Davy Crockett 8 Page 3

  “Well, I reckon we’re safe enough for the time being.” Flavius grinned. “They haven’t tried to kill us yet.”

  As if to prove him wrong, the air sizzled to the hum of a streaking shaft. A barb-tipped arrow thudded into the earth within a hand’s-width of Flavius’s leg. Yelping, he leaped up off the log and tried to jump over it backward. His left foot snagged on the stub of a busted limb, and down he crashed. Which was just as well. For another arrow thumped into the very spot he had vacated.

  Whirling, Davy brought Liz up. The shafts had come from the southwest. Racing to the rim, he saw a pair of husky figures melt into the vegetation. He was strongly tempted to shoot, but he held his fire. It might be just what the warriors wanted. To trick him and Flavius into emptying their guns, thus enabling the war party to rush them.

  Flavius scrambled to his feet. That had been much to close for comfort! It occurred to him that if the Indians started firing arrows at random at the hilltop, sooner or later one was bound to score. “We should light a shuck,” he advised.

  Davy had no argument. “Lead the way.” He watched their backs as they fled down the opposite side, around another hill, and up onto a shelf overgrown with high grass. “Stop,” he directed.

  “What for? We haven’t nearly gone far enough.”

  “Lay low.” Dropping onto his belly, Davy fixed a bead on a point where the trail circled the second hill, exactly where Indians should appear if the warriors were dogging their steps. Cocking Liz, he tucked the stock against his shoulder.

  Every instinct that Flavius had grated against staying put.

  There was no way to determine how many they were up against. They courted disaster by lying there while the warriors closed in. The Indians might outflank them, cut them off. “I don’t think much of this,” he commented just as one of their pursuers appeared.

  The Indian had his nose to the trail. Broad at the middle as well as at the shoulders, he wore a simple loincloth and low moccasins. His bronzed body had been painted lavishly, on the face, the chest, the back and arms. He carried a short bow in one hand, half-a-dozen arrows in the other. A knife hung at his hip. No feathers adorned his mane of raven hair, as was customary among some of the Plains tribes.

  Davy sighted on the man’s sternum. In the tracker’s wake filed others, six, seven, eight more. Some were armed with bows, some with lances, others with war clubs. One held a long, slender length of cane whose purpose eluded Davy. He saw neither hide nor hair of the horses, which he took as a sign the animals were being ushered to the village, where more warriors would be called on to take part in the chase.

  Flavius couldn’t understand why the Irishman didn’t shoot before the war party got too close. In the hands of a master archer, a bow was every bit as deadly as a rifle. Even more so, since a bowman could unleash arrows twice as fast as a rifleman could reload and fire. He centered Matilda on the second warrior.

  Davy tensed when one of the Indians gazed toward the shelf, but the man did not spot them. Resting his finger on the trigger, Davy curled his thumb around the hammer and pulled it back. It went against his grain to shoot anyone from ambush. But he had to do something to delay the war party.

  Even so, at the last instant Davy elevated the barrel a smidgen. Just enough so the bead was fixed on the warrior’s shoulder and not on the heart. No more than fifty yards separated them when he smoothly stroked his finger. Liz boomed and bucked, spewing lead and smoke. The ball hit true, spinning the tracker in his tracks and felling him where he stood. Davy grabbed at a pistol to get off another shot, but he was not nearly quick enough.

  The rest of the warriors vanished. It was as if the ground yawned wide and swallowed them whole. One second they were there; the next the trail was empty save for the tracker, who was on his side, clutching the wound and struggling to rise.

  Flavius tugged at his friend’s leg. Having fought Indians more frequently than any sane man would ever want to, he had been taught by bitter experience what to expect. “We have to hightail it.”

  Davy thought the same. Pushing onto his knees, he turned, and as he did a glittering arrow streaked out of the blue and bit into the ground beside him. The wreath of gun smoke had given him away. Flinging himself across the shelf, he raced for the top. War whoops erupted, punctuated by more shafts.

  Flavius did not bother to use his rifle. He had no inkling where the warriors were, for one thing. And he was not a good enough shot to hit a target while on the fly, for another. Not without a heavy dollop of pure luck. So he fled for dear life, his heart hammering each time an arrow narrowly missed catapulting him into eternity.

  Davy unlimbered a pistol. At the summit he paused to see if the warriors would expose themselves, but none did.

  “Come on!” Flavius urged. Fright lent wings to his flight, and he did not slow again until they had gone half a mile. By then they were on the summit of the last of the hills. Below them unfolded more shadowy swampland overhung by creepers and stooped trees. In a pool to the north the serrated back of a gigantic alligator broke the surface.

  Flavius hesitated. He would almost rather face the war party than plunge back into the heart of darkness. Almost, but not quite. An arrow that nearly clipped an ear added incentive. He descended, careful not to slip, especially at the bottom where water lapped at the grass. They had to bear to the left, to a spur of dry land that pointed into the swamp like a huge accusing finger. It, in turn, linked the hill to the trail they had been on since they began.

  Davy twisted. Warriors were above, silhouetted against the sky. Five only. The rest must be tending to the wounded man, he reckoned.

  “Do we make a stand?” Flavius inquired, praying they would not.

  The idea had merit. The only way the Indians could get at them was by crossing the spur. Or so it appeared. But Davy would not put it past the warriors to know of another way. The swamp was their home. They had explored every nook, every sheltered cove.

  Another factor was advice given to him by his father, John, who had been a Ranger during the revolution against the British. “Never let yourself be hemmed in by an enemy. Always fight in the open, where you can retreat if you have to. Learn from history. Remember Leonidas at Thermopylae.”

  Davy had taken the advice to heart. “No, we keep going,” he now answered. The trees grew so close in, boughs overstretched the path, forming a green tunnel. They sped on in premature twilight, Davy sorely wishing it were the real thing. He reloaded Liz as he ran, stopping briefly once to feed black powder into the muzzle.

  Flavius grew more encouraged with every minute the warriors did not show. He tried to convince himself the Indians were afraid of guns and would let them alone. To believe the worst was over.

  “Did you hear that?” Davy asked. A trilling cry that resembled a bird’s, but was not, had warbled to the south, to be mimicked by a similar cry to the north.

  “They’re signaling.”

  “The rush will come soon,” Davy predicted. It made sense for the war party to strike well before the sun set so they could bear their victims—or bloody scalps and body parts— to their village in triumph. He changed his mind about making a stand. Casting about, he spotted a small island in the center of a broad pool. “There,” he declared, stopping and pointing.

  “There what?”

  “We fight.” Davy held Liz aloft and entered the water.

  Flavius balked. Making a stand had been his idea, but he would rather step barefoot over red-hot coals than wade into a pool that might be teeming with gators and serpents. “Maybe there’s a better spot.”

  “No time to search. Hurry.”

  “But—” Flavius said, falling silent when Davy dismissed his objection with a wave. Crockett had made up his mind, and once a member of the Crockett clan had settled on a course of action, that was all there was to it. Often Flavius had wondered if all Irish were so unbearably stubborn, or whether the Crocketts enjoyed a monopoly.

  The water was cool and refreshing, but Flavi
us barely noticed. He was wary of ripples that marked the passage of something under the surface. Something that swam toward them. Hiking his rifle so he could bash whatever it was the moment it appeared, he chortled when a frog rose up out of the soup and then quickly dived again.

  Davy did not like it when the water rose past his knees. Should either of his pistols become wet, long, precious minutes would be needed to dry them. As the level climbed, he slowed. It would not do to step into a deep hole. He picked his way with caution, probing with his toes.

  More birdcalls twittered on the hot wind. Flavius saw stealthy movement along the trail and snapped up his rifle, but the warrior was gone in a twinkling. Straying wide of his friend, Flavius backed toward the island. Suddenly a heel stepped into empty space. He tried to right himself, but his own weight pulled him downward. His foot connected with slippery muck. Bracing his leg, he attempted to lever upward, but it was like trying to tread on liquid ice. The mud gave way. His whole body tilted.

  Davy heard a splash and shifted. The water was almost to his friend’s waist. Another couple of heartbeats and Flavius would go all the way under. Lunging, Davy grasped him by the shoulder, digging his fingers into the buckskin.

  “Damn!” Flavius squawked, pumping his left leg to no avail. He could not gain solid purchase, and he was slowly but inevitably pulling Davy toward the hole too. “Let go!”

  “No!” Davy dug in his heels, refusing to admit defeat. They could not afford to render any of their guns useless. “Try harder!”

  Flavius steeled his right leg, wrenched his hips forward, and succeeded in rising a few inches. Enough for his other foot to brush against something solid, something that offered salvation. He stepped directly on it and rose even higher. “I’m safe now!” he exclaimed, only to have the object he had trod on abruptly explode into motion and wriggle out from under him. A gator!

  Davy threw himself at the island, hauling Flavius along. Several yards away a reptilian snout reared up out of the deep, but did not approach. Keeping one eye on the pool’s lord and master, Davy forged the remaining ten feet and gained solid ground.

  “We made it!” Flavius said. Freed, he moved away from the water’s edge in case the alligator came after them. He checked his pistols to verify they were dry. His powder horn was also untouched, but the bottom of his ammo pouch was slightly damp. It contained his lead balls, which could be quickly wiped dry.

  Davy made a circuit of the island. Twenty-two steps. Four slender trees and a hump of earth were the only shelter from the rain of arrows sure to deluge them once the war party was in position. Already he glimpsed warriors fanning out, surrounding the pool. Taking a position on his knees behind the hummock, he stared at a shaft of sunlight that spilled onto the water and lent it a golden glow.

  Flavius was too nervous to keep still. He paced from tree to tree, the alligator forgotten as he saw more and more warriors arrive.

  “Never thought it would end like this,” Davy remarked. “Me either,” Flavius said. “I always figured to die in bed of old age. Or maybe to be nagged to death by my wife. Not to end up with more quills than a porcupine.” The last was meant as a joke, but neither of them cracked a grin.

  Davy faced him. “I want you to know something. Of all the friends I’ve ever had, you’re the best. You have more sand than an hourglass. If I had my life to live over again, I would still be honored to have you at my side.”

  A lump formed in Flavius’s throat. The Irishman had never bared his emotions so plainly before. It showed how serious their plight was. Their luck had finally played out; they were at the end of their string. Coughing, he answered, “I feel the same, hoss. I just hope the Almighty sees fit to pair us up in the next life as well.”

  Whatever response Davy was on the verge of making was cut off by fierce whoops on all sides. The Indians were attacking!

  Three

  At the signal, the war party burst into the open. Surging toward the pool, many let fly long shafts that buzzed like angry hornets. Davy Crockett barely had time to holler, “Take cover!” before the small island was peppered. Some arrows struck the trees, others imbedded themselves in the earth. One smacked into the soil close to Davy’s shoulder.

  Flavius ducked down behind a bole. He brought up his rifle, but a shaft rammed the barrel, deflecting the gun before he could shoot.

  The deluge of arrows was intended to keep the Tennesseans pinned down while other warriors barreled into the water and converged.

  Davy raised his head, and saw a brawny warrior with a war club lumbering toward him. He extended Liz to take aim. Out of the corner of an eye he noticed another warrior on the north bank, one with the long piece of cane. The man raised an end to his mouth and pointed the other end at him.

  Davy could not say what made him drop flat. He had never seen Indians use such a weapon. Maybe it was a dim memory of his childhood when he and friends had whittled smaller versions from hollow reeds. Whatever the case, he dropped in the nick of time, for no sooner had he done so than a six-inch dart smacked into the earth above him. He yanked it out, saw a long wicked, tip discolored at the end—perhaps by a poison the Indians had applied—and threw it aside.

  The man was inserting another dart into the blowgun. Of all the warriors, Davy rated this one the most dangerous. The blowgun was silent, yet incredibly effective, and no doubt highly lethal. The dart flew so fast, it was next to invisible. Davy did not want to worry about being hit while he was busy fighting, so without delay he raised his rifle and fired. The ball cored the man’s cranium from front to back, the deadly blowgun falling into weeds.

  Davy was not given a moment’s respite. Arrows still rained down all around. And six or seven warriors were halfway to the island. He heard Flavius’s rifle crack, saw a painted enemy pitch into the pool. Setting Liz down, Davy drew both pistols.

  The brawny warrior with the war club was in the lead. Wagging his weapon, he yipped like a demented coyote and motioned for his fellows to hurry.

  Was he their leader? Davy wondered. A chief maybe? Davy brought a flintlock to bear. As he had learned during the Creek War, slaying a chief often caused the rest to withdraw.

  Suddenly the pool bubbled and frothed. In the excitement, Davy had forgotten about the alligator. The scaly brute had submerged when the Indians entered its lair, but now it heaved up out of the murk, its massive jaws clamping onto a hapless victim. The man screeched, then thrust a glittering knife at the alligator’s head, again and again and again. Other warriors rushed to help as the alligator tried to pull its prey under.

  For the moment, the attackers were not interested in Davy and Flavius. Clubs and knives flashing, they vented their fury on the reptile. It went into a roll, or tried to, its jagged tail whipping like a snake gone amok. Two warriors were bowled over. But the rest never hesitated. They tore into the creature with a vengeance. One sank a blade into an eye. Another slashed the gator’s throat.

  Meanwhile, Flavius was reloading his rifle just as fast as his fingers could fly. He was scared, but he did not show it. If his time had come, he would die as he had always been told a man should. Bravely. Without whining or moaning or whimpering. He saw Davy reloading, and blustered, “We’ll give them what for, eh, partner?”

  Davy smiled encouragement. The battle in the pool was winding down. The alligator was motionless. Its jaws had been pried wide and the stricken man was being ushered back to shore.

  The downpour of shafts and darts had temporarily stopped while the gator was dealt with. Now it resumed. A dart clipped the whangs on Davy’s hunting shirt. Bringing up Liz, he shot the warrior responsible.

  The man with the war club was out in front again. He had a nasty scar on his left cheek that zigzagged from just under his eye to below his chin. Dark eyes aglitter with raw spite, he glared at Davy as if daring Davy to fire at him. So Davy did. At the pistol’s retort, the brawny warrior jerked backward and twisted.

  Davy started to shift toward another foe. He figured the brawny
man was as good as dead. No one could survive a direct hit to the chest. A bellow of outrage proved him wrong. Stupefied, he watched the warrior straighten, heft the heavy war club, and charge again.

  Davy did not know what to think. His flintlock had not misfired or fouled. The lead ball had flown straight and true.

  The warrior should be floating in the pool. Yet the man did not seem the least bit fazed.

  Flavius Harris had witnessed the event, and was dumb-founded. It reminded him of a tale he’d heard during the campaign against the Creeks, about a noted warrior called Red Shirt who hated all whites. As the story went, Red Shirt had claimed to be invincible. Thanks to a talisman or charm given to him by a medicine man, Red Shirt was supposed to be bullet-proof.

  It was ridiculous, of course. No one was immune to bullets. Yet the men around the campfire that night had been in a battle against Red Shirt’s band. And they swore by all that was holy that several shots had been fired at the Creek chief and not one had had an effect. None of the balls had so much as broken the skin.

  Flavius had scoffed. There must be a logical explanation, he had replied. When he suggested they’d missed, unflattering comments had been made about his mother, and he’d been told in no uncertain terms that they had been too close to miss. Anyway, some of them had seen Red Shirt pushed back by the force of the bullets and then keep on coming. How could Flavius explain that?

  He couldn’t. He never had understood how Indian hoodoo was supposed to work. Indians who carried special charms to ward off injury or death were fooling themselves. The only things that really worked were crucifixes. Or, sometimes, graven images of religious figures.

  Now, Flavius gaped at the onrushing warrior who had shrugged off Davy’s shot, and gulped. He aimed Matilda.

  Abruptly, a new element was added to the conflict. There were four distinct blasts, one after the other, from the vegetation to the northeast. With each shot a warrior fell, either on the shore or in the water. Those remaining swiveled to confront this new threat, but at a roar from their leader they hastened to the west.