Davy Crockett 8 Page 2

  Davy had a tough choice to make. Should they take the time to bury the man? Or get out of there while they could? He did not want to leave the corpse for scavengers to find, but a hint of motion to the north spurred him into snatching Liz and quickly clambering from the gully. “Stay close,” he advised, dashing toward the knoll.

  “Are we in trouble?” Flavius asked, and knew they were when the Irishman did not answer. Scared that at any instant arrows or lances would flash out of the brush and transfix them, he cast right and left for evidence of hostiles.

  At the top Davy halted and crouched. The knoll was only twelve feet high, but it gave him a better view of the surrounding growth. Not so much as a leaf stirred. He probed the depths of the thickets, the shadowy trunks. And in one of the latter, in a fork halfway up, he distinguished the outline of a shape that was not part of the bole but was trying to give the impression it was. “We’re being stalked,” he whispered.

  Flavius fingered the trigger of his rifle, Matilda, and yearned to be safely back in Tennessee. He had lost track of the number of times his life had been in peril since their gallivant began. Oh, for the good old days, when his biggest worry was whether to take a nap after supper or to sit in the rocking chair on the front porch and admire the sunset! If no one were to shoot at him ever again, or try to thrust a knife into his heart, or rip his throat out, or snap his neck, he’d be the happiest gent alive!

  Davy slowly swiveled. Another squat form in a patch of weeds and a foot poking from behind a log confirmed the worst. “We have to make a run for it.”

  “How many do you think there are?”

  “Enough.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” Flavius said, when in reality he was not ready at all. He would rather curl into a big ball and pray the warriors went away. Hurting other people, even enemies, did not come easily. As a boy he had been the same. When bullies picked on him, he had always tried mightily to turn the other cheek. Some kids poked fun, accused him of being yellow. But they were mistaken. He simply did not like to see anyone suffer.

  “Stay low,” Davy said. Heeding his own command, he tucked at the waist and flew from the knoll. At the pool he bore to the left, hugging the shore where less vegetation lent greater speed. No war whoops rent the air. No figures bristling with weapons rose up to bar their path. Could it be, he mused, that the Indians were friendly? That they were not the tribe the Texans had warned them about?

  Flavius was hoping the same thing. With his gut balled into a knot, he swung from side to side, his thumb curled around Matilda’s hammer.

  They had gone less than fifteen feet when a strident yip to their rear brought Davy to a stop. It had arisen from the other side of the knoll. From the gully. He heard splashing, then another yip. Instantly reversing direction, he declared, “I’m going back.” And was off like a shot, retracing their steps.

  Stunned, Flavius hesitated, then imitated his friend’s example. “Why?” It was pure insanity. If he didn’t know better, he would swear the heat and humidity were affecting the Irishman’s brain. “What’s back there?”

  That was what Davy intended to find out. The yip had not been a war cry. More like a signal, or a token of triumph. He had a hunch the Indians had done something with the body, and curiosity compelled him to find out what. Yes, he was being rash, but so far the warriors had left them alone. Maybe their luck would hold out a while longer.

  The shape in the tree was gone. So was the figure in the weeds and the foot by the log. Davy halted the moment he saw the gully. The black man was propped right where they had left him, with one very important difference.

  “My God!” Flavius exclaimed. “They’ve cut open his chest! What on earth for?”

  “His heart.”

  “Huh?”

  “They carved his heart out of his chest,” Davy elaborated. Exactly as some hunters were partial to doing with deer. They liked to slice it up raw, or roast it on the spot, and partake while it was fresh.

  Insight replaced confusion, and Flavius trembled, much as the black man had done earlier. “Then the tales are true,” he said, aghast, horrified that his prospects of ever sitting in that rocking chair again had dwindled drastically. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from bolting in mortal panic.

  “That’s not all they did,” Davy said.

  Flavius looked again. The black man’s eyes were gone, gouged out by a knife and left lying between his legs. Bitter bile rose in Flavius’s throat, and he swayed as if drunk. Mutilation was a common practice, committed by Indians and whites alike. Not a practice he condoned. Nor one he cared to have happen to him. “Why are we still standing here?”

  Without another word Davy rotated on the ball of his foot and departed, holding to a brisk pace but not fleeing pell-mell. Indians valued courage, despised cowardice. Should he show he was afraid, it might provoke an attack. He hoped his partner realized that.

  Flavius Harris could not have gone any faster if his life depended on it. His legs were mush, his stomach roiling soup, his mind awhirl with gory images of his own butchered body and of a prancing warrior waving his dripping heart overhead. Stumbling in a rut, he nearly pitched onto his face.

  Davy slowed. “Careful. We have to show real grit, or it will be root hog or die,” he cautioned.

  “I’m fine,” Flavius lied.

  Once on the south side of the pool, Davy made a beeline through the woods. The absence of the warriors perplexed him. The Indians were out there. He was sure. Yet no one tried to stop them. No outcries were raised. No barbed shafts were unleashed. Maybe, he reasoned, the Indians had only been interested in the black man.

  They reached the incline. Rather than risk an arrow between the shoulder blades, Davy backpedaled up it. At the crest he delayed long enough to cover Flavius, then pivoted to sprint to the horses. And at last he understood why the warriors had not bothered to interfere, why the two of them had been allowed to gain the trail unmolested.

  Their mounts were gone.

  Two

  Some men would have cussed a blue streak. Some would have ranted and raved and stomped their feet and uttered threats against the culprits. Others would have collapsed in despair, sure doom was about to claim them, and given up without lifting a finger to save themselves.

  Not Davy Crockett. He did none of that. From earliest childhood his parents had taught him to face life’s problems head-on. To adapt to situations as they arose. To see what needed to be done, and do it. The family motto bore that out: “Always be sure you are right, then go ahead.”

  So now, in the seconds after Davy found the horses gone, he scoured the ground and spied footprints that had not been there before. Prints of moccasin-clad feet, moccasins unlike any he had seen before.

  No two kinds were alike. The Sioux, for instance, made theirs differently from the Comanches. These new tracks showed moccasins wider at the toes than at the heels. One set, in particularly soft soil, bore evidence of crisscrossed stitching to reinforce the sole.

  Flavius Harris was horrified. Without mounts, it would take them three times as long to cross the great swamp. If they made it. Gone too were the gracious gifts of their Texican friends—their saddles, blankets, and supplies. “What will we do?”

  “Get out of here,” Davy said, and did just that, briskly jogging eastward along the trail.

  Flavius did likewise. After a bit he collected his wits enough to say, “Hold on, pard. Shouldn’t we go after the horses? I bet you can track them down with no problem.”

  “I could,” Davy admitted.

  “Then why don’t we?”

  “Because there are eight or nine warriors and only two of us,” Davy said. It was a conservative estimate. Probably, there were more. And for all he knew, their village was nearby. Before long, the area might be crawling with scores of painted warriors out for their hides. “The smart thing is to put as much distance behind us as we can before the sun goes down.” Few tribes fought at night. The Indians might make ca
mp. That would buy him and Flavius a ten-hour lead, possibly longer.

  “Whatever you think is best,” Flavius said. But given his druthers, he would rather do anything on earth than run. His short, thick legs were not built for it. His big belly, as his wife was so fond of pointing out, was “just so much extra weight” that put an added strain on his limbs and lungs. He was panting heavily before they had covered five hundred yards.

  Davy kept glancing back for signs of pursuit. He was encouraged when none materialized, but he could not believe the Indians would allow them to escape unscathed. His hunch was confirmed when, presently, the crack of a twig betrayed a vague form flitting through the undergrowth to the right.

  The Indians were paralleling the trail, not following it. Biding their time, no doubt, until the lay of the land was in their favor, until they could attack with little fear of being shot. Davy ran faster.

  Flavius began to huff and puff like an overheated steam engine. His legs hurt and his chest hurt and his temples were pounding, but he forced himself to go on, spurred by the sharp crack of that twig. He knew what it portended. And he did not want to die.

  Time passed. A mile fell behind them. Flavius had an ache in his side, a pang so bad that he yearned to stop and rest. Gritting his teeth, he continued to jog at the Irishman’s elbow. Never let it be said he did not hold his own when the need arose.

  Davy was aware of the toll their exertion was taking on his friend. Back home in the emerald hills of Tennessee dwelled folks who were inclined to look down their noses at Flavius. Who rated him as no-account because he was not partial to hard work and much too partial to food. Most liked to poke fun at him, and called him a “two-legged whale” behind his back.

  Which was not entirely true. Flavius was a trifle overweight, but he could still beat many a backwoodsman at wrestling. And once, when a storm had blown a tree over on a family in a carriage, he had astounded onlookers by lifting the end of the tree all by his lonesome so others could pull a stricken boy out.

  Davy felt that Flavius had more real grit than most ten men, and had every confidence his friend would stick with him through thick and thin.

  The trail commenced to climb. Briefly, it left the swampland, winding up into a cluster of low hills sprinkled with trees and random weeds. Davy was glad. On the crown of the foremost hill, he stopped so Flavius could catch his breath, saying, “We’re safe for the moment. They won’t rush us here. It’s too open.”

  Nodding, Flavius bent, his hands on his knees. His buckskins were drenched, sticking to him like a second skin. “Maybe we should dally a spell,” he suggested. “Maybe they’ll get tired of waiting for us to move on, and leave.”

  “Wishful thinking,” was Davy’s response. Warriors on an enemy’s trail were like bloodhounds on the fresh scent of a coon. The Indians would not give up until he and Flavius were dead.

  Davy prowled the crown. For as far as the eye could see, the swamp stretched in all directions. Many miles to the west lay the fertile plains of Texas, where they had parted with their Texican companions a few days ago. Not quite as many leagues to the south was the Gulf of Mexico. To the east, eventually, the mighty Mississippi River, and New Orleans.

  Little was known about the lowland that bordered the Gulf. Settlers avoided it. A few hardy frontiersmen penetrated its fringes, mainly to trap and hunt. But the dark heart that pulsed like a mammoth green monster was as mysterious as the dawn of antiquity. Dozens of souls had disappeared trying to cross, leaving no trace, no clue to the cause.

  Some claimed the swamp was haunted. Some believed specters and demons roved the remote bayous. A man in San Antonio had said, in all seriousness, that foul fiends straight from the vilest pits of Hell came out to prowl when the moon was full, and the sound of their howls would chill a man’s blood to ice.

  Davy had never been the superstitious sort. The disappearances he blamed on hostile Indians. The howling, on wolves. The worst thing to fear in the swamp was fear itself. If a man did not lose his head, he would not lose his life.

  Flavius shuffled to a log and sat. Opening his possibles bag, he rummaged inside. In addition to his flint and steel and other personal effects, he had two pieces of jerked venison and some pemmican. That was it. Hardly enough food to last a day. He started to pull out the pemmican, but changed him mind. So what if his stomach was growling like that of a bear fresh out of hibernation? He must ration what little he had, make it last as long as he could.

  Davy came over and hunkered down. “How are you holding up?”

  “It’s great exercise,” Flavius quipped. “I keep on at this rate, I’ll be skin and bones by the time we get home. Matilda will have a fit. She’ll have to alter all my clothes.” He brightened. “Or fatten me up.” His wife was one of the best cooks alive, her pies having won numerous prizes at baking contests and socials. Thinking about her delicious apple and cherry masterpieces made his mouth water.

  Davy dipped a hand into his leather pouch and produced a strip of jerky, which he tore in half. “Here.” He gave Flavius a piece, then took a bite.

  “You have enough to spare?”

  “Plenty.” Actually, Davy only had a small chunk left. But he had every confidence in his ability as a hunter. They would live off the land, killing game as needed. It was nothing new. He had hunted most of his life.

  Almost as soon as Davy had been old enough to wear britches, his pa had shoved a squirrel rifle into his hands and told him to go fetch meat for the supper pot. That first day it had been a rabbit. And every day thereafter he had brought in something. Never once had he let his family down. It had gotten so his parents and brothers and sisters came to take it for granted. They bragged on him, telling all and sundry that he was the best hunter in four states.

  And he was.

  Once, some city-bred dandies had come out to the country for some “sport,” as they’d called it. They had hired some of the local men as guides and gone off into the brush to hunt. Davy, in his teens, had tagged along as a camp helper.

  It had been a real education. The city men had spread out in a line, then had the locals drive game toward them by banging pots and hollering and generally raising a tremendous racket. When the frightened deer and whatnot burst from hiding, the city men had unleashed volley after volley, killing everything that moved, killing much more than they could ever eat. Afterward, they had clapped one another on the back and laughed and praised their ability as fine hunters.

  Hunters! But that had not been hunting. That had been slaughter, plain and simple. Hunting, true hunting, was as different from that outright butchery as night was from day. Hunting was a noble profession, as old as the human race itself. Hunting was a test of skill, of wilderness savvy, of cunning and endurance. Hunting pitted a man against Nature for the highest stakes of all: his life, and the lives of those who would starve were it not for his prowess.

  In olden times hunters had been respected. Admired. Given seats of honor at council fires, at kings’ tables.

  A hunter did not do as those city dwellers had done. A hunter did not get tipsy on too much ale and then go out and kill anything that struck his fancy.

  A true hunter stalked his prey. A hunter had to know his quarry’s habits, had to know where each animal could be found at different times during the day. A hunter had to learn what each liked to eat and where to find the food. Had to know when wild creatures went for water. Where they liked to lay low. Their mating seasons. What their tracks and their droppings looked like. In short, everything.

  Hunting was a craft. An art. A family tradition. In olden days fathers passed on their hard-earned knowledge to their sons, who would pass it on to their sons, and so on and so on. Back then, every community, every clan, every tribe, counted on its hunters to flourish, to prosper. They could no more survive without hunters than they could without the spark of life itself.

  Hunters were still valued nowadays, but not as widely. More and more people were moving into towns and cities, where most
of their needs were met for them. Food could be easily had at any tavern or inn or other public eating place. To obtain fresh meat, all a person had to do was visit a butcher. Survival was simple. What use was a hunter in a land of milk and honey?

  Thankfully, out in the country, in rural areas where folks still lived day to day making do as best they were able, hunters were still needed. Still essential. Still respected and honored.

  Davy was a young man, but already he had won fame as a coon and bear hunter. Those who did not know a lick about hunting, those who would not know a rabbit track from a oppossum’s, marveled at his knack. They thought he had a special gift, that the Almighty had seen fit to bestow extra ability on him. How silly. They did not realize his “knack” was the result of years of hard study and effort.

  As his grandma used to say, “Whatever a person puts into a task is what they will get out of it.” He had been fifteen before he fully understood her meaning. The same with other sayings of hers, such as: “The world doesn’t owe anybody a living.” Or: “A little sweat goes a long ways.”

  “Feet of clay get stuck in the mud.” And one of Davy’s favorites: “Love thy enemies, but keep your gun well oiled.”

  Just then Flavius asked, “What are you thinking about?” He was puzzled by the distant look that had drifted into his friend’s eyes. It was hardly the right time or place to daydream.

  “Nothing much.” Chewing on jerky, Davy moved to the west slope. If the Indians were down there—and he was sure they were—they were well hidden. In four hours or so the sun would set. Under cover of darkness it might be possible to slip away. All the two of them had to do was stay alive until then.

  “Any brainstorms?” Flavius hopefully asked. Over the past several months they had been in a number of tight situations, and in most cases the Irishman had come up with a clever idea to bail them out.

  “No,” Davy said bluntly.