Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3) Page 3

  “Awful peculiar,” Davy commented. As a rule, war parties massacred every white they came across. Why were these Indians so different? he wondered.

  Kayne had finished reloading and replaced his ramrod. Facing Cyrus and the weasel, he said, “Do you still reckon these two are in cahoots with the Injuns?”

  Flavius was insulted by the suggestion. “Are you addle pated? What white man would be in league with a bunch of red fiends?”

  “There are a few,” Kayne said.

  Norval elaborated. “Peoria was started by ’breeds and whites who set up an outpost to trade with the Indians. Even after most of the Indians turned hostile, they stayed on friendly terms. Too friendly, if you take my meaning.”

  Kayne nodded. “Decent homesteaders moved in, and when there were enough of us, we drove the riffraff out. They didn’t take kindly to it, but there wasn’t much they could do.”

  “Except make our lives miserable every chance they get,” Cyrus said bitterly.

  “So you can see why we were suspicious of you,” Norval told Davy. “It wasn’t personal. We figured that you had been waiting here with horses so the kidnappers could get away.”

  “What tribe are these Indians?” Davy asked.

  “Sauks,” Norval said. “Or Sacs, as some like to call them.”

  Cyrus, fidgeting impatiently, swore. “What damn difference does it make whether they’re Sauk, Fox, Chippewa, Kickapoo, Mascouten, or Shawnee? Injuns are Injuns. We should wipe out every warrior, squaw, and nit.”

  There it was again. The warped outlook that Davy could never agree with, not in a million years. “We’d be grateful if you’d let us tag along,” he offered tactfully.

  “What good would you be?” rasped the weasel. “You don’t even have a gun.”

  “I can track some,” Davy allowed.

  “John Kayne is our tracker,” Norval said. “He’s the best in these parts. If he doesn’t mind your help, you’re welcome to join us.”

  The lanky frontiersman smiled. “It don’t make me no never mind. Just so you can move quiet-like.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Cyrus said. “Let’s get going. Every second we waste, we fall farther behind.”

  Davy swung his saddle over his shoulder and followed the Illinoisans as they hastened northward. Norval pointed out each of the men by name. Only the weasel, whose name was Dilbert, and Cyrus betrayed resentment at having Flavius and him join the rescue party.

  Hiding the saddle took only a few moments. Davy slid it into a briar patch and covered it with weeds he ripped out by the roots. Satisfied no one would find it, he jogged to catch up with the others, who had not waited. Dilbert shot him a dirty look as he ran past and joined John Kayne.

  The tracker was stooped low, examining tufts of bent grass and horse tacks. “Here’s where they mounted up. They put your saddle on the biggest horse and had Rebecca climb on.”

  “That would be my bay,” Davy said. The sorrel was two hands smaller, its tracks correspondingly smaller.

  “One of the warriors climbed on the other animal, and off they went,” Kayne said. A grunt escaped him. “Look here. The other two are running behind. So they won’t be going much faster than we can.”

  Davy spied two sets of prints that puzzled him. “What do you make of these?” he asked. One set had been made by the captive. The other set had been made by a Sauk. They had stood facing each other, almost toe to toe. What attracted his interest was that the impressions of the woman’s toes were sunk in deeper than they normally would be, as if she had leaned on the warrior for support. Was she hurt?

  John Kayne took one look and his features clouded. He shifted position so that none of the others could see his face, then whispered, “You’re the genuine article, Crockett. Ain’t many would have caught on. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone, hear?”

  Davy did not understand the need for secrecy, but he nodded and fell into step beside Kayne. They moved rapidly, making no more noise than would a prowling panther. Sticking to the war party’s trail was no great feat; the hoofprints made it easy.

  The morning waxed and waned. Davy’s rumbling stomach reminded him that he had not eaten breakfast, but he did not ask to stop. Saving the woman was more important. He had been on rescue missions before and knew that the first two or three days after an abduction took place were crucial. If the rescuers failed to catch up by then, it was virtually certain they never would.

  Noon came and went. About an hour later the settlers crested a rise. A tree-covered slope brought them to a clearing beside a gurgling creek.

  “We’re in luck!” Kayne said. “They stopped here to rest a spell and water the horses. We can’t be more than four or five miles behind them now.”

  “Then what are we waitin’ for?” grated Cyrus. Striding to the water’s edge, he beckoned. “Come on, boys! Push on hard, and we’ll have her back by nightfall!”

  Norval made a clucking sound. “Not so fast, Cy. We’ve been on the go since yesterday morning, and we’re tuckered out. Those Injuns had the right idea. I say we rest half an hour. From then on, we won’t stop until Rebecca is safe and sound or we drop dead from exhaustion.”

  “That’s too long,” Cyrus said. “Fifteen minutes is all we can spare.”

  At Davy’s quizzical glance, Kayne spoke in a hushed tone so no one else would overhear. “Rebecca’s pa pledged her hand to Cy a month ago.”

  “They’re lovers?” Davy said. It shed a new light on Cy’s attitude. Any man whose beloved was in the clutches of hostiles was bound to be as prickly as a porcupine.

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Kayne said.

  Cyrus and Norval had not stopped spatting. Davy resolved their dispute by rising and saying, “My partner and I aren’t that tired. We’ll go on ahead. If we spot the Sauks before you overtake us, one of us will fly back and let you know while the other keeps them in sight.”

  Flavius was on his knees at the creek, cooling his neck and face. “We will?” he said, annoyed that Davy had volunteered his services without consulting him. The brawny Irishman tended to forget that few people possessed his steely stamina. Flavius was about to remind him, when around a bend to the northwest floated an object that jolted him so badly he forgot all about complaining.

  It was a headless body.

  Chapter Three

  Flavius Harris had witnessed more than his share of grisly sights. During the Creek War he had been with a scouting party that found a butchered settler. The man had been skinned alive, his eyes gouged out, his tongue cut off. Another time he had looked on while a Creek warrior was interrogated by soldiers under Andrew Jackson’s command, and the things those fellows did to that Indian made him half sick whenever he recalled it.

  So the body in the stream was not the most gruesome horror Flavius ever beheld. But coming so unexpectedly as it did, Flavius was momentarily jarred speechless. Long enough for the headless corpse to float almost within arm’s reach. Long enough for the jagged stump of a neck with its pinkish flesh and the gleaming white of severed vertebrae to indelibly impress itself in his memory.

  Most of the others had their backs to the stream. Davy Crockett turned to ford it and saw his friend gaping in sickly dismay. A glance, and he bounded into the water to grab the body by the wrist before it floated on past the clearing. “Here! What’s this!” he called out to the rest.

  Norval, Cyrus, Dilbert, and company dashed over. John Kayne lent a hand hauling the heavy bulk out. Kayne then knelt to inspect the elaborately worked buckskins, the hands, and especially the moccasins of the deceased. “It was a Sauk,” he pronounced.

  “Are you sure?” one of the men asked.

  Kayne tapped the buckskin leggings. “No two tribes make their clothes alike, Hillman. This is a Sauk warrior, all right.”

  Davy touched a bronzed hand that lay palm up. Judging by how warm and limber the fingers were, the body had not been in the water very long. “Maybe it’s one of those we’ve been following,” he speculat
ed.

  “But who could have done it?” Cyrus said. “There are no other whites in this area that I know of.”

  Kayne grimly stood. “Who said anything about it being whites? The tribes hereabouts are always at each other’s throats.”

  “That’s right,” Norval said. “The Sauk and the Fox are bitter enemies of the Chippewa and the Dakota.”

  “And there are all those other hostiles up in Canada,” Dilbert added. “These red vermin breed like rabbits, I tell you.”

  Cyrus stared at the body and gulped. “But if the band that stole my Rebecca was jumped by another war party, what happened to Rebecca?”

  Davy and Kayne swapped looks. The same question had already occurred to both of them. After quickly fording the stream, they searched the ground. It took but a few seconds to prove what Davy feared. “They never came out on this side,” he reported.

  “What does that mean?” Hillman asked. He was a big-boned, husky frontiersman whose wits were slower than trickling tree sap.

  Kayne pointed at the bend around which the body had appeared. “It means they went up the middle of the stream to throw us off the scent.”

  Cyrus stepped into the water. “What are we waitin’ for? Rebecca might be lyin’ out there somewhere with her head hacked off.”

  No one disputed him. Davy and Kayne assumed the lead, each probing a bank.

  Now that they were close to the Indians, Flavius made a point of staying near his friend. In a battle, Davy was a rip-snortin’ terror who sliced through his enemies like a scythe through grain. Flavius had seen Davy so caught up in the swirl of combat that he forgot to watch his back. So Flavius took that job on himself.

  The woods were quiet. Unnaturally so. Davy ran his keen eyes over every blade of grass, every weed. Patches of bare dirt bore plenty of prints. Raccoons, deer, bobcats, bear, possums, and many other animals had all slaked their thirst at one time or another.

  The water was cold, but not unbearably so. Davy’s high moccasins, superbly crafted by his wife, were thicker than most, and had spared him from frostbite and worse on many an occasion.

  Davy took great pride in his wife’s craftsmanship. On the frontier, women had the burden of providing almost all the clothing their families wore. A wife’s ability determined whether her family was warm in the winter and comfortable in the summer.

  Like most Tennessee backwoodsmen, Davy usually wore a long deerskin hunting shirt, open at the neck. It was banded at the waist by his wide leather belt. Buckskin trousers fell almost to the soles of his feet and were split at the front hem to fit snugly over his moccasins.

  A furrow on the bank brought Davy to a stop. A check disclosed that it had been made by a fawn scrambling out of the stream, not by a human foot.

  Davy went on. The water swished around his legs with every step. A frog leaped from a log, diving deep. Shortly thereafter a garter snake slithered into the undergrowth.

  The rescuers traveled over a mile from the clearing. They rounded a bend choked by thickets. A wide pool broadened before them, shaded by overhanging boughs.

  Bearing to the right, Davy spotted trampled grass a few yards from the stream and climbed out to investigate. A small scarlet puddle fringed a moccasin print. Beyond were more tracks, many more, clear evidence of a terrific struggle. “Take a gander at this,” he said.

  Flavius was glad to leave the water. His toes felt half frozen. Even worse, he was hungry enough to eat a whole cow with all the trimmings. His stomach rumbled constantly, embarrassing him no end. He hoped that now they would take the time to eat, but no one brought up the subject of food.

  Davy moved in ever-wider circles, reading the tracks. The sequence of events was as plain as the nose on his face.

  The Sauks and their captive had stopped to rest. Both horses had been allowed to graze and had wandered some thirty feet away. Unknown to the Sauks, skulkers in the trees had watched everything closely.

  Evidently, another war party had heard them coming and hidden. The second band was much larger. Eleven warriors, by Davy’s reckoning. They had probably waited until the Sauks were completely off guard, then burst from concealment. One of the Sauks had gone down in the initial rush. Another had been wounded.

  Fighting furiously, the Sauks had retreated into the stream. Why the larger band had not gone after them, Davy could not fathom. But the evidence proved that they hadn’t. He went across, confirming that three of the Sauks had made it to safety, the wounded man being assisted by another.

  The captive and the horses had been left in the clutches of the second war party. A large circle of red grass marked where they had chopped the head from the Sauk who had fallen. Finger impressions in the soil indicated that the man had still been alive.

  Afterward, the larger war party had lost no time in departing. Their trail led to the northwest.

  John Kayne had been doing the same as Davy. Now he hunkered beside a pair of footprints and scratched his chin. “These are new ones on me,” he remarked.

  “What is?” Hillman asked.

  “No two tribes make their moccasins exactly alike,” Kayne explained. “I thought I knew all the kinds ever seen in our territory, but I’ve never come across any like these before. My guess would be it’s a band from up in Canada, snuck down to count coup, as the Dakotas like to say.”

  “God, no!” Cyrus said. “They’ll take Rebecca north of the border! I’ll never see her again!”

  Norval placed a hand on the younger settler’s shoulder. “Calm down. It’s a long way to the border. We’ll catch them.”

  Davy was not as optimistic. The band from Canada would be anxious to reach their own country before the Sauks retaliated. It could explain why they had not gone after the three Sauks who escaped. The attackers wrongly supposed that the trio were part of a bigger war party which might arrive at any minute.

  Rebecca was added incentive to speedy flight. To be caught with a white woman would bring down on the band the full fury of every white settler within two hundred miles.

  “We’ll have to push harder than ever,” Davy declared.

  John Kayne hitched at his belt. “The two of us will go on ahead. We’ll blaze a trail as we go.”

  Flavius did not care to be separated from his friend. “I’m going too,” he stated. His belly picked that instant to imitate a ravenous bruin, and everyone heard. Dilbert and a couple others smirked.

  “If you want,” Kayne said. “But you’ll have to keep up.”

  The implication peeved Flavius. “Don’t fret in that regard. I can hold my own.”

  Davy came to his friend’s defense. “Don’t let his looks fool you, Kayne. My partner has more real grit than most ten men. During the Creek War he once went two whole days without a bite to eat or anything to drink. He marched through gator-infested swamps and snake-infested bogs without a lick of complaint. I’d stack him up against any man, any day of the week.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Kayne said.

  Under different circumstances, Flavius would have made an issue of the insult. His entire life, he’d had to put up with people poking fun at him or insulting him because of the girth of his waist. It was unfair.

  Just because someone was heftier than normal didn’t mean that person was a slug.

  Kayne plunged into the forest. Davy clapped Flavius on the back, whispered, “Don’t let them get your goat!” and whisked into the undergrowth.

  Flavius was hard-pressed to keep up with them. Gritting his teeth, he knuckled down, ignoring the pangs in his calves and the sweat that rolled off him in waves. He consoled himself with the notion that his suffering was for a noble cause.

  The Canadian Indians had held to a northeasterly course for quite some time, then bore northward. They had made Rebecca ride the sorrel, but no one rode the bay.

  Davy adopted a jogging rhythm that ate up the miles. Although tired, he never suggested they stop. Although hungry, he never gave consideration to food.

  Wondering about
the captive preoccupied him. What must that poor woman be going through? Davy mused. For her, being abducted by the new band must be like going from the frying pan into the fire. The Sauks, at least, were native to that region. Who knew where the new war party would take her?

  The depth of her despair was a crucial factor. If she had spunk and spirit, she could hold her own until help arrived. But if she was prone to melancholy, if she believed her plight was hopeless, she might take her own life.

  Others had done so. Whites dreaded being at the mercy of hostile Indians. Lurid tales of torture and slaughter abounded, made vastly more disturbing by the realization they were for the most part true. It was why so many pioneers, women and men, killed themselves rather than be taken captive.

  The worst case Davy ever heard of involved the wife of a farmer and her six children. When Creeks pounced on her man while he was out plowing, she barricaded herself and her brood in their cabin. The Creeks wanted them alive and made no attempt to burn them out.

  On the third day of the siege, heartbroken and overwhelmed by abject despair, the woman had fed her offspring johnnycakes laced with poison, then put the muzzle of a flintlock pistol into her mouth and blown the top of her head off.

  Later, when the Indians broke in, they did not mutilate her out of respect for her courage.

  The memory sparked Davy into quietly asking, “Kayne, what sort of woman is this Rebecca?”

  “She’s as fine as they come,” the lanky backwoodsman replied without breaking stride. “Strong-willed, yet tenderhearted. Spirited, but not headstrong. Calm in a crisis. Easygoing with kids. The best cook and quilt maker this side of the Mississippi. And the prettiest gal you’d ever want to meet.” He paused. “Not the type to kill herself, if that’s what you're thinking.”

  “I was,” Davy admitted. He was also thinking that seldom had he heard such a glowing description of anyone. “You sound right fond of her,” he diplomatically phrased it.

  “All the single men in Peoria would give their eye-teeth to be in Cyrus’s boots,” Kayne said. “Rebecca Worthington is as fine a woman as ever drew breath.”