Davy Crockett 7 Read online

  “Aim at the first row,” Farley barked. “The first row only!”

  On came the freebooters, shrieking their fury, a living tide washing over the plain. Lathered horses and grimy riders blended into one, into fierce centaurs gone amok, unstoppable, invincible in their numbers. Or were they?

  “Now, boys! Give ’em hell!”

  A dozen rifles spoke in a united din. Sixty yards out a dozen cutthroats pitched from their mounts or were slammed backward and clutched for slim support. The charge slowed, those in the second and third ranks thrown into confusion. But only briefly. The freebooters came on again, their compact formation ragged though still intact.

  “Reload!” Farley commanded.

  Flavius Harris was attempting to do just that. But he had never been so scared. Those screaming visages, reeking of blood lust, were terrifying to behold. This is nothing like the Creek War, he thought. Back then the fighting had been done in thick swamp or verdant forest. Half the time he hadn’t seen the Creeks at all and just fired when everyone else did.

  Here Flavius could see his foes clearly. He could see their blazing hatred, their contorted features. They were a great snarling, motley throng of hardened killers, intent on ripping him to shreds. Or worse. It filled him with fear so potent, his hands shook as if he had a case of the winter shivers. Concentrating for all he was worth, he poured in black powder and rammed a ball and patch down the barrel.

  By then the freebooters were so close, Flavius swore he could see the whites of their eyes. When Farley Tanner rang out the command, he aimed on a scraggly screeching target and fired in unison with the caballeros.

  Davy Crockett, however, did not. The second volley cut into the cutthroats like a scythe into ripe grain. Another eleven or twelve were brought to a lurching and in most cases final halt. Their horses, riderless, either stopped cold or veered, sowing more confusion and causing the middle ranks to rein up short.

  Among them was Blackjack Tar. As freebooters on the left and right swept wide to come at the basin from the east and the west, the Irishman focused on the Englishman to the exclusion of all else.

  Davy held his breath. Lining up the front sight with the rear, he fixed both squarely on Blackjack Tar’s broad chest. His trigger finger tightened slowly, smoothly, just as it should. Liz cracked and kicked.

  At that exact split second another freebooter astride a plunging mount blundered in front of the giant. The ball intended for Tar’s heart smashed into the other man instead. Smashed into him and through him, for Davy saw Blackjack Tar’s expression of surprise as the ball, its momentum largely spent, slammed into Tar’s right shoulder with enough force to twist Tar half around and partially unseat him.

  If there had been any lingering doubt in Davy’s mind that the freebooters would protect their leader at all costs, it was dispelled when those surrounding the giant closed around him, shielding him and assisting him in righting himself even as they guided him to the rear.

  The center of the attack had been broken, but the wings were now closing in, twenty horsemen to a side. Farley, still standing straight in defiance of the leaden hail, ordered the caballeros on the right side of the basin to fire at the cutthroats to the east, while those on the west side were to handle the other wing.

  One of the freebooters, Davy saw, held a large curved sword on high. A scimitar, he seemed to recollect. Plainly this was another pirate, one who should never have forsaken the ocean blue for the rolling prairie, for the man was nowhere near enough to use his exotic sword when Davy’s next shot splattered his head half over creation.

  Other rifles blistered the air with fire and smoke. The cutthroats to the east were decimated and had the wisdom to break off before more were lost. Those on the west, however, weathered an accurate firestorm poured into them by the caballeros and hurtled on toward the rim, determined to do or die.

  Flavius happened to glance over a shoulder as a scar-faced freebooter on a plunging piebald sailed into the basin, a pistol in each brawny fist. A caballero pivoted to shoot him but was felled first. Automatically, Flavius brought up Matilda and let fly. He did not think to aim, but the shot kicked the man off the piebald as if bashed by an invisible hammer. Grasping his powder horn, Flavius began to reload, pausing when his ears registered an awful sound—a disturbing quiet, a quiet so silent it was as if he stood in his own grave deep under the earth.

  The freebooters had been repulsed, leaving fully a score of broken bodies to litter the battlefield. For their bravery the Texicans paid dearly. Four more caballeros were gone. Four more, when not one could be spared.

  So thick was the cloud of smoke drifting sluggishly on the limp wind that Davy could not see the tree line for quite a while. When he could, the next stage in the clash was revealed. The renegades were not inclined to risk another frontal assault. Not anytime soon, at any rate. Fires were being built. Forty or so ruffians were making themselves comfortable close to the woods while the rest fanned out, ringing the basin in an unbroken line. Just out of reach of even the best marksman, they dismounted and hunkered.

  “They’re fixing to wait us out,” Taylor said. “All they have to do is sit out there and let thirst and hunger weaken us. Three days from now they’ll ride in and finish off those of us who are still alive.”

  “Then we won’t wait three days,” Priscilla Tanner stated. “We’ll learn them a thing or two. We’ll charge the bastards and bust out of their trap.”

  In all the excitement Davy had forgotten about the matriarch. Neither she nor Heather had been harmed, thank goodness, although one of the dead caballeros had been kneeling an arm’s length from Heather when a stray bullet brought him low.

  Miraculously, Farley was unhurt. Not once during the fight had he ducked down, yet none of the many shots fired at him scored. A charmed life, some might say. A reckless soul, others would say. Or a brave man who would defend his loved ones with his dying breath.

  A water skin was passed around. Davy drank sparingly; the water might need to last days.

  Flavius was thirsty enough to gulp every last drop, but he followed his friend’s example and reluctantly relayed the skin to a caballero without doing more than wetting his lips. “Shut up,” he said under his breath to his growling stomach. Food was the least of his worries.

  “What’s this?” Taylor abruptly said. “What the devil are they up to now?”

  Advancing unarmed from the north was Quint, holding aloft in his right hand a tattered white shirt tied to the end of a crooked branch. The sea dog had a rolling gait typical of those who called the sea home. A thumb hooked in his belt, he waved the branch and hallooed. “Will you respect the flag of truce or no? I have words from me master.”

  Farley climbed to the top. “No harm will come to you. But keep your hands where we can see them.”

  Growing cocky, Quint sashayed into the leveled muzzles of the caballeros. “Surprised you’re still among the livin’, Tanner. The Cap’n has put a hundred-dollar bounty on your head.”

  “Tell him it will cost him dearly to collect.”

  Quint surveyed the basin and responded, “Looks to me as if your gall has already cost you dearly, Yank. So tell you what. Surrender, and the Cap’n promises a merciful death. Same as before. Except he’ll let the women go free. On his honor as a former officer in the Royal Navy.”

  Farley snorted. “A Comanche has more honor in his little finger than Tar has in his whole body.” The Texican gazed at the activity to the north. “And I thought Tar only made the offer once. Let me guess. You lost more men than you counted on. That has some of your amigos upset. They’re complaining. They want to call it off. So Tar throws us this bone to spare himself a mutiny.”

  “Rubbish,” Quint said, but his tone and countenance belied it. “The Cap’n is just feeling generous, is all. Like that time he spared those babies at the Jenkins place.” The sea dog’s smile was as oily as whale blubber. “So what do you say, mister? Do I tell the Cap’n you’ll lay down your arms?”

/>   Farley moved too fast for the eye to register. His right hand closed on Quint’s Adam’s apple and squeezed like a vise.

  Quint, in a panic, dropped the white flag and punched at Tanner’s chest and face, to no effect.

  Davy ran up the slope, almost to the top, in case freebooters rushed to the lieutenant’s aid. None did, although oaths and threats rent the morning.

  “Here is what you can tell your lord and master,” Farley snarled, shaking the sea dog as a panther might a rat. “Texicans never surrender. Ever. You will pay dearly for every drop of blood you spill.” Shoving Quint, Farley dumped him on his posterior in the dirt. “Let Tar know that he’s sadly mistaken if he thinks it will be easier from here on. It won’t be. It will be harder.”

  Quint was rubbing his throat and gasping for precious breath. “You had no call!” he railed. “I was under a white flag.”

  “Take the flag and—” Checking himself, Farley clenched his fists. “Crawl back to Tar and repeat everything I told you. And add this. Say that once everyone learns what happened here—and they will—once they hear how a handful of Texicans stood up to a freebooter army and killed more than anyone ever has, the hold you have on Texas will be broken. No one will fear the freebooters ever again.”

  Quint started to rise, but Farley took a step, jabbing a finger into the sea dog’s ribs. “I told you to crawl and I meant it.” His hand streaked to the smooth butt of a pistol. “Crawl like the maggot you are. Crawl all the way back to your friends.”

  “All the way—?” Quint croaked.

  The Texican pointed, and the freebooter did what anyone who had a hankering to live would do. Rolling onto his stomach, Quint snaked northward, mumbling nonstop. When he had gone twenty yards, he looked back. Farley began to draw the pistol, and pointed again. Quint took the hint.

  Flavius shook his head in astonishment. “These Texicans sure can get their dander up,” he said softly.

  “No one can ever accuse them of not having the real grit,” Davy agreed. “Put enough Texicans together and they could lick just about anyone. These freebooters, the Spanish army, you name it.”

  “What makes them so wolfish, you reckon? Shucks, even old ladies like Priscilla are prickly pears.”

  “Life here does it, I’d guess,” Davy said. “Life everywhere shapes how we grow, what we become. We’re like hot lead poured into molds. How we turn out depends on what kind of mold we’re poured into.”

  Flavius had to think about that one. Just then a caballero called out. Quint had risen and was sprinting for the woods with remarkable alacrity. Farley Tanner’s pistol glinted in the bright sunlight, but for a reason Flavius couldn’t fathom the Texican didn’t shoot.

  Cutthroats cheered Quint on. Upon safely reaching them, Quint turned and made an unmistakably crude gesture at Farley.

  Taylor pumped his legs, gaining the rim. “This one’s on me,” he said, carefully elevating his long gun.

  “It’s too far. Don’t waste the lead,” Farley cautioned.

  “Watch.” Taylor licked his thumb, then wiped the front sight clean. Squinting, he gazed along the sights and adjusted the angle he held the rifle. He was about set when the sea dog moved toward Blackjack Tar, who sat propped against a tree. “Dog my cats,” Taylor muttered, and swiveled.

  Quint was broadside to the basin. The range had to be two hundred yards. Even Davy would be hard-pressed to make it. He watched Quint as the lieutenant jabbered at the giant. Hardly had the conversation commenced when the crisp retort of Taylor’s rifle punctuated it.

  Most of the freebooters looked to see who had fired, Quint among them. His spindly arm lifted to shield his face from the sun and was still lifting when his feet were flung out from under him. A tremendous howl wavered on the wind as renegades rushed over and discovered Taylor’s shot had deprived them of their lieutenant.

  Farley smiled at the older man. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”

  “I meant it. Now Tar will never hear the message I sent.”

  “Oh.” Taylor chuckled. “Sorry. I plumb forgot.”

  A general flurry in the enemy camp resulted in scores of freebooters taking rifles and spreading into a skirmish line. They dropped to the ground and edged closer. Taylor gripped Farley and pulled him into the basin, saying, “Appears we riled them a mite. We’d best dig in to weather the storm.”

  His forecast was accurate. Presently, the renegades began peppering the basin with steady rifle fire. Three-fourths of the shots hit the rim. Some kicked up geysers on the slopes. But enough penetrated the bowl to make moving around risky.

  Everyone, Flavius included, glued themselves to the sides and prayed they were spared. He came close to jumping out of his skin when a ball thudded into the earth near enough to spray his cheek with bits of grass and dirt. “I don’t like this at all.”

  Neither did Davy, but short of going to the freebooters with an engraved request to stop, what could he do? In one respect it worked in their favor, since it was unlikely the freebooters possessed an unlimited supply of ammunition. Every bullet expended was one less that could be used later.

  Flavius had long since reached the limit of his forbearance. “I swear in the name of all that’s holy. If the good Lord see fits to let us make it home alive, I am never leaving Tennessee again. Get someone else to go gallivanting with you.”

  Hadn’t his friend been listening last night? Davy wondered. This was his last gallivant. Hearth and home would be the rule from here on, until the kids were grown and Elizabeth and he were free to do as they chose. Then maybe his cherished move to Texas would be in order. The freebooters would be long gone and the situation with the Spaniards would be settled. It would be safe enough.

  Muffled thuds gave him something else to think about. His right ear was flush to the sod, and the thuds he heard were being conducted through the soil. “What the—?” he exclaimed, comprehension coursing through him like a lightning bolt.

  “No!” Davy said, and shoved up high enough to see over the rim. The gunfire he’d assumed was in retaliation for Quint had another purpose. It had kept them pinned down while the freebooters snuck in close enough to rush the basin.

  Which they had just done.

  Eleven

  “Come on, men!” Davy Crockett hollered. “The freebooters are upon us! Give them hell!” Suiting action to words, Davy hiked Liz and sent a ball through the forehead of an onrushing renegade.

  Flavius Harris sprang up and fired without conscious thought. He didn’t bother to take aim. Consequently, he was all the more pleased when a charging figure clutched at its chest, buckled at the knees, and was still.

  The Texicans responded superbly. Instantly at the rim, they extended their rifles. Taylor was the first to shoot, and as always his marksmanship was unerring. Farley Tanner unleashed both of his expensive pistols, one after the other. With each retort a freebooter was pitched into oblivion.

  As for the caballeros, they rallied and cut loose on all sides, a withering volley that ripped into the cutthroats like a hurricane into cane, shattering sternums and skulls, and leaving many of their enemies writhing in torment or forever motionless.

  The freebooters returned fire, but their shots were rushed and wild. Few struck the defenders. Chaves was one of the luckless ones, tumbling down the slope, never to smile again. And a horse whinnied and staggered, a crimson hole in its foreleg.

  A grizzled killer urged his companions on. “At ’em, boys! Don’t stop now!” But the brunt of the surprise attack had been blunted. Another flurry of shots was exchanged, then the freebooters hastily gathered up their wounded and frantically backpedaled.

  The Texicans wisely did not waste lead. Once the brigands were almost out of range, they stopped shooting. A wounded caballero was promptly tended to. So were three hurt horses.

  Farley Tanner beamed with pride at the Mexicans who were risking their very lives on his behalf. “I’ve never been more proud to b
e your friend, amigos, than I am right this moment. If I am killed, I will go to my reward grateful for having friends like you and richer for having known you.”

  Heather Dugan had been huddled next to Priscilla, screening the older woman with her own body. Now she stepped to Farley and warmly hugged him, saying, “Don’t talk like that! Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t allow it.”

  The desperation in her tone touched each of them, especially Davy Crockett. It reminded him of Elizabeth, of his wife’s unending love and devotion. Devotion he had stretched to the limit by being away for so long. She had every right to be furious. But knowing her, she would never bring it up. She had a deeply forgiving nature. She was, quite literally, too good for him.

  Farley embraced Heather. “I’ve got something to say. And I want all these men to hear it.” He licked his dry lips and swallowed. “I wanted to do this right, under the starlight, on bended knee. But we were interrupted the last time, so we’ll have to make do.” Farley kissed her passionately, then declared, “Heather Dugan, I would like to have the honor of accepting your hand in marriage.”

  Priscilla had tears in her eyes. Not all the caballeros spoke perfect English, so those who did had to translate for those who did not. When they were done, every last Mexican moved below the rim and stood, out of respect for their companero, Farley, and for the sanctity of that special moment.

  Heather had rested her forehead on the tall Texican’s chest. Now she looked up, her face aglow with an inner light, her eyes shimmering, and answered huskily, “I accept your proposal, my gallant gentleman. I will be your wife. And for as long as we shall live, I will always be at your side.”

  They kissed again, fire and love and lust combined, a kiss that lingered, a kiss such as few are ever privileged to witness.

  “Tarnation,” Flavius said. “I wish Matilda would pucker me like that. She never uses her tongue.”