Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 3

  Women were equally plagued. They worked themselves to death for the sake of their families, bearing the greater burden of child nurturing and taking care of the home because the men were either off in the fields from dawn until dusk or hunting to put fresh meat on the table.

  No one complained. It was the way things were. Everyone learned to accept their lot. Or, if they were too weak to bear the strain, they went off to live in big cities, where they only had to walk to the nearest general store or tavern to have their needs met.

  Flavius finished his coffee and poured a second cup. This was his favorite time of the day, when they unwound after a long day’s travel. When, for a few hours, at least, he need not dread that around the next bend waited some new menace that would make their lives a living hell. “How far is the nearest settlement?”

  Davy pursed his lips. “I seem to recollect Kayne mentioned a new trading post about two hundred miles lower down. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Leaning back, he clasped his hands behind his head and admired the myriad of stars.

  Davy never tired of the nightly celestial display. So many heavenly bodies, it took a man’s breath away! He saw a shooting star and made a wish.

  In the dark woods to the west a creature broke into a wavering howl.

  Flavius started. “Coyotes, you think?”

  “Wolves.”

  “Wonderful.” Pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders, Flavius anxiously regarded the encircling ebony wall of vegetation. Not long ago, when they were in Nadowessioux country, a nasty wolf with the disposition of a temperance crusader had nearly done him in.

  The howl was answered to the north. A third wolf joined in east of the river. Soon the forest vibrated to lupine cries from all points of the compass. It was unnatural, profoundly eerie.

  “I ain’t never heard so many at one time,” Flavius commented. “What are they up to?”

  “Maybe it’s their way of admiring the stars,” Davy suggested, and received a look that implied he had left his sanity in Peoria. Chuckling, he ate the last bit of pemmican in his hand, then stretched out. “Take first watch. Wake me about midnight.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather stay up and jaw?”

  “No. We need to get an early start.”

  Throwing another branch on the fire, Flavius cradled his rifle. Out on the river something splashed loudly. He swung around, half expecting an alligator to lumber up out of the depths with its maw agape.

  Get a grip on yourself! Flavius mentally chided himself. Never in all his born days had he been so jumpy! The river was probably to blame, he mused. Or was his unease due to the nagging, disquieting feeling that they were in for hard times?

  Hours passed. The soothing warmth and crackle of the fire combined with a soft northwesterly breeze to entice Flavius into dozing off.

  He dreamed that he was back in Tennessee, walking toward his cabin. The door flew open and out rushed Matilda, her hair flying as she ran toward him with her arms spread wide in welcome. He spread his to embrace her, tingling with thankfulness for her love and devotion. As they were about to embrace, she hauled off and smacked him across the cheek, rasping, “Where in the hell have you been? You told me that you’d be gone for three weeks, and it’s been three months!”

  Flavius sat bolt upright, blinking his eyes. The dream had been so real, he swore that his cheek stung. Rubbing it, he was surprised that the fire had burned so low. A look at the sky explained why.

  He had been sound asleep for over two hours. A shudder coursed through him. Such negligence could get both of them killed. Davy would be as riled as a wet hen were he to find out.

  Sitting up, Flavius stretched. A muffled noise from the river he dismissed as another fish. Then he heard an odd, rumbling snarl unlike any he had ever heard.

  Whipping around, Flavius was flabbergasted to make out the vague silhouette of an enormous— thing—moving up the river. He assumed it must be a keelboat or a mackinaw. Yet if that was the case, why didn’t the crew hail the camp?

  His breath caught in his throat when part of the huge bulk moved, giving the impression of a living limb that had stroked the water.

  Could it be? Is it alive? Flavius ticked off the possibilities: buffalo, elk, grizzly, black bear, maybe even a moose. Yet if so, it was the biggest damn critter he had ever set eyes on, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

  He recalled the immense snake, sparking recollection of a conversation he’d once had with fellow frontiersmen at the Pork and Ale. Someone had mentioned that bears in virgin country were always bigger than those found in tamer parts. Another had pointed out the same was true with all kinds of wildlife, from panthers to raccoons, to frogs and salamanders.

  Everyone speculated as to why. Davy had cleared his throat, and they hushed. As the premier hunter in their neck of the woods, his word on such matters was final.

  Animals were larger in untamed country, he had said, because man had not yet moved in. Once that happened, the biggest bears and whatnot were always the first to fall to the guns of newly arrived settlers. As more and more homesteaders with hungry mouths to feed set down roots, it cut the odds of any wild creature living long enough to attain truly gigantic proportions.

  Flavius heard a snort. The rustling in the river gradually faded. Soon the night returned to normal. He doubled the size of the fire as a precaution, eager for his turn at watch to be over.

  Along about midnight, Flavius roused himself, stood, and crossed to the Irishman. As he bent to shake Davy’s shoulder, his nerves, already frayed by the wolves and the thing in the river, were jarred by a new sound.

  It came from the south, from the direction they were headed come morning. And it was unmistakably a scream, a scream of hair-raising terror torn from human lips.

  Chapter Three

  “Who do you reckon it could have been?” Flavius asked for the umpteenth time that morning.

  “How would I know?” Davy responded a bit irritably. His friend had gone on and on about the scream for hours, and it was growing wearisome. “Use your head for more than something to keep your ears apart. I didn’t hear the cry, remember?”

  “I wish you had,” Flavius said. Try as he might, he could not get that haunting wail out of his mind. It had pierced him to his core. He dearly desired to learn who had uttered it, and why.

  Beads of sweat formed on Flavius’s forehead. Idly, he rubbed his brow on his sleeve as he raised the paddle to stroke, then squinted at the blazing sun. The day had turned out to be a lot hotter than he had figured on, and the temperature was continuing to climb. “Uncommonly warm,” he allowed.

  “If you want to cool off, well stop and you can take a dip,” Davy suggested.

  “Not on your life,” Flavius said, staring aghast at the murky depths of the broad river. Who knew what lurked down there!

  Flavius had lost track of the number of snakes he’d seen since they started out, and he was nowhere near as sure as Davy that alligators were not found so far north. It would be just his luck to jump in and have a big old gator grab hold.

  “Suit yourself,” Davy said. In all their travels he had never seen his partner so nervous, and he was at a loss to know what to make of it. Given the hardships they had already encountered and survived, it was downright strange that Flavius would be bothered by a picayune thing like canoeing on down the Mississippi.

  They were near the middle, where snags were fewer and where Davy could see both banks clearly. Ambush by hostiles was a constant threat. Once, half an hour ago, slender columns of spiraling smoke had been visible to the east. An Indian village, Davy guessed, and he was glad that no warriors appeared to challenge them.

  Thanks to the sun beating down from directly overhead, and the gentle swish of their paddles, Davy had to fight off a wave of drowsiness. To his right a loud splash sounded.

  “What was that?” Flavius asked anxiously.

  “A fish, most likely.”

  Flavius grunted. It could just as well
have been a snake, or an alligator. “Are we stopping soon to eat?” he asked eagerly. His stomach had a habit of rumbling like a volcano if he went more than four or five hours without food, and it was rumbling now.

  “I was thinking we’d push on until late afternoon,” Davy said. “Then I’ll take Liz and see what I can rustle up for supper.”

  “Oh,” Flavius said, as might someone who had just been sentenced to the gallows. “Well, if that’s what you want, I guess it’s fine by me.”

  A look showed Davy that it was not fine. “On second thought,” he said, “a short rest can’t hurt. Break out some pemmican when we land.”

  By adroitly handling his paddle, Davy steered them toward the west shoreline. Willows and maples grew thickly on a low bank worn in spots by erosion. Davy made for a gravel finger that jutted from under drooping limbs.

  Insects droned without cease. Gaily colored butterflies flitted among spectacular flowers. Sparrows frolicked in the brush, and off in the woods a crow cawed.

  Davy could see why some folks took a fancy to river life. The pulse of the current, combined with the throbbing rhythm of the many wild creatures that thronged its shores, instilled a powerful sense of being alive. A fragrant aroma filled his nostrils as he brought the canoe to a gradual stop broadside to the shaded gravel bar.

  Flavius was quick to clamber out. Parfleche in hand, he knelt and treated himself to some pemmican. His mouth watered as he chewed slowly to savor the taste. “Too bad we couldn’t trade for a heap more of this stuff,” he mentioned, easing onto his back to rest.

  Davy made no complaint about having to pull the canoe onto solid ground by his lonesome. When food was at stake, Flavius sometimes forgot himself. Turning, he scanned the teeming vegetation.

  Movement at the edge of the bar glued his moccasins in place. Their commotion had drawn the interest of a river denizen. Already it was within striking distance of his companion. “Don’t move!” he warned.

  About to take another bite, Flavius gazed in the same direction as the Irishman, and went stiff in alarm. Crawling steadily toward him, its forked tongue darting in and out, was a whopper of a snake, olive in color, heavy-bodied, with a broad head much wider than the neck. Any hope Flavius had that it was harmless was dispelled by its vertical pupils, a telltale trait of the viper family.

  “It’s a water moccasin!” Davy confirmed in a whisper. The biggest he had ever come across, at least seven feet from nose to tail.

  “Lordy!” Flavius breathed, and wished he hadn’t when the cottonmouth suddenly stopped and reared its head as if to strike. Its tongue darted several times in rapid succession. The animal had sensed his presence and was testing the air.

  Davy had left his rifle in the canoe. Not daring to make any sudden moves for fear of provoking the serpent into attacking Flavius, he sidled slowly to the right, a hand inching toward his waist. A few feet would give him an obstructed shot.

  The cottonmouth coiled and hissed, opening its mouth wide to reveal the pale cotton lining—and its deadly tapered fangs.

  Davy froze. Maybe the thing would crawl off if they didn’t provoke it.

  Flavius scarcely breathed, his skin tingling when the reptile moved toward him, its triangular head swiveling from side to side. Why doesn’t Davy shoot? he wondered. Another few feet and it would be too late.

  Davy’s hand closed on a flintlock. The snake hissed again, showing those wicked fangs. Its eyes were fixed on him, not Flavius. That sparked an idea. Boldly taking another step to keep it riveted, he gestured, hoping to shoo it off. “Scat, you scaly devil!” he said. “Go find a frog!”

  The sound of his voice had the opposite effect. Hissing louder than ever, the water moccasin coiled.

  Flavius imagined its long teeth sinking into his body, and inadvertently shivered. Instantly, the cottonmouth reared and coldly eyed him. Its tongue was the only part of it that moved, as for the longest while it simply glared. Then the tail came up out of the river, and the serpent slid nearer.

  Flavius choked down a scream. The thing was so close, he saw drops of liquid on its lower jaw. Were they water? Or venom? Biting his lower lip, he tried not to twitch as the creature crawled to within a few inches of his right side.

  Davy had the flintlock halfway free. He could snap off a shot, but what if he missed or only wounded it?

  The cottonmouth was still again, its head hovering over Flavius. Stinging sweat trickled into Flavius’s eyes, but he refused to blink. To do so invited certain death.

  Another pace put Davy at an angle where he could shoot without risk of harming his friend. Yet he hesitated.

  Just then, accompanied by loud flapping, several crows took wing from trees lining the bank. One dipped low over the gravel bar.

  In a blinding rush of speed, the water moccasin spun and knifed into the river, disappearing under the surface. Moments later it popped up yards downstream, moving rapidly away.

  It all happened so fast that Flavius could hardly believe his good fortune. Rising on an elbow, he watched the serpent until it was lost among cattails.

  “Good riddance,” he muttered in relief. “But why did it run off like that?”

  “Maybe it mistook the crow for a hawk or eagle,” was Davy’s best guess. In the past he had observed other snakes act the same way when the shadows of birds passed over them.

  Flavius stood, his hunger all but forgotten, and scoured the shoreline for more serpents. “Let’s head out,” he proposed. “Filling my belly can wait.”

  Davy steadied the canoe while his friend climbed in. Pushing off, they sailed out to the center and pointed the bow southward. Time grew as sluggish as the river itself. Minutes went by, becoming an hour, then two.

  Mechanically, Davy paddled on through the sweltering heat and muggy humidity. Dip, stroke, lift. Dip, stroke, lift. His shoulders grew mildly sore, his forearms painful.

  A series of turns brought them to a long, straight stretch. Flavius saw an object he assumed was an alligator until closer examination showed it to be a log. “I can’t wait to get back home where we belong,” he said.

  “That makes two of us,” Davy said.

  Presently, tendrils of smoke were silhouetted against the azure-blue vault of sky. Davy’s eyes narrowed. A single campfire was to blame. It was on the east side, where Indian sign had been most prevalent. Resting the paddle across the gunwales, Davy picked up his rifle.

  On a grassy point materialized a figure waving a flap of buckskin. Across the water boomed a resonant voice.

  “Ho there, fellers! Come and light a spell! Coffee is on! And I’ve got fresh deer meat!”

  Flavius spotted the hailer. The mention of food set his stomach to growling once more. “What do you think?” he asked. “Is he on the level? Or is it a trap?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Davy said. Stroking briskly, he brought them within rifle range, then held the canoe steady while he scrutinized the forest.

  The figure moved into the open. It was a white man with stringy gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Buckskins adorned with exceptionally long whangs clothed his bony frame. Beadwork decorated his pants and sleeves. A beaver hat crowned his head, which he took off and waved in his other hand.

  “Don’t be shy, boys! It’s good for these sore eyes to see a couple of young coons like yourselves!” The man stepped to the water’s edge. “Tarnation! It’s been ages since last I chawed with a white man.”

  Since the man did not have a long gun, Davy deemed it prudent to paddle closer. “What are you doing way out here by yourself?” he called out.

  “This hoss has been to the Rockies trappin’ beaver,” was the reply. “Got me a bunch of peltries I’m fixin’ to sell down to St. Louis. Gonna celebrate until I drop, I am!”

  Davy’s interest was piqued. Here was an opportunity to learn, firsthand, about a region he had long yearned to visit. One day, maybe, he would, along with California, the Oregon country, and Texas. Especially the last. Men claimed that Texas was a
hunter’s paradise, so rife with game that a man only had to step out his door to find something to shoot. “Let’s do it,” he said quietly, “but don’t let your guard down.”

  The trapper beamed when they made for shore. “Yahoo!” he whooped while hopping into the air and smacking his heels together. “Company’s a-callin’, George! Ain’t it grand!”

  “Is he talking to himself or someone else?” Flavius said, wary of a trick.

  Davy saw no sign of anyone besides the old-timer. As the canoe coasted to land, the man cheerily helped to pull it high enough so it wouldn’t drift, then warmly clasped each of them in turn.

  “Howdy, howdy, howdy!” the trapper enthused. “Tom Fitzgerald is my handle. What’s yours?”

  Answering, Davy noticed that the man’s eyes were oddly mismatched. The right one was twice the size of the left, and was blue where the left one was brown. By an added quirk, the right was permanently angled to the side rather than straight ahead.

  Tom Fitzgerald chuckled. “Don’t pay my peepers no mind, boy. Been this way since I was born. My ma got kicked by a mule when she was carryin’ me. George says that explains a lot.”

  “George?” Flavius said.

  “My brother,” Fitzgerald said.

  Fingering his rifle, Flavius looked around. A small fire crackled a score of yards off. An open pack lay beside it. On a flat stone was a coffeepot; on another were strips of roasted meat. No one else was in evidence. “Where is he?”

  Fitzgerald chortled. “Hell, sonny, old George has been dead nigh on thirty years. I talk to him in my head, sometimes, is all.”

  Davy studied the trapper anew. Tales were told of men who had gone off into the far mountains and returned drastically changed. Something happened to them in the remote vastness of the Rockies. The immensity, the loneliness, the savagery, it affected their minds; they were never the same again. “I suppose that can’t hurt so long as George doesn’t talk back,” he joked.