Davy Crockett 7 Page 3

  “Say. Why’d those soldiers even bother with the freebooters? The bodies are going to be a mite ripe by the time Barragan finds them.”

  “The captain wouldn’t care if they were crawling with maggots,” Taylor replied. “He’s got his own best interests at heart.”

  “How so?”

  “Freebooters are hardly ever caught. The last officer who brought in some dead ones was promoted and transferred to Mexico City.” Taylor poked a chunk with a stick. “Our illustrious captain has made no secret of the fact he hates the frontier. I wouldn’t put it past him to cart the bodies back and report they were slain in a running battle with his patrol.”

  “So he gets all the credit and all the glory.”

  “Exactly. And none of us are about to dispute him. He could make our lives very miserable if he had a hankering to.”

  The situation in Texas was much too confusing for Flavius’s liking. What with the Spaniards and the Mexicans and the American settlers all at loggerheads, it was a marvel they were able to get along at all. Then there were the Comanches, who wanted everyone out of the territory. Flavius would be the first to admit he wasn’t the shrewdest person alive, but even he was smart enough to foresee that a lot of blood would be spilled before it was all said and done.

  Davy strolled over and sank onto the log. His legs and backside were sore from having spent practically every waking moment in the saddle. He stretched, and happened to see a large glob of fat ooze from the meat and splat onto a crackling branch.

  The sight swept Davy back in time to the Creek War, to that terrible day at Tallusahatchee. The Indians had been unaware a force of nine hundred men, consisting mainly of militia and rangers, had surrounded their town.

  The first inkling the Creeks had of impending disaster was when Captain Hammond’s rangers advanced in a skirmish ne. Raising war cries, the warriors bounded to the attack—straight into the waiting guns of the whites.

  The official report claimed a few women and children had been accidentally slain by overeager soldiers. But Davy had been there. He’d seen Indians of both sexes and all ages shot own on purpose. Shot down like dogs. One, a beautiful young Creek woman, had been literally blown apart by some twenty balls. Others had perished even more horribly.

  The official report claimed every last warrior fought to the last with his dying breath. But Davy knew differently. Most had wanted to give up. The warriors had signaled as much— and been ignored. One hundred and eighty-six Creek men died that day, to say nothing of the women and children never officially listed.

  But the worst part of the battle, the part that lingered in Davy’s memory and gave him nightmares on occasion, came after the fight was over, after the last of the Creeks had been killed.

  At one point during the clash, a house with close to fifty Greeks inside had been set ablaze. Reluctant to come out into the withering hail of lead that awaited them, the Creeks had been overcome by smoke and burned to death.

  The day after the Battle of Tallusahatchee, someone discovered a cellar under the Creek lodge. A cellar brimming with potatoes.

  Davy and most everyone else had been as famished as starving wolves. Provisions had been scarce, the troops subsisting on half rations for days. Eyes agleam, as gaunt as scarecrows, hey had ringed the cellar, licking their lips and hungrily eye- ng the cache of ripe potatoes. There was enough for all to have a share. But no one wanted to be the first to partake. With good reason.

  The potatoes were coated with fat. It lent the illusion they had been stewed in a pot of simmering meat. Which was, in a sense, what had happened. For when those Creek warriors burned, their body fat had dripped into the cellar onto the potatoes.

  Davy remembered standing there, staring, his stomach hurting from lack of food and his limbs quaking with anticipation. Hunger and loathing fought for the upper hand, and hunger won—especially after other soldiers began helping themselves, cramming potatoes and Creek body fat into their mouths with relish.

  The incident had soured Davy on war for all time. “I wish I may be shot,” he had told his wife after his tour of duty was up, “if I’m ever so stupid as to take part in one again.”

  Seeing the deer fat brought back the sickening memories in a rush, and Davy shuddered.

  “You coming down with something, pard?” Flavius asked. Unknown to the others, the Irishman was afflicted with a strange malady that struck without warning and left him as weak as a newborn. What it was, the doctors couldn’t say. It had nearly killed Crockett once. So whenever Flavius saw his friend looking peaked, he feared another bout.

  “I’m fine,” Davy assured him.

  Everyone else gathered around. A small sack of coffee had been found in a freebooter’s saddlebag earlier. Now Heather put on a pot.

  It had been ages since Flavius tasted any. The mere aroma was intoxicating, and he inhaled deeply.

  The darkness deepened. A myriad of sparkling stars dotted the firmament. From the northwest wafted a stiff breeze, bearing with it the yips of coyotes and the lonesome wail of a wolf.

  Farley Tanner gazed into the night and smiled. “Lord, I love this country. It gets into a man’s blood and won’t let go. I could no more go back to Connecticut to live than I could stop breathing.”

  Heather looked up from checking the coffeepot. “You’re from Connecticut? I didn’t know that.”

  It was Marcy who answered. “Our folks moved out here when I was knee-high to a calf. They were among the first Americans to put down roots. Applied for a Spanish passport and everything.”

  Taylor was doodling in the dirt with his stick. “One day more Americans will live in Texas than either Mexicans or Spaniards. When that happens, Texas will break away and become its own nation or part of the United States. Mark my words.”

  Davy swiveled. “Do you really think so?”

  “I do. And so does Barragan. You heard him.” Taylor propped himself on an elbow. “We Americans are a restless breed. We’re always on the go, always exploring new horizons. We’ve pushed steadily westward from the Atlantic since our country was founded, and we’ll keep on pushing until we reach the Pacific.”

  Flavius tore his eyes from the venison long enough to comment, “The Rockies will stop us. They’re too high and too steep for wagons to get across.” Or so a kinsman had told him.

  “We’ll find a way. We always do,” Taylor predicted. “If you don’t believe me, just remember what happened in Louisiana. It was under Spanish rule once. Spain passed laws forbidding foreigners to settle there, but did that stop us? I should say not. Over fifty thousand American squatters moved in, and there wasn’t a damn thing Spain could do.” Taylor chortled. “Except cede Louisiana to France after getting Napoleon to promise it would never fall into our hands.”

  Davy was familiar with the history. “Three years late, Napoleon broke his word and sold Louisiana to our government for fifteen million dollars.”

  “The greedy little rooster,” Flavius said.

  “No, it wasn’t greed,” Taylor said. “Napoleon needed the money to maintain his army.”

  Out of the blue Heather Dugan said, “I wish we had a musical instrument. I would love to dance.” As she said it, she stared at Farley Tanner.

  “You’ll get your chance, ma’am,” Taylor said. “Tomorrow night or the next, you and your friends will be the guests of honor at a fandango.”

  Distracted by the small talk, Davy did not react when one of the horses nickered. But when a second animal whinnied softly, he stood. It was possible they had caught the scent of a prowling cougar—or Comanches. Not venting to needlessly alarm the others, he announced, “Reckon I’ll stretch my legs.” And walked toward the string, Liz cradled in his left arm.

  A small figure materialized at his side, limping. “Don’t mind company, I hope? Listening to adults talk bores me to death sometimes.”

  Davy gently placed a hand on the girl’s head. “Don’t be so hard on them, sprout. You’ll be an adult one day.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t ever want to grow up,” Becky said.

  “Do tell. Why not?”

  “Big people have it rough. My mother, for instance. She’s always worried about one thing or another. Sometimes I think all she does is worry. She must like it.”

  Davy chose his next words with care. Heather Dugan had cause to be a worrier after all the poor woman had been through. Her early years had been spent under the iron thumb of a vicious stepfather. Later, the man had gone so far as to arrange a fatal accident for her first husband to keep the couple from moving away. The accident had resulted in Becky’s limp.

  “It isn’t that big people like to worry so much. They just don’t want the bad things that happened to them to happen to their children.”

  “Why not just live?” Becky said with typical childish innocence. “What will be, will be, my grandmother always liked to say.”

  “Your grandma was mighty wise,” Davy remarked. Abruptly, he realized fully half of the horses were facing to the northeast, their ears pricked. “Tell you what. Go on back and wait for me. When I’m done, I’d like to hear more about her.”

  “I don’t mind—”

  “Please, princess,” Davy insisted. He spun her by the shoulders and carefully propelled her toward the fire. “I won’t be long.”

  “Hmmmph,” Becky protested. “You’re getting as bossy as the others. And here I thought you were different.”

  Leveling Liz, Davy moved along the string. Whatever had disturbed them was lurking in the woods. He swore he could feel unseen eyes upon him, but whether bestial or human was impossible to gauge.

  The fire was to his back, silhouetting him against its rosy glow. Crouching, Davy crab-stepped closer to the animals to make it harder for a human skulker to fix a bead on him. If it was a predator, blending his scent with that of the horses would confuse it. He glanced back just once. Becky was beside her mother, listening to Farley Tanner. None of the rest were aware of the intruder.

  Davy’s bay was the last in line, which worked out perfectly. It was the one animal that wouldn’t shy when he slipped under its belly to probe the murky wall of vegetation beyond. Nothing moved. The wind had momentarily died and the woods were as still as a tomb. Even the coyotes and wolves had fallen silent. Davy could hear the low murmur of Farley’s deep voice and the sputtering of flames.

  A twig cracked. Not loudly, but enough for Davy to pinpoint the general vicinity of the culprit. Thirty feet away, to his left. Darting into the undergrowth, Davy circled to come up on whoever or whatever it was from behind. His soft-soled moccasins made no more noise than a ghost would on the spongy carpet of grass.

  A shape reared up twenty feet off. For a split second Davy saw it, then it was gone, and he was still not sure whether he was dealing with a four-legged or a two legged threat. But he did see that it was circling in a counterclockwise direction and would pass directly between him and the fire.

  Pausing beside a willow, Davy braced Liz against the trunk and sighted down the barrel. Any instant now, he reflected, and began to ease back the hammer.

  Seconds went by. Too many of them. Too late, Davy sensed something behind him, and he pivoted, seeking to bring Liz to bear before he was attacked. Hardly had he started to turn, though, when a steely forearm clamped around his throat and a sandpaper voice snarled in his ear, “Did you really think I’d let you get away with killin’ my pards?”

  Three

  It was the freebooter who had gotten away!

  Even as the realization exploded in Davy Crockett’s mind, Davy himself exploded into motion. Tucking at the waist, he pivoted on the balls of his feet. Simultaneously, he let go of Liz, grabbed the freebooter’s forearm, and pulled.

  The man was caught flat-footed. He grunted as he was flipped up and over, grunted again when he struck the ground. But he was on his feet in a twinkling, the cold steel of his butcher knife glinting dully in the pale starlight.

  Davy did not resort to his own knife, snug in a leather sheath on his left hip. He preferred his Creek tomahawk for close-in fighting, and now he whipped it from under his belt on his right side even as he backpedaled to gain room to maneuver.

  During the Creek War Davy had learned exactly how deadly a tomahawk could be. During his very first engagement, a muscular warrior had nearly taken his head off at the neck.

  Only by a sheer fluke had Davy come out on top. Afterward, Davy had helped himself to the man’s weapon, and he had carried it with him ever since.

  Now Davy swung, the tomahawk cleaving the air like the stroke of doom itself. The freebooter, though, was no amateur. Skipping to one side, the killer circled and coiled, the butcher knife extended.

  Davy adopted a crouch and held the tomahawk close to his chest, ready to slash high or low as was needed. His foe’s blade had a longer cutting edge, but the tomahawk was heavier and equally sharp.

  The freebooter grinned wickedly and commenced to toss the knife from one hand to the other, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Thanks to the oppressive darkness, it was hard for Davy to keep track of exactly which hand held the knife at any given instant—just as the man intended.

  Davy was tempted to call out for help; Flavius and the Texicans would come on the run. But he didn’t. In their eagerness to aid him they might be wounded, or worse. And, for all he knew, other freebooters could well be hiding nearby, waiting in ambush.

  The cutthroat suddenly hissed like a viper and darted in low and fast. The knife was a blur. Davy countered, the tomahawk deflecting the blade. Sidestepping, he aimed a cut at the freebooter’s shoulder, but the man was living lightning. Davy thought he had him dead to rights, but somehow the ruffian dodged.

  Thrusting and parrying, they continued to circle, moving farther and farther into the woods, into the darkness. Davy could never look behind him. To do so invited death. As a consequence, he constantly bumped into trees and several times nearly tripped over roots and rocks.

  The freebooter grew impatient to end their fight. He bounded in close and hacked at Davy’s neck. An upward swing saved Davy from harm, and reversing direction, he sheared the tomahawk at the man’s face. The cutthroat jerked to the right, but not quite swiftly enough. Davy felt the blow connect, saw a black gash blossom on the man’s cheek. Moist drops spattered his hand as he bounded out of reach.

  An oath escaped the freebooter. His other hand shot to his cheek, his fingers becoming as black as the gash. “Bastard!” he hissed. “For that I’m going to carve you into little pieces!”

  A blinding whirlwind tore into Davy, a whirlwind of flying steel. The man stabbed, chopped, thrust. Again and again and again. Davy was forced straight backward, always on the defensive, never able to strike out.

  Sooner or later the freebooter would connect. It was just a matter of time. To prevent that, Davy had to take the initiative. So when he bumped into another tree, a sapling, he twisted and darted on around the smooth bole. He heard the knife bite into the bark.

  Now the tree was between them. When the freebooter lunged to the right, Davy moved to the left. When the man flicked the knife to the left, Davy skipped to the right. It was a stalemate.

  The killer didn’t like being thwarted. Rumbling deep in his chest, he feinted left and went right. Davy blocked it easily. More frustrated than ever, the freebooter threw caution to the wind and dived, spearing his knife at Davy’s legs. It was a reckless gambit. Should it succeed, Davy would be crippled and easy prey. But in order to score, the man had to overextend himself a trifle.

  Davy wrenched his feet backward. The knife nicked his buckskins but spared his flesh. As the freebooter started to recoil, Davy drove his right arm down and in. The man looked up, his eyes wide and white and filled with fright. The tomahawk was the last sight they ever beheld, for the next instant the Creek weapon buried itself in the freebooter’s temple, opening the man’s skull.

  The freebooter collapsed onto his stomach. His limbs twitched a few times, the body convulsed violently once, then he was as sti
ll as a headstone.

  Davy had to use both hands to extract the tomahawk, it was buried so deep. A thick spurting tide pulsed from the gaping cavity to form an inky puddle framing the killer’s bearded face.

  “Davy? Where’d you get to?”

  The shout reminded Davy of his friends. Hastily wiping the tomahawk on the freebooter’s homespuns, he wedged it under his belt as he emerged from the vegetation. “Thought I told you to stay by the fire.”

  “I got worried,” Becky said. “You were taking so long.”

  The Irishman scoured the woods. It was unlikely more cutthroats were out there. They would not have stood idly by while one of their own was slain. So the man had been alone, after all.

  “Are you all right?” Becky said.

  “I’m breathing, and that counts for something,” Davy jested. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” Dashing into the trees, he searched for Liz. Since he couldn’t remember exactly where he had dropped her, he had to crisscross the general area. A minute went by. Two.

  “Davy? What are you doing in there? Coon hunting?”

  It was a private joke of theirs. Ever since Flavius had told her a whopper of a tale about the time Davy allegedly talked a raccoon into shedding its coat to use as Davy’s coonskin cap, the girl had been begging him to take her coon hunting so she could see him chat with one.

  Davy was about ready to give up and come back into broad daylight when a tiny gleam of metal drew him to his prized rifle. Brushing Liz clean with a sleeve, he rejoined Rebecca Dugan. She was munching on a piece of meat, her cheeks and chin smeared with grease, the perfect picture of dimpled childhood. “Tasty, is it?” Davy asked.

  “You should try some,” she said with her mouth crammed. “Before Mr. Harris eats it all. He’s on his third helping and the rest of us are still on our first.”

  That sounded like Flavius. “Lead the way, princess,” Davy said.

  The others did not ask where Davy had been, and he chose not to enlighten them. They would only fret, probably toss and turn all night, too edgy to sleep. After thanking Marcy for a generous portion of sizzling meat on a stick, Davy lustily bit into his meal. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d savored venison, yet this was some of the best ever.