Davy Crockett 8 Read online

  Kastner fluttered his lips, then said, “You’re pathetic, bumpkin. I’m surprised you didn’t strangle yourself with your own diaper when you were little.”

  The elder looked from one to the other. Bending, he ran his hands over Flavius’s shoulders, ribs, and stomach, and pinched Flavius above the hips.

  “What in tarnation is that coyote doing?” Arlo asked. “Ticklin’ you?”

  “Not hardly.” Flavius had done the same many times, to pigs and sheep and cows he’d had to slaughter. The oldster was gauging how much meat he had on his bones.

  Arlo recoiled when it was his turn. “Take your rotten hands off me!” he bellowed. Elevating his boots, he drove them at the Indian’s face, but the man swatted them aside with deceptive ease for one so advanced in years. Arlo was knocked off balance, landing on his back. The elder calmly straddled him and repeated what he had done to Flavius.

  “If it’s the last thing I ever do, you mangy Injun, I’m going to kill you!”

  “Don’t make it any worse than it already is,” Flavius said.

  Brittle mirth cascaded from the river rat. “What a moron! I’m going to die alongside an idiot. And there’s nothin’ I can do about it.”

  After completing his examination, the elder left. The flap swung down, but not quite all the way. Sparkling sunlight streamed in through the gap.

  Flavius scooted his backside over. Peeking out, he saw the oldster talking to another man. Others were carting deadwood from the swamp and piling it around the huge clay pot. The village bustled with activity. It did not take a genius to realize the Indians were preparing for a special celebration.

  Arlo had sat back up. Wagging his wrists, he said, “Chew on my ropes. When I’m free, I’ll untie you.”

  Two warriors strode around the corner of the long lodge, ushering a young black woman between them. Her arms were bound, but the leg irons were gone.

  “Who had the keys to the shackles?” Flavius inquired.

  “Huh? What does that matter?”

  “Who?”

  “Sedge did. He didn’t trust me to keep ’em because I was always losin’ the damn things. Which was fine by me. The ring they were on must have weighed five pounds.”

  The black woman was taken before the elder. He gave her the same treatment he had given Flavius and the river rat. She held her head high, but her full lips quivered. At a word from the chief, she was guided into the long lodge instead of being returned to the holding pen.

  Flavius leaned his brow against a bent sapling that formed part of the frame, and closed his eyes. That poor woman. He had never felt so helpless. Or so guilty. For the simple truth was that the Africans would not be in danger if more people did as the Quakers were doing and spoke out against slavery.

  But his guilt ran deeper than that. For once in his life he had tried to make a difference, tried to do what was right. He had stood on his own two feet. He had risked everything to help those in need. And he had failed. Failed miserably. Now the blacks would pay for his failure with their lives.

  “Come on, damn it,” Arlo said. “Get me loose.”

  Flavius roused himself. “How big a fool do you think I am?” he responded. “Free me first, then I’ll do the same for you.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “No,” Flavius bluntly admitted. The cutthroat had to be kidding. Arlo had tried to kill him once already. Flavius slid closer, wrists held out. “What will it be?”

  Grumbling, Arlo lowered his mouth to the rope and gnawed like a beaver. The tough strands of hide resisted and every so often he lifted his head to mutter swear words.

  Flavius tilted sideways to see outside. The people were retiring to their lodges to prepare for the evening’s festivities. The same two warriors who had escorted the black woman from the pen now stood guard in front of the long lodge. As Flavius looked on, several Indian women carrying baskets and bowls hurried into it.

  Spittle dribbled onto Flavius’s wrists. Arlo was chewing with a vengeance. It would take a while to gnaw clean through, and time was a luxury they did not have much of.

  Flavius worried about Davy. The Irishman should have shown up long ago. He fretted that something horrible had happened. Fretted that he was totally on his own.

  “Hold still, bumpkin,” the river rat chided.

  Quite by accident, Flavius had lowered his arms a trifle. They were growing tired. He looked outside, past the long lodge to where a corner of the pen could be seen. Some of the Africans were pacing, other staring at the lodge. Flavius shared their apprehension. Somehow, the woman must be saved.

  Arlo straightened and spat. “There. Give it a try.”

  Half the strands were bitten through. Flavius thrust his arms outward in an attempt to snap the rest, but they were a lot stronger than they appeared. He tried again, and was rewarded with a strand popping.

  Feet tramped, and muted voices approached. Sliding away from the river rat, Flavius lay on his back.

  Into the lodge ducked the elder and two stoic warriors. “Did you forget something?” the Tennessean asked, placing his hands close to his buttocks so none of the Indians would notice the gnawed rope.

  “They probably want to drag you off to that pot,” Arlo said, smirking wickedly. “A nice, plump blob of meat like you must make their mouths water.”

  But it wasn’t Flavius they were after. At a gesture from the chief, the warriors stepped to the river rat and each grasped an arm. Arlo stiffened in disbelief, then jerked backward. “Get your rotten paws off me, you stinkin’ cannibals! If you think you can eat me, you have another think comin’.”

  The elder left.

  The other two hoisted Kastner and toted him to the opening. Arlo kicked and screeched. “Don’t take me! Take him! Take the bumpkin!” As one of the warriors pushed the flap aside, the slaver went berserk. He threw himself in all directions, twisting and turning, striving to bite them or butt them with his forehead. “No! No! No! I won’t let you! Put me down!”

  A blow to the jaw silenced him. Arlo slumped as he was carted out, his eyes locking on the Tennessean’s in mute appeal.

  Flavius moved to the entrance, nosing the flap aside. The warriors were bearing the river rat to the long lodge. Kastner no longer resisted. He seemed overwhelmed by the development, too stunned to fight, his will sapped. As much as Flavius disliked him and resented what Arlo had done, this was not how the man deserved to meet his end. No one did.

  Tucking his knees to his chest, Flavius hunched over and attempted to slide his hands under his backside. But his wrists were still so tightly bound that he could not manage more than halfway.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he stated, and tried again. And again. And yet again.

  The rope chafed his skin. His wrists were on fire. He stretched his arms to their limit, and beyond. About to give up, he felt another strand give. His arms slowly scraped forward, then up and around. He had done it! In savage joy he bit into the hide, grating his teeth back and forth.

  It took forever. Finally the rope was severed. Undoing the knots and those on his ankles was the work of minutes. Flavius flung the ropes into a corner and peered out.

  The sun was half gone. Shadows dappled the village. The only Indians abroad were the guards at the main lodge.

  The dwelling in which Flavius had been placed was one of the nearest to the east of the lodge. To reach the pen he must cross a wide-open space, unless he circled around behind the long structure. As soon as it was dark enough to try, he would.

  Settling onto his stomach, Flavius waited impatiently. From some of the lodges laughter rose, from others loud voices. The Indians were in fine fettle.

  Recollecting the time he was a captive of the Ojibwas, Flavius poked his head out as far as was prudent and scoured the shadows for mongrels. Dogs would spoil everything. Most tribes kept some. Not as pets, but as guardians to sound a warning in case of a raid, and as beasts of burden to pull heavily laden travois. He saw none, which was hi
ghly unusual.

  Or maybe not.

  Whoever these Indians were, they weren’t squeamish about what they ate. It could be that humans weren’t their only fare. Maybe they ate anything and everything. It would explain why wildlife was scarce in the area.

  Someone was out and about. It was the elder, but what a change! He wore a beaded shirt and pants, and a headdress with enough feathers to fill a wheelbarrow. At the long lodge he paused in front of a niche Flavius had overlooked. From it he removed what Flavius took to be a hollow tube, about a yard long. Putting one end to his lips, the elder blew three loud, low notes.

  It was a signal for the rest of the tribe, including women and children, to parade in regal procession across the square. Four abreast, they filed into the long lodge. The last to go in were the guards. Soon light spilled out through the wide doorway, and chanting commenced.

  Flavius was through waiting. It was now or never. He would rather have his guns, but he did not know where the Indians had put them. Slipping out, he padded to the right. The guttural chorus drowned out what little noise he made. He was almost to the rear corner of the long lodge when the unforeseen occurred.

  Another guard strode from behind it.

  Ten

  Davy Crockett and James Bowie had been on the go for over an hour when Davy’s left leg developed a cramp. Against his will he had to slow down. Within a few more paces the discomfort was severe enough to force him to halt. Limping to a log, he sat, explaining why as he did.

  “A few minutes won’t matter much,” Bowie said. “I’m a bit winded anyway.” Putting his back to a tree, he hunkered down.

  Davy begged to differ. “A few minutes can make all the difference in the world. The difference between life and death.”

  “True enough, I suppose.” Bowie sighed. “This Harris sure is lucky to have a friend like you. Here you are, risking everything to save him. Not many people would do what you’re doing.”

  “You would.”

  Bowie’s eyebrow arched. “Think so? You hardly know me, so what makes you say that?”

  Davy was massaging his leg vigorously. “Some men wear their character on their sleeves. Deep down, you have true grit. More than most. You’d go out of your way to help someone in need.”

  “For meterte a redentor te ha passado todo esto.”

  “You speak Spanish too?”

  James Bowie nodded. “I can read and write Spanish, French, and English. And I know half-a-dozen Indian tongues. A few black dialects too.” He smiled. “I have a gift, my brother claims. He says I should go into politics.”

  “Funny. My friends say the same about me.”

  “But I’m not as pure as you make me out to be, friend,” Bowie remarked. “At one time or another I’ve broken nearly all the Commandments. Especially that one about not coveting what your neighbor has.” He spoke softly, as if to himself. “God help me, but I covet money more than anything. Wealth. Luxury. I’ve had a taste of how the very rich live, and I aim to live just like they do some day. Someday soon.”

  Davy sensed a certain sadness in the man, a certain self-reproach. “And you figure Black Ivory is the means to your end?”

  Bowie sighed again. “I’ll be frank. Once I did, yes. But the longer I’ve been at this, the less I like it. So I’ve tried to fool myself. I tell myself that I’m better than most other slave runners because I treat the blacks better than they do. But the truth is, what I’m doing is wrong.”

  “Then why not up and end it?”

  “The money ...” Bowie said, his voice trailing off.

  “My grandpa used to say that the root of all evil in this world of ours is the love of money.”

  “Your grandfather was wise.”

  Trying to cheer Bowie up, Davy commented, “At least you know the value of a dollar. Me, I’ve never had much interest in being King Midas. I’ve always been content to go from day to day, taking whatever the Good Lord threw my way.” He laughed lightly. “It about drives my wife crazy. She says I have the least ambition of any man alive. I think she wishes she’d known it when she married me. She’d probably have turned me down.”

  Bowie smiled. “Women naturally like the finer things in life. And it just so happens that the finer things cost more.”

  “If you ask me, we’d all be better off if we lived in caves and wore bearskins. Then no one would covet anything.”

  The tall frontiersman smiled. “You come up with the silliest notions. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Oh, just about everybody.”

  Bowie became serious again. “A few more trips, and I think I’ll end it. Rezin will have to find another partner or go into another business. I’ll be off to the Paris of the West to find my fortune some other way.”

  “Maybe you should go to Texas,” Davy suggested.

  “Texas? What’s there besides Comanches and run-down old church missions?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. The people are as friendly as a parson at a fund-raiser. And since you already speak Spanish, you’d be right at home.” Davy recalled his long ride from San Antonio. “It’s a land of milk and honey, Jim. Beautiful rolling hills and fertile plains. Trees that stretch to the sky. Rivers that never go dry. Sweet grass for horses and cattle. Enough varmints to feed a family for all their days.”

  “You make it sound like paradise.”

  “To some it could be. The government is offering land grants, and you could get yourself an estate the size of Rhode Island for pennies. And since I suspect you have a hankering for the ladies, I should let you know that those Mexican gals are as pretty as speckled coon dogs.”

  “You call that attractive?”

  Davy laughed. “To each their own. And to a coon hunter like me, a coon dog is about the prettiest critter in all creation.”

  “I’ll take the ladies any day.”

  They grinned at one another, both of them seeming to realize they shared a special bond. It was Davy who coughed and stated, “Think about it. You could do worse. If it’s wealth you’re after, there’s plenty to be had there. If land doesn’t interest you, you could always search for those lost silver mines.”

  “Those what?”

  “An old-timer in San Antonio told me about them. The San Saba silver mines, they’re called. Operated by the Spanish years ago, until the Indians got fed up at being made to do the digging and ran the Spaniards out. Now no one can say exactly where they are. But Indians come into town from time to time with pure silver to trade.”

  “Silver,” Bowie said softly.

  “The mines are worth millions. Lots of men have hunted for them, and lots have never been heard from again. But if you’re interested, the information is right there in the mission records for you to read.”

  James Bowie gazed westward. “Texas. It does have a ring, doesn’t it?” He shrugged those broad shoulders of his. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll pay it a visit one day. Just for the hell of it, you understand.”

  “Surely.”

  The cramp was about gone. Standing, Davy tested his leg by walking in a small circle. “Truth is, I might go back there my own self. It really is the garden spot of the world. With the best land prospects I’ve ever seen.” He thought of his chronic mystery ailment. “And a healthy climate, besides.”

  “All right,” Bowie smiled. “I get the idea.”

  “If you ever do get there, let me know,” Davy said. “I’ll come join you. Between us we’ll own half the territory in no time.”

  Bowie shook his head in amusement. “You never give up, do you? What do you want, a signed promise I’ll go?” Clapping the Tennessean on the shoulder, he moved to the trail. “But first things first. We still have these Indians to deal with.”

  “Any idea what tribe they are?”

  “No. But that’s not surprising. There are dozens of small tribes scattered through the swamp. Tribes that keep to themselves, for the most part. Some are supposed to be worse than the Karankawas.”

  “Speaking of w
hich, do you reckon they’re still after us?”

  “No telling. It depends on how mad Snake Strangler is. The last time I tangled with him, he chased me over fifty miles.”

  The Tennessean pumped his leg a few times. “Well, we’d best be on our way.”

  Bowie started off, then paused and glanced around. “Davy?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Just thanks.”

  With that, James Bowie raced on down the trail, Davy at his heels. Mile after mile was covered in total silence. They were threading through a wooded tract when, unexpectedly, Bowie stopped so suddenly that Davy almost stumbled into him. Bowie raised a finger to his lips, then pointed to the northeast.

  A few seconds elapsed before Davy heard them too. Voices. The two men melted into the vegetation, covering a couple of dozen yards before coming on the source.

  Three brutish warriors were hiking northward, chattering excitedly. All three carried armloads of deadwood. They were using a well-established trail, a clue their village must be near at hand. Exactly how near was made clear a few minutes later when Davy and James followed them to their dwellings. The trio took the firewood to an enormous clay pot and deposited it around the pot’s base.

  James Bowie gripped Davy’s arm, then pointed.

  Davy has seen them too. In a pen beside a long building were the blacks. He did not see any sign of Flavius or Kastner, and he was eager to go back to where the voices had lured James and him off the trail. He whispered his intentions. “You ago ahead,” said Bowie. “I’m staying here.”

  “Don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone.”

  Retracing their steps, Davy took up where they had left off. He had not gone far when he found where warriors had surprised the pair. That there were no drops of blood or crushed grass was encouraging. The best Davy could tell, Flavius and the river rat had walked on into the village of their own accord.