Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 13

  Davy Crockett had rolled to his feet and rotated to face the pair untangling themselves. He saw his friend’s plight. His right arm whipped in a half circle, and the tomahawk he needed to defend himself against his two foes flew neatly across the intervening space to bury itself in the neck of the man about to kill Flavius.

  The stricken warrior clasped a hand over the gushing gash. On pure impulse he tried to complete his swing with his other arm. Losing strength with every spurt of blood, he crumpled in mid-swing.

  Flavius was in the act of shoving erect. He thrust his hand out to ward off the falling body but forgot to take into account the warrior’s club. Searing pain racked his head. Everything around him spun, then blurred, then faded to black. He felt himself pitch toward the ground, but he did not feel the impact.

  “Flavius!” Davy cried, bounding toward him.

  A bronzed hand lashed out, catching hold of Davy’s ankle. He tripped, his elbows and knees absorbing the brunt. As he heaved onto his side to stand, the two warriors converged. The warrior with the club had lost it when he fell, but the Ree wielding the knife still had it.

  Davy’s own knife flashed. Steel rang on steel. He parried thrust after thrust, striving to keep an eye on both Arikaras at once. Under the circumstances, it was impossible.

  The warrior with the knife speared it at Davy’s jugular. Davy dodged, shifted, struck. He nicked the man’s wrist, drawing blood, but that did not stop the Ree from weaving an intricate pattern of glittering steel designed to break through Davy’s guard.

  That was what Davy assumed, anyway. Then iron fingers closed on his neck from the rear, fingernails gouging into his flesh.

  The other Arikara had gotten behind him! Davy clawed at the constricting fingers while warding off another savage onslaught by the first man’s blade. He could not fight them both at once! He would be either stabbed or strangled unless he did something, and did it right away!

  The Ree holding the knife cocked his arm, then lanced it at Davy’s chest. With a monumental effort, Davy wrenched to the left. The blade sheared past. A shocked roar ensued as it sank into the Arikara seeking to throttle him.

  The fingers on his throat slackened. Davy ripped free and pivoted. He slashed at the knife wielder’s torso, but the man was pantherish quick.

  Cold steel sought Davy’s heart. Countering, he traded stabs. Neither of them inflicted a wound. They were too evenly matched, which explained why the Ree threw caution to the wind and suddenly barreled forward, risking everything in a bold gambit.

  Davy seized the Rees knife arm, and the Ree seized his. They struggled viciously, Davy forced steadily backward until his legs bumped against an obstacle.

  It was the low log. Muscles surging, the Arikara slammed into Davy like an enraged bull and Davy keeled backward. His spine smashed onto the log. Nose to nose, straining and heaving, they slipped onto the grass.

  Davy contrived to alight on his left side, but the warrior twisted, partially pinning him. The Ankara’s blade inched toward his neck. Try though he may, Davy could not long resist the inevitable.

  The warrior seemed to sense as much. Baring his teeth like a wolf would its fangs, he redoubled his efforts, throwing every ounce of bulging sinew into sinking his weapon in Davy’s body.

  Davy pretended to momentarily weaken. The Ree, hissing, reared to thrust his knife home. He barely noticed Davy’s own knife held close to the grass. But in a tremendous burst of raw stamina, Davy arced the blade up and in.

  A strangled groan escaped the Arikara. Davy shoved him off, looped an arm over the log, and stood. The other members of the war party were on the ground, dead or dying. “I’ll be switched!” he declared wearily. “We beat them, boys.”

  But there was no one to hear.

  Flavius was gone.

  So was Hoodoo Tom Fitzgerald.

  So was the dugout.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bewildered, Davy Crockett gazed out over the river. Sixty yards to the south Hoodoo Tom sat in the stem of the dugout, paddling in a frenzy. Slumped in front of him, still unconscious, was Flavius.

  The trapper saw Davy and beckoned. “Come on, young coon! Don’t keep me waitin’!” Cackling, he bent to the paddle again with an alacrity that belied his years.

  “What’s your hurry?” Davy shouted. “Where are you going?” His answer was another beckoning gesture and louder cackling.

  Not knowing what to think, he collected his weapons and those Flavius had lost, piled them in the birch-bark canoe, and set out after the mountain man. With his lighter craft, he would overtake them in no time and demand an accounting.

  It was surprising how swiftly Hoodoo Tom plied the river. Davy gained, but not nearly fast enough to suit him. Hoodoo Tom reached the bend, glanced back, and hollered, “Not quite good enough by half, Tennessee! Better luck in your next life!”

  With that, the dugout sailed on around the knob of land.

  What was that all about? Davy wondered. Stroking evenly, he brought his canoe to the same point and swept into the next straight stretch of glistening waterway. He blinked, dumbfounded.

  The dugout was gone!

  Davy slowed, perplexed. There had not been enough time for the trapper to reach the next bend hundreds of yards off. Nor could the mountaineer have crossed to the west shore, rimmed by high cliffs. No, Hoodoo Tom had apparently entered one of three narrow tributaries on the left.

  Fringed by heavy growth, including low-hanging limbs that dappled their surfaces with dark shadow, the tributaries were no more than twenty yards apart. Hoodoo Tom could have gone into any one.

  Davy paddled to the first. A high bank thirty feet inland blocked his view, so he could not tell if it was the branch the trapper took. Advancing to the next, he found a wide patch of cattails blocking its mouth. None of the stems was bent or showed any other signs of being disturbed. Hoodoo Tom had not gone that way.

  Stroking to the third creek, Davy angled into it. Almost immediately he had to negotiate a sharp turn. Ahead were more cattails. He was elated to discover some had been flattened by the passage of a heavy object.

  “The dugout,” Davy said to himself, and hastened on, the reeds rustling against the sides of his canoe. Soon he was in open water and increased his speed.

  The tributary averaged five yards in width. Deep pools were separated by channels where the depth varied from four to eight feet.

  A series of turns to the left presently brought Davy to a confluence of the tributary with a wider waterway. He realized that he had misjudged.

  The three creek mouths he had seen were in reality the single mouth of a broad river that merged with the Mississippi through a number of channels.

  Davy scoured this new river but did not see the dugout. Sailing along the near bank, he searched for hiding places or breaks in the vegetation. Minutes crawled by, one after another, his anxiety mounting the farther he went.

  Where could the trapper have gotten to? Why had he run off with Flavius? It defied logic. But so did everything else Hoodoo Tom did.

  Trees grew right to the water’s edge, blotting out whatever lay inland. Sheltered nooks were common, and in one, pulled onto shore and left right out in the open, was the dugout.

  Davy blinked. He had not figured it would be this easy. Beaching his canoe beside the dugout, he climbed out. In his rush to catch up he had not loaded any of his guns, so he took his two pistols from the pile to do so. Suddenly, a loud groan, as of someone in great pain, issued from farther in the forest.

  It must be Flavius! Davy thought, and raced pell-mell along a game trail. Moccasin prints confirmed that Hoodoo Tom had gone this way, carrying Flavius. Davy sprinted around a bend.

  A hundred feet or so ahead was a small clearing. Directly over it hung the limb of a giant maple. And hanging from it by a stout rope bound around the ankles was a heavyset figure, arms dangling.

  As if he had wings on his feet, Davy sped to his friend. Flavius groaned again. Jamming his pistols under his wide belt
, Davy grabbed Flavius around the shoulders to brace him, then reached higher to pry at the knots. They were too tight. Pulling his knife, he slashed at the rope. It parted, and he caught Flavius with both arms, lowering him gently to the grass.

  Davy could not find evidence of any wounds other than a nasty welt on the brow. As he straightened, tittering laughter came from the direction of the river.

  Davy jumped up. The wily trapper had outfoxed him, luring him to the clearing and doubling back! Although loath to leave his friend alone, he sprinted down the trail. Exploding out of the trees, he halted at the water’s edge, baffled outrage seizing him.

  Both the dugout and the canoe had been taken.

  The river was empty in both directions. Davy guessed that Hoodoo Tom was hiding in one of the many nooks or in a patch of reeds. He roved the shore westward a short distance, then eastward for a quarter of a mile. Nothing.

  Defeated, dejected, Davy bent his steps toward the clearing. Hoodoo Tom had hoodwinked them but good. All their belongings were gone—their rifles, their packs, their blankets, everything—and would probably be sold in St. Louis for a tidy sum.

  Davy was not one to hold a grudge, but if he ever met up with Hoodoo Tom again, there would be hell to pay.

  At least they were still alive, and as his pa had always said, where there was life, there was hope.

  Rubbing a sore rib, Davy looked up. The clearing was in sight—but not Flavius. Figuring that his friend had revived and wandered off, Davy hollered several times. He received no reply.

  “Flavius? Where are you?” Davy tried again, his gut balling into a knot. An awful premonition filled him with rising dread. He checked the grass. Furrows left by a heavy body being dragged led to the trees.

  Flavius had not walked off under his own steam. Someone had hauled him off, possibly hostiles.

  Crouching, Davy loaded both pistols. He sorely missed having his rifle; the flintlocks were only reliable at short range. Moving stealthily into the growth, he spotted a clear print in a bare spot. A chill gripped him.

  Indians were not to blame. For a reason Davy could not begin to imagine, Hoodoo Tom had concealed the canoe and dugout somewhere and snuck on back. What was the mountain man up to? More than thievery was involved here. It was almost as if Hoodoo Tom were playing some sort of bizarre game with them.

  Davy’s nerves were stretched taut. So when a twig snapped to his right, he whirled, only to startle a small doe that bounded off. Licking his lips, Davy tracked the trapper deeper and deeper into the gloomy woods.

  The man had not made any attempt to hide his trail, which was just as puzzling as everything else. It was almost as if Hoodoo Tom wanted Davy to hunt him down.

  Abruptly, the drag marks ended. Davy glanced right and left, but the ground was undisturbed. Not a single footprint was evident. “This can’t be,” he whispered.

  Seemingly on cue, tittering fluttered on the sluggish breeze. “Lose something, Tennessee?”

  Davy whirled. The mountain man was northwest of him, approximately thirty yards away. It might as well have been a mile. The undergrowth was dense enough to hide a herd of buffalo. “Fitzgerald! What are you up to?”

  “Ain’t you guessed yet?” was the mocking response, a little farther to the west than before. “Folks must not be too bright down your way.”

  “Where’s Flavius? Why did you take him?”

  “He was the bait, pup.” Hoodoo Tom’s voice came from a different spot than the last time.

  “Bait?” Davy repeated. It was obvious that the trapper was circling, to make it hard to pinpoint him.

  “Lordy, you sure are a dumb cluck,” Hoodoo Tom declared. “You must’ve been in the outhouse when God gave out brains.”

  “Tell me where Flavius is!”

  Silence greeted the demand. When next Hoodoo Tom spoke, he had gone another ten yards. “Not likely, hoss. But I will make you a deal. If you beat me, I’ll let you know where to find him. If I come out on top, then I’ll do with your friend as I please.” He paused. “The plumper they are, the tastier they are.” Horrified by the implication, Davy did not respond.

  “The trick is to let the chunks simmer an hour or more,” the madman elaborated. “They’re downright juicy! I like to add onions when I can, and pepper, but not salt. The meat is salty enough on its own.”

  Davy found his voice. “You meant to do this all along?”

  “No, not at first. Not until I took a shine to that nose of yours.”

  “You like to eat noses?”

  Maniacal mirth scared a few sparrows into winging skyward. “Hell, boy! That’s the craziest thing I ever heard! Who would do anything so disgustin’?” There was another pause while Hoodoo Tom traveled a dozen feet. “It’s the whole head, hoss. The way the nose and the cheeks and the ears all fit together. Some are regular works of art. Treasures, I call ’em.”

  Davy shuddered, his palms growing slick on the stocks of his pistols. “Your brother?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  “He didn’t die thirty years ago. You killed him, didn’t you? Not too long ago, up in the Rockies?”

  Hoodoo Tom did not answer.

  “You can’t go on like this,” Davy shouted. “Come to St. Louis with Flavius and me. Talk to a doctor, or a parson. There might be something they can do.” He was stalling, grasping at straws, and the mountaineer knew it.

  “Who are you tryin’ to kid, Crockett? They’d bind me in chains, then put me in one of those places where they keep people who howl at the moon and talk to walls and such.” Hoodoo Tom stopped. “My brother wanted to put me in one,” he said softly. “Me! His own flesh and blood! I couldn’t believe it!”

  “So you murdered him.”

  “Not murder, no!” Hoodoo Tom said angrily. “I only did what I had to, what he made me do. And it’s not as if he went to waste.”

  A sour sensation crept from Davy’s stomach up his throat to his mouth. He glided soundlessly to the west, letting the mountain man’s voice guide him.

  “Just because a person doesn’t see things the way everyone else does, just because he’s a mite different, doesn’t give anyone the right to judge him.”

  Davy moved faster, wary of dry grass and brush. “My brother called me evil,” Hoodoo Tom said sorrowfully. “How could he do that? We had the same ma, the same pa. We grew up side by side, doing the same things all boys do. I never harmed a soul in my life until after we ate that Injun, and we only ate him because we were about starved to death.”

  A vague shape hinted at the trapper’s position. Not yet in range, Davy stalked toward it.

  “What’s evil, anyway? Look at Andrew Jackson. He’s from your part of the country, ain’t he? He’s killed people in duels. He wiped out a heap of Injun women and brats durin’ that war you fellers had with the Creeks. Yet has anybody ever called him evil? Does anyone want to throw him in chains?”

  Davy was close enough to distinguish the mountain man’s buckskins. He took deliberate aim.

  “It’s not a question of my being good or evil,” Hoodoo Tom continued. “I’m just livin’ my life as I see fit. And to hell with those who don’t like it!”

  Another step, and Davy saw the mountain man clearly. At the same instant, Hoodoo Tom saw him. He fired, but Hoodoo Tom dived and rolled into tall weeds. Davy dashed to them, squatted, and listened. All he heard was his own heavy breathing.

  To the south of him, Hoodoo Tom snickered. “Nice try, cub. That’ll teach me to prattle on like an old maid.”

  Davy extended his other pistol, hoping against hope for another shot. But Hoodoo Tom was not about to make the same mistake twice. Lowering onto his belly, Davy snaked to a wide tree trunk and rose onto his knees.

  It was a war of wits now. Wits and wood lore. He must pit his skill against a man whose woodcraft rivaled an Indian’s.

  Standing, Davy peeked out. A rifle cracked, and a lead ball smashed into the bark so close to his cheek that he was stung by flying slivers. More
laughter taunted him as he turned and ran.

  “Is that the best you can do, hoss? You make more noise than a pregnant moose!”

  Hoodoo Tom was enjoying himself immensely.

  A rock outcropping gave Davy an idea. Climbing to a small ledge six feet up, he reloaded, then glued his eyes to the forest. He was not going to budge. Why expose himself, when it was smarter to let the trapper come to him?

  All the birds and squirrels had fallen silent. Even the wind had died. It was so quiet, Davy could have heard a pin drop. No noise broke the stillness, though. Not so much as a leaf stirred.

  Davy pursed his lips, thinking. He couldn’t stay up there the rest of the day. There was Flavius to think of. Sliding to the left, he rose slightly higher. Several hundred feet distant was a meadow.

  A rifle boomed, shockingly near. The ball spanged stone chips off a boulder at Davy’s elbow. He fired at a mushrooming cloud of smoke, levered off the ledge, and dropped.

  A pistol shot rang out. Davy clutched his stinging left shoulder and plunged into the trees. Fearful of being shot in the back, he weaved among the boles, not stopping until he came to the meadow.

  Hunkering, Davy examined his shoulder. It had only been creased. It barely bled. Reloading, he crawled into the high grass.

  The meadow was tear-shaped, hemmed by heavy timber on three sides, by a knoll to the south. In the center, Davy halted. Now no one could approach him without being seen or heard.

  Evidently Hoodoo Tom was in no hurry to finish him off. Fifteen minutes elapsed. Half an hour. Davy grew impatient and had to resist an urge to sneak on back into the woods. When a bee alighted on his left hand, he stayed as rigid as a statue. It explored his knuckles, then flew off.

  What was keeping the mountain man? Davy wondered. Removing his coonskin cap, he craned his neck. He guessed that Hoodoo Tom would come at him from out of the woods to the north, east, or west.

  Behind him, to the south, a shot cracked. Davy spun, bringing up his flintlocks, but he did not shoot.

  Brazenly standing on top of the knoll, which was well out of pistol range, Hoodoo Tom chuckled and lowered his smoking pistol. Making a show of tucking it under his belt, he casually raised his rifle and sighted down the barrel. “Now that I’ve got your attention, why don’t you chuck those short guns and mosey on over here?”