Davey Crockett 6 Read online

  A storm front was moving in. It accounted for the drastic shifts in wind over the past twenty-four hours. And it gave Davy cause to smile. “Look yonder,” he said, pointing. “That there’s our salvation.” The rain would extinguish the hot spots and render the burnt grassland safe.

  Flavius whooped and swung his beaver hat in the air. “Hallelujah, and pass the gravy! This coon’s prayers have been answered! The next full moon, I’ll be sitting in my rocking chair guzzling a jug of old man Spencer’s corn whiskey.”

  “My mother says that drinking is bad for you, Mr. Harris,” Becky mentioned.

  “Maybe so, girl,” Flavius said. “But some bad habits are worth the price. Whiskey puts zest in a man’s veins.”

  “And tangles his brain in knots,” Heather declared. “Hard liquor and shallow minds go hand in hand. My stepfather was a drinking man, and look at how he turned out.”

  “Don’t blame the liquor,” Flavius said. “He was one of those self-made gents, and they tend to worship their creator. Why, they get so high on themselves, they walk on clouds for sport.”

  Becky laughed merrily. “You sure have a colorful turn with words, Mr. Harris. I bet you’d make a dandy mayor or senator.”

  “Not me, child. That’s my partner’s bailiwick. He can talk a coon out of a tree with that velvet tongue of his.”

  Becky giggled. “Oh, he cannot!”

  “Care to bet?” Flavius brought the dun up next to their mount. “Well, bend an ear. Once, about four years ago it was, Davy and me went coon hunting up to Franklyn County. Found us a likely spot and pitched camp. It was late evening when our hounds treed something and we went for a look-see. Bless me if they hadn’t cornered a coon on their own. It was a whopper, girl, as big as two ordinary coons put together.”

  “Did you shoot it?”

  “Weren’t no need.” Flavius lowered his voice as if confiding a secret. “You see, Davy walked up to that tree as pretty as you please and asked that coon to come on down without a fuss. Well, of course the coon declined. ‘Leave while you can,’ he said to us, ‘or I’ll jump down there and rip your innards out.’ ”

  Becky’s eyes narrowed. “How old do you think I am? Raccoons can’t talk.”

  Flavius recoiled as if he had been slapped. “Would I lie to you? No, they don’t talk like we do. But they have a language all their own, grunts and snarls and growls that any savvy woodsman can translate.” Warming to his topic, he resumed. “So there this uppity coon was, threatening to tear us and the hounds to pieces if we didn’t scat. Davy looked that varmint right in the eye and said, ‘Listen here, critter. I’m Davy Crockett, half-man, half-gator, the terror of the canebrake and the best hunter who ever donned buckskin. I wrestle whirlwinds for fun and drink lakes dry when I’m thirsty. I can shoot the wings off a fly at a hundred paces, and the ears off a jackrabbit at two hundred. So climb on down here and be done with this chatter.’ ”

  The girl was hooked. “What did the raccoon do?”

  “What else could it do? ‘You’re Crockett?’ it squealed, and proceeded to shed its skin right there on the spot. Threw it down to us, tail and all.” Flavius nodded at the Irishman. “Davy wears it as his hat.”

  “You’re joshing,” Becky said, but she laughed nonetheless.

  Heather cast a critical eye at Harris and commented, “If you tell tall tales like this when you’re sober, I shudder to think what you’re capable of after a few drinks.”

  Davy was a dozen yards ahead, seeking a draw or gully in which to take shelter from the impending storm. The cloudbank was much closer, the wind had gained in strength, and the scent of moisture hung heavy.

  A promising cleft to the southwest broadened into a dry wash. The walls were steep, but plenty of breaks wide enough for a horse permitted Davy to reach the bottom without difficulty.

  Flavius and the others followed. The prospect of heading homeward had him in fine spirits, and he announced, “After we’re back in Tennessee, I think I’ll hold a social. Invite everyone to a dance and barbecue.”

  “You?” Davy said. As long as he had known his friend, Flavius had shunned frolics and the like, branding them as excuses for the biddy hens to gossip and nothing more. The truth was that Matilda loved to dance, and Flavius didn’t. And Matilda always had her way. She would drag Flavius from the shadows and swirl him around until he was worn to a frazzle. Once, he had feigned a sprained ankle. But Matilda was too smart for him; she “accidentally” dropped a keg on his feet. Or tried to. Flavius jumped aside to save himself, and when Matilda accused him of shamming, he claimed a miraculous cure.

  “Why not me?” Flavius rejoined. It would be so wonderful to be home, he could even put up with neighbors he disliked.

  Becky had limped off up the wash, exploring the nooks and crannies. Davy saw, and hastened to catch up. “Better be careful,” he advised. “Rattlesnakes like to hide under flat rocks like these.” Nudging one for emphasis, he bent and turned it over. A small lizard scuttled between his legs, making him jump, and into a clump of brush. “Among other things,” he added dryly.

  Becky tittered. “It looks as if you’re the one who should watch out,” she joked. Limping toward a bend, she paused to lift several more rocks. “I like wild animals. Back home I had a cat that was run over by a carriage, and a frog I caught in a pond. He was real cute. I named him George, after President Washington. Every morning I went out and gathered bugs for him to eat.” Her mouth curled down.

  “Did you let him go when you left for the Oregon country?” Davy asked, guessing that was why she had become sad.

  “No. George was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “By my grandfather. He never did like George, and always complained that George made too much racket.” Becky bit her lower lip. “George croaked a lot, especially at night. I covered the washtub with a blanket, but it was no use. My grandfather was still upset.” Pausing, she put her hand close to her chest, palm up, as if she were holding something. “One day I went to feed him and George was gone. Mother helped me search for most of the morning.”

  “Did you find him?”

  The girl absently nodded. “Stomped to a pulp in the flower garden. Someone took him from the washtub, carried him outside, and killed him.” Closing her hand, she shivered. “We never would have found him if not for my grandfather’s dog. It was Rufus who pulled George out of the flowers, just as if he knew where George was.”

  Davy did not ask if she suspected anyone. There was no need. They both knew who was to blame. “How did your grandfather feel about cats?”

  “Come to think of it, the same as he did about frogs.” Becky squared her slim shoulders. “But all that is water under the bridge, as my mother keeps telling me. When we get to Philadelphia, she promised I could have a puppy. I can hardly wait.”

  Becky limped on, the Irishman unable to take his eyes off her crippled leg. Yet another legacy of Alexander Dugan’s bile, a burden the innocent child must bear for the rest of her life. Hatred, like tainted water, was a bitter poison that had an effect on everyone who came into contact with it.

  Out of the blue, Becky said, “I don’t blame you for what you did, Mr. Crockett. My grandfather was a bad man. He deserved to be shot.”

  Davy was jolted. He did not think she knew. Unbidden, a vivid remembrance washed over him. Of the Pawnee attack. Of the confusion and bloodshed. Of Alexander Dugan’s men being slain in pitched battle, but not Dugan. Unscathed, Dugan had climbed onto a white stallion to escape. There had been no one else to stop him, no one to prevent him from terrorizing Heather anew, of making her life’s—and Becky’s—miserable for all their born days.

  As Davy’s grandpa and pa had been so fond of saying, “Always be sure you’re right, then go ahead.” So Davy had done what he thought was right. He had shot Dugan himself, and struggled to come to terms with his deed ever since. Killing game was one thing, killing people another, killing people in cold blood something else entirely. “I wish there
had been some other way,” he said sincerely.

  “So do I,” Becky said. “For all the bad my grandfather did, he did a lot of good, too. Most of the time he treated me kindly, and he was always giving me gifts. He also gave a lot of money to an orphanage.”

  “He did what?” Davy said, blanching.

  “Every January, on his birthday. He grew up in one, and it was his way of repaying the nuns who had helped raise him. Or that’s what he told me.”

  Evidently the old axiom about there being some good in the worst of men was true. Davy slowed, torn by the revelation. He would not sleep well that night, and for however many more it took to come to terms with what he had done.

  A sharp cry from Becky snapped Davy out of his funk. She had disappeared beyond the bend. He hurried forward, leveling the rifle in case she had stumbled on a rattler or something worse. But she was fine, standing beside a pile of old bones and holding an odd object in her hands.

  “What is this, Mr. Crockett?”

  It was a helmet, but one unlike any Davy had ever seen. Fashioned of burnished bronze, it had downturned brims that curved sharply upward at each end to form pointed peaks. A high metal comb crowned it from end to end. Beside the bones was a cuirass and a long spear or lance. Perplexed, Davy leaned Liz against the side of the wash and picked up the spear, then realized he had been mistaken. “Tarnation! It’s a pike. The Spaniards used them, ages ago.”

  A little farther up the wash were more bones and more armor. Davy counted four skulls in all. One had a jagged rent where a bludgeon had caved in the bone. Another had a hole in it such as an arrow might make. A third lay atop a nearly intact skeleton, sternum of which had clearly been transfixed by a lance that shattered a pair of ribs when it exited the body.

  “What were they doing here?” Becky wondered.

  “Exploring, I reckon.” Davy had heard tales, as practically everyone had, of the early Spanish explorations in Florida and the regions north of Mexico. The Fountain of Youth. The Seven Cities of Gold. Stories every boy never tired of hearing. But for the life of him, he could not recollect what the soldiers had been called.

  “They were Conquistadores,” Heather Dugan said, providing the answer. She was at the bend, with Flavius. Walking to the nearest pile, she leaned down to run a hand over the cuirass. “Perhaps advance scouts for Coronado.”

  “Who?” Flavius asked. The armor astonished him, but the bones unsettled him more. He did not like being around death. Whether long dead or recently slain, corpses and bones and such sparked a queasy feeling deep in his gut.

  “Francisco Vasquez de Coronado. Didn’t you study him in school? He wasted a good many years searching for cities of gold that don’t exist.” Heather moved the cuirass, revealing a rusted dagger. “I didn’t know he came this far north.”

  A brisk blast of cold wind brought Davy’s head up. In the excitement of the moment he had forgotten about the approaching storm. Swirling clouds spanned the sky from horizon to horizon. The scent of rain was intoxicating. They had gone without much water for so long that he was eager to drink to his heart’s content. Even the horses would— A thought jarred him, and he spun. “Did you tether the horses?”

  Flavius blinked. He had heard Becky’s cry and rushed to investigate, forgetting to tie the reins so the animals could not stray off.

  Davy pivoted and jogged off. Losing their mounts would be a catastrophe. But he was not overly worried. No thunder had pealed, no lightning flashed. And rain had yet to fall. Then he heard a distinct crack almost at his feet, and, looking down, he saw what appeared to be a large white marble. Another smacked to earth seconds later. More fell, in twos and threes. Suddenly it was a deluge, a downpour of egg-size hail.

  Around the bend a horse whinnied in fright and hooves clattered on stone.

  Three

  It was like being pelted with a hundred rocks at once. Davy Crockett raised an arm over his face to ward off the barrage as he rounded the turn. Hail smashed against his head, against the back of his neck, against his shoulders. Searing pain made him flinch at many of the blows. He drew up short in consternation on seeing the rump of the sorrel go up and over the south wall. The other horses were already gone.

  Frantic, Davy scrambled to the top of the wash, dirt and small stones sliding out from under him. He could not hear much of anything above the hammering roar. The hail was thudding to earth like grapeshot from a cannon. Reaching the rim on his hands and knees, he let an oath escape him. A white wall hemmed in the wash. So thick was the hail that visibility was limited to less than ten feet.

  A faint screech pulled Davy back to the bottom. It had sounded like Becky. Flying to where he had left the others, he was dumbfounded to find they were gone. “Flavius!” he hollered. “Heather! Where are you?”

  From up the wash a bellow galvanized Davy into motion. He had not gone far when a vague shape loomed on the right. It was Flavius, huddled over Heather, who in turn was hunched protectively over Becky. All three were under a small overhang. Erosion had scooped a hole out of the side, leaving barely enough space for the three of them to crowd in. Pressing in close, his back to the hail, Davy asked, “Is anyone hurt?”

  “The girl panicked,” Flavius reported. He didn’t blame her. The blistering onslaught was enough to beat a grown man down. He had a score of bruises and welts, he was sure. If not for his thick beaver hat, he’d have a dozen lumps to go along with them. “She ran, and we had to catch her.”

  Davy had to strain to hear what his friend said. The wash resounded to the nonstop pounding. It was louder than the buffalo stampede had been, louder than the peal of church bells or the hullabaloo of a frolic in full swing. Becky, he saw, was shaking and shivering even though the temperature had not fallen drastically. “It shouldn’t last long,” he shouted.

  But he was wrong. As if to spite him, Mother Nature threw a tantrum of awesome magnitude. For minutes on end the hail fell, covering the bottom of the wash and filling it inch by gradual inch. Ten, twelve, fifteen inches, and still the level rose. Just when it seemed the hail would go on forever, it abruptly stopped.

  The sudden silence was in itself unnerving. Davy cautiously glanced up at the clouds, now darker than ever and moving more slowly. “It’s safe,” he said, and moved out from under the overhang. To the south a flash of lightning lit the sky, shattering the stillness. It preceded new gusts of wind, violent gusts that shrieked and moaned like a demon gone berserk.

  “Let’s mount up and ride,” Flavius suggested. Soon it would rain, and if there was one thing he disliked more than being pummeled by heavy hail, it was being soaked to the skin by freezing rain. A person could become sickly that way. As his folks had impressed on him, the human body was not meant to be wet. Which was why the Harris children took only one bath a month.

  “We can’t,” Davy said.

  Heather divined the reason and gasped, “They’re gone? How will we survive without them?”

  “They won’t stray far,” Davy predicted. “We’ll find them easily enough.” But he was being unduly optimistic. The animals might not stop running until they reached the Gulf of Mexico. “Come on.”

  Wading through the fallen hail, they filed to a gap and through it onto the prairie. A magnificent yet eerie vista greeted them, a sea of white spreading as far as the eye could see. Not a solitary creature stirred anywhere. Not even a bird or insect.

  “Where did our animals go?” Becky asked.

  Davy was at a loss. The hail had obliterated every last trace of their tracks. He had a hunch the horses had gone south, but what if his hunch was wrong? Four lives depended on his judgment; he could ill afford mistakes. “We’ll have to hunt for them.”

  A cold drop spattered Davy’s cheek as he strode off. Another stung his cheek, his temple, his chin. The rain had begun, big cold drops, harbingers of worse to come. He debated going back to the overhang to wait out the storm, and those few seconds proved costly.

  A rumble of thunder was muffled by a cloudbur
st. “Oh, no!” Heather wailed. She vainly sought to cover her head with her arms. The torrent utterly drenched them within moments.

  Water dripped off Davy’s nose, off his jaw, from his ears, from his fingers. It trickled down his spine, across his belly, from under his arms. It plastered his buckskin shirt to his torso, made his leggings cling to his legs. He could not have been more wet if he had jumped into a lake.

  Since it was pointless to go back, Davy forged on. Not having the sun or landmarks to guide him, he relied on his inner compass to hold to a southerly bearing. Like most frontiersmen worthy of the name, he had an above-average sense of direction. Blindfold him, then spin him around, and nine times out of ten he could still tell you which way was north, south, east, or west. Exactly how he did it was a mystery. He just figured it stemmed from having spent so much time in the wilds, where a man had to learn to find his way around, or die.

  His grandmother had been of the opinion that some people were like birds. That they had something inside of them, which was the equivalent of a compass needle. Drop them anywhere, anytime, and they could find their way home, just like homing pigeons.

  Whatever the case, Davy bent his steps southward. The crunch of hail underfoot was like the crunch of a bone in a coon dog’s powerful jaws. Soon the hail grew slippery from the rain, and so much steam began to rise, it was akin to being in a sweat hole.

  Flavius was as glum as a chickadee at a cat convention. He felt slimy, as if he were a salamander that had just wriggled up out of mud. Slogging through the hail, he muttered to himself, cursing his stupidity, his fickle nature, and the general state of human existence. It was unfair, he reflected, for the Almighty to beset His children with so many hardships. What had he ever done to deserve all this? He wasn’t a sinner. Well, not much of one, anyhow. And Matilda made damn sure that he attended church as regular as clockwork.