake like the mane of a fierce African lion.

  In and of himself the Englishman was the most formidable man D
avy Crockett had ever met. Davy glimpsed the giant frequently as the renegades threaded through the woods. When they burst out of the trees, Tar elevated an arm, bringing them to a halt.

  Taylor had his cheek tucked to the stock of his rifle. “If only he’d come closer,” he said. “Just a little closer, is all I ask!”

  The giant shrugged the cloak off his right shoulder. “I’ll say this for you. You’ve tried your best.” His resonant voice carried to the basin without Tar having to yell. “Out of respect for the ladies, I’ll make this as easy on you as I can. Surrender, and I’ll have each of you shot, military fashion, by a firing squad. Swift and merciful. What do you say?”

  Farley laughed bitterly. “I say ... go to hell!”

  “Think of the women, Tanner,” Tar replied. “You have my solemn vow they’ll be shot dead. No one will manhandle them.”

  “You’re all heart.”

  “Mock me if you must. But I don’t make offers like this lightly, and I never make them twice. It’s now or never. Give up and die a manly death. Or resist to the last, and I swear by the Queen’s throne that any of you who survive will wish you hadn’t. Then my men will get to amuse themselves with the females. Your mother is old, but I’ll warrant she still has some vim and vinegar left in those old legs of hers.”

  Farley Tanner pointed a pistol. Fire-red, granite-faced, he wanted to shoot so much, his entire body shook from the violent emotions buffeting him. His lips curled in a savage grimace, he challenged his nemesis. “Quit trying to talk us to death. Show us what you’re made of, Tar. And we’ll show you how Texicans die.”

  “Fool!” the giant said. “So be it.”

  Eternity was measured in heartbeats. The caballeros had the grave air of men who knew beyond a certainty of a doubt they were going to die and were prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Davy scanned the basin and remarked offhandedly, “I wish we could fight in the open. I don’t much like being hemmed in.”

  A roar from Blackjack Tar was the catalyst. Whooping lustily and brandishing their guns, the freebooters rolled toward the Texicans, a great roiling tide, a thunderous host hell-bent on total destruction of their enemies.