Davy Crockett 7 Read online

  “Taylor’s been telling us about the trouble brewing,” Flavius revealed. “Believe you me, we don’t want to be here when the storm breaks.”

  “War is always ugly,” Taylor commented, a sentiment with which Davy heartily agreed. “And war is bound to come. The Spanish have been lording it over the Mexicans since Hector was a pup, but it’s gotten steadily worse over the years. Used to be, the Spaniards treated them fairly, even kindly. Since the empire fell apart, the rulers have grown harsher. More ruthless.”

  “No one likes to be ground under a boot heel,” Farley said.

  Another sentiment Davy concurred with. He’d sometimes speculated that if the English had been more tolerant, the American Revolution might never have taken place. His own father had had a part in that great conflict as a frontier ranger.

  They made small talk for another hour. Bone weary, the women and Becky turned in. The Tennesseans and the Texicans agreed to take turns standing watch. Farley was first, Davy second.

  Flavius relieved the Irishman. As soon as Davy shook him awake, he stepped to the fire to help himself to another portion of venison. The flames had been allowed to burn low but not out. “How’s it been?” he sleepily asked.

  “Quiet as church when the parson gets up to give his sermon,” Davy answered, yawning. “Keep your eyes skinned and your listeners open, though. There’s no telling what might be out there.”

  “Or who.” Flavius took a seat on the log and contentedly chewed. His friend soon slumbered peacefully, like everyone else, leaving him alone with his thoughts. And the meat.

  A small voice in the recesses of Flavius’s mind advised him not to make a pig of himself, but he couldn’t help it. The buck had been a big one. Plenty was left over for breakfast. Before the next day was done they would reach San Antonio, so they had no real need to lug a lot along.

  He ate to his heart’s content, gorging until his belly was swollen and he was fit to burst his britches. Patting his stomach, he stood to limber up. The night air had turned chill and a brisk breeze blew from the north. Angling his rifle, Matilda, across his shoulder, he patrolled the perimeter of the clearing.

  The horses were dozing. Off across the prairie something bleated. An owl voiced the eternal query of its kind.

  Flavius grinned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Although he would never admit as much to Crockett, he was enjoying their gallivant. He’d met new people, seen new lands, done things he never would have done on his lonesome, things he could brag to his children and his grandchildren about. All thanks to Davy.

  Long ago Flavius had settled on the notion that there were two types of people in the world. He called them the “doers” and the “sitters.” The doers were the ones who bustled about like ants, the ones who saw a thing that needed doing and went out and did it. Tireless founts of energy, they were always doing, doing, doing. Davy was like that. He couldn’t sit still for more than a few days without going all squirrelly.

  Flavius was a sitter, and he had no regrets about being one. Sitters were content to while away evenings perched in a rocking chair on their porch. Or spend a whole day at a favorite fishing hole, doing nothing but watching the bobber. Sitters had no qualms about letting time pass them by. They saw things that needed doing, same as the doers, but they put off doing them for as long as was humanly possible just so they could loaf that much longer.

  Flavius would never have seen the prairie on his own. Or the broad Mississippi. Or the vast herds of buffalo. Or any of the other natural marvels he had witnessed during their trek.

  Now he rubbed his belly and turned to treat himself to another nibble. As he did, he heard a rustling noise. A wild animal was moving through the high weeds to the south.

  Clutching Matilda, Flavius imitated a tree. Whatever was out there might be harmless. On the other hand, it could be trouble. He strained his ears and heard the swish of grass against a moving form. His mouth went as dry as a desert. It would be just his dumb luck to be attacked by a bear or wolves when he was so close to civilization and safety.

  A bush to his left shook slightly. Flavius sighted down Matilda as the branches parted and a dark muzzle poked out. He distinguished a triangular head, peaked ears, and eyes that shone red in the firelight. A wolf! he thought, applying his thumb to Matilda’s hammer. But looking closer, he discovered he was mistaken. Their nocturnal visitor was a coyote.

  “Shucks,” Flavius said in relief, and lowered the rifle. Coyotes were harmless, nuisances more than anything else. Normally they fought shy of humans, so this one was being brazen. Casting about for a rock to chuck at it, Flavius was mildly disturbed to see a second coyote off to the right, at the edge of the trees.

  “Uppity critters,” Flavius grumbled.

  Then another lupine specter glided into the open, and another. Alarmed, Flavius retreated toward the fire. He gnawed on his lower lip, debating whether to awaken Davy. But they were only coyotes, and coyotes never attacked people. Not that he had heard tell, anyway.

  Most animals were scared of fire. Accordingly, Flavius spied a likely brand and gingerly picked it up. Holding it out from his side, he waved it back and forth while slowly advancing. To his elation, most of the coyotes backed off.

  “Scaredy-cats,” Flavius taunted.

  As silently as the coyotes had appeared, they evaporated into the gloom. But they did something peculiar before they departed. Each and every one glanced around, to the south, as if they heard or saw something out there. At last he understood. The coyotes had not ventured so close of their own accord. Another creature roamed the darkness, a creature the pack was seeking to avoid.

  What could it be? Flavius licked his lips and held his breath, but he heard nothing out of the ordinary. He wondered if it was a bear, and wished he had asked one of the Texicans whether grizzlies were found in those parts. He’d seen enough of the fierce silvertips to last a lifetime, thank you.

  After a while Flavius decided he was worried over nothing. He gave the brand a hard shake to extinguish the tiny flames, turned, and headed back. After a few steps, his limbs were petrified by the heavy leaden tread of an enormous animal, a beast so immense its breathing was like the raspy wheeze of a bellows.

  Every nerve tingling, his knees quaking, Flavius rotated, against his better judgment. He did not know what to expect. A grizzly. A monstrous cat. Certainly not a splendid chocolate- brown stallion fitted with a bridle but no saddle. A stallion lathered with sweat and spotted with grime. The horse bobbed its head and tossed its mane.

  “Where did you come from, fella?” Flavius blurted in astonishment.

  The stallion took a step, then snorted, as skittish as a fox in a henhouse. It was truly a magnificent specimen, its mane lustrous and long, worth ten times as much as any ordinary mount.

  Flavius edged forward. “What are you doing out here all alone?” he asked, his voice low and soothing.

  The stallion shifted uneasily from side to side. It stared at the other horses, at Becky’s feisty mare, and looked about to go over.

  “So that’s it,” Flavius said. “Romantic cuss, are you?” He was two steps away. His fingers rose higher and were on the verge of brushing its neck when the nervous animal danced sideways, refusing to let him get close.

  “Suit yourself,” Flavius commented. As his beloved wife liked to say, there was more than one way to skin a cat, more than one way to brain a man senseless, and more than one way to get a stubborn critter to do what a person wanted.

  Ignoring it, Flavius ambled to the log and roosted. He contrived to sit so he could see the stallion out of the corner of his eye. It watched him a spell, gazed at the sleepers, then cautiously moved toward the string. Several of the animals were awake, studying the newcomer. But it had eyes only for the mare.

  What the stallion had in mind was plain. Flavius was glad the womenfolk were asleep. What was about to happen wasn’t fit for a female to see, in his opinion. He slid farther down the log so he was between Becky and the ho
rses, in case she woke up.

  The mare did not draw away. She and the stallion nuzzled and rubbed each other.

  Flavius never had felt comfortable about that sex business. He understood the good Lord had seen fit to create men and women different, and that it was supposed to be normal for a male and a female to know each other, as Scripture phrased relations. But it seemed to him life would be a whole lot easier if men and women were all alike and babies were made by planting seeds.

  Matilda liked to snuggle. Often. Always at night, always with the candles out, and always under the covers. But she was a real tigress when her lust was up. Most men would be overjoyed to have a wife like her. Flavius just felt tired a lot, and couldn’t wait for the day when she lost interest so he could get a good night’s sleep every night.

  Now, timing his move just right, Flavius did not rise until the stallion and the mare were so engrossed they wouldn’t notice. A coil of rawhide rope on top of the saddlebags was just what the situation called for. Sneaking on over, he slipped a noose over the stallion’s neck as neatly as could be.

  Only then did Flavius grip the bridle. He counted on the stallion kicking up a fuss, but it allowed him to add it to the string with nary a nicker. Where it came from was a mystery. So was the behavior of the coyotes. They had no cause to be afraid of a horse, unless it was the man smell on the animal.

  Flavius ran a hand over the stallion’s back. Some of the grime, he discovered, wasn’t dirt at all. Closer inspection revealed an awful lot of dried blood. Since the horse bore no wounds, the only logical explanation was that whoever owned it had been mortally stricken. Blood was on both sides and along the left dank.

  “So this is why the coyotes wanted nothing to do with you,” Flavius observed. He gave the stallion a final pat and moseyed to the log.

  The rest of his watch was uneventful. After Ormbach relieved him, Flavius curled up under a blanket. Sleep soon claimed him. At some point he dreamed of returning home, of riding toward his cabin astride the splendid stallion. Golden light bathed the meadow and the sky, and a heavenly choir sang in melodious harmony. From out of the cabin rushed Matilda, radiant in a crisp white dress. She beamed broadly as she raced to meet him, saying his name over and over. Reining up, giddy with joy, Flavius leaned down to kiss her. He never saw the rolling pin that slammed into his head. But moments later, prone on the ground, he gaped dumbly upward and saw her waving it. “Where in the hell have you been?” she demanded.

  Flavius woke with a start to find he was caked with perspiration. His head hurt where Matilda had hit him. But that couldn’t be. It had been a dream.

  Dawn was breaking.

  Davy Crockett had risen early and dragged the freebooter’s body into camp. One by one, as his traveling companions awoke, he had to explain its presence.

  Taylor stood over the cutthroat and planted a kick in the ribs. “Every last one should be exterminated. If they’re not, Texas will always be a backwater region where no one is ever safe.”

  Flavius related the arrival of the stallion. Having reckoned on being able to keep it, he was mildly upset when Farley Tanner remarked, “I’ve seen this animal before somewhere, but I can’t rightly recollect where.”

  “I think I have, too,” Taylor said.

  “Is it one of Valdez’s herd?” Ormbach asked. To the Tennesseans, he explained, “Pedro Valdez owns more horses than just about anybody else in these parts. He has a huge rancho outside of San Antonio.”

  Brilliant pink streaks heralded the new day as they forked leather and rode out. The freebooter was left in the clearing, covered with stones and branches. “It’s better than the son of a bitch deserves” was Farley’s eulogy.

  Davy moved out ahead of the others to act as advance guard. It had saved their hash once; it might again. Not more than an hour later he came on tilled fields, and soon thereafter saw buildings to the southwest. Starkly somber buildings, eerily black against the morning sky.

  Fire had gutted them. A small house, a couple of sheds, a barn, all were in ruins. Charred beams spiked skyward amid piles of rubble. Four freshly dug graves in the front yard disclosed the fate of the owners.

  The others raced up when they caught sight of the blackened ruins.

  “This must be one of the places the freebooters struck,” said Taylor as he slowed. “Old Sanchez owned it. Nicest man you’d ever want to meet. Always willing to share the shirt off his back. Had a wife and two grown sons.”

  “So the freebooters hit Mexicans as well as Americans?”

  Raw hatred turned the Texican’s features livid. “They massacre everyone. Young, old. Men, women. Doesn’t matter what nationality you are.” He uttered a lurid oath. “Not more than four months ago they dashed out a baby’s brains against a tree.”

  Davy did not deem it wise to linger. Pushing on across hilly country, within another hour they came on another homestead. It had suffered the same fate. Burnt buildings were all that remained of a family’s loving toil.

  All the Texicans were mightily moved, and Davy couldn’t blame them. The freebooters were a scourge of vile locusts stripping the land bare. Who could fault the people of Nacogdoches for wanting to pull up stakes and move to healthier climes? But once that happened, what would become of the other two towns, San Antonio and La Bahia?

  “This farm belonged to a man named Alverez,” Farley Tanner declared, then snapped his fingers and pointed at the brown stallion. “Now I remember where I saw that horse before. It belonged to Alverez’s oldest son.”

  “And we know where he is,” Taylor said, bobbing his chin at another batch of recent graves.

  While saddened to hear about those who had died, Flavius Harris was secretly pleased no one would dispute him for ownership of the stallion. In the short while he’d ridden the animal, he’d taken quite a shine to it.

  Not until the middle of the afternoon did their party crest hills overlooking their destination. “San Antonio,” Taylor said proudly. “A hundred years old, if it’s a day. Here is where I’ve put down my roots. Here is where I’ll stay until it’s time to plant me.”

  Winding down to a rutted dirt road, they plodded past an abandoned mission, symbol of the widespread religious fervor of the Franciscans, who once boasted a string of such missions from Texas clear to California.

  “This was San Antonio de Valero,” Taylor said. “In its prime, it was one of the most prosperous ever established. Nowadays, most folks call it the Alamo.”

  Flavius couldn’t wait to ride into town. After weeks in the wild, he was raring for a keg of ale and a haunch of beef. Somehow he’d gotten the impression San Antonio would be a lively little place, maybe as wild and woolly as St. Louis. He could not have been more wrong.

  Most of the buildings were arranged in a maze of narrow twisted streets and alleys. The majority of houses had been fashioned from rough logs, the gaps filled in with mud. The populace was generally poor. And the vitality Flavius yearned for was nowhere evident. Instead, San Antonio was a sleepy center where idle groups of townspeople stood around not doing much of anything except maybe listening to roving musicians.

  Farley Tanner led them to a broad plaza at the center. Here vendors had set up small stalls to sell paltry wares. Wagons laden with goods were parked at random. Men in wide-brimmed sombreros strolled aimlessly, admiring women in gaily colored dresses.

  At a table sat some travelers enjoying food and drink. It reminded Flavius he had not eaten since dawn. Drawing rein, he hungrily appraised plates of Mexican food the likes of which he had never set eyes on before. When a young woman who was dispensing bowls of gooey beans looked up and said a few words in Spanish, Flavius grinned and declared, “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, ma’am, I’d have to say yes. I’ve never been known to refuse a lick of food in my life.”

  Flavius started to dismount when a shrill outcry to his rear about scared the living daylights out of him. Glancing around, he was stunned to behold an elderly woman barreling toward him,
waving a gnarled cane.

  “Ladrón! Ladrón!” she screamed. Then, in English, “Thief! Thief! Someone shoot this gringo!”

  Four

  Flavius Harris was so dumbfounded that he made no move to protect himself when the old woman lanced her thick cane at his midriff. For someone so wizened and ancient, she was remarkably strong. He was knocked sideways. Frantically, he snatched at the saddle horn, but gravity defeated him. Much to the amusement of many of the onlookers, he was dumped onto his posterior in the plaza dust.

  Still screeching, the crone raised the cane for another blow. Davy Crockett reached them before the cane could descend. Grabbing it and holding fast, he showed more teeth than a patent medicine salesman. “Howdy, ma’am. While I’d be the first to admit my friend can be downright aggravating at times, beating him to death is hardly called for.”

  Flustered, the woman did not know what to do. She rattled a long sentence in Spanish, then poked a crooked finger at Flavius, then at the brown stallion.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Davy said. “My Spanish is as rusty as my Greek. I can’t make a lick of sense of what you’re saying.”

  “I can,” Taylor interjected.

  He listened while the crone justified her assault. A small crowd gathered. Davy helped Flavius to his feet and they stood shoulder to shoulder, not knowing what to make of all the attention. Whatever Taylor said to the old woman pacified her, and she shuffled off. With the crisis past, singly or in little groups the onlookers went on about their own business.

  “So what was that all about?” Davy asked when they were alone again.

  Taylor jerked a thumb at the stooped figure blending into the crowd. “Dolores, there, is a second cousin of Alverez, the owner of one of those burned-out ranches we saw. She’d heard about the attack. So when she saw your pard on Alverez’s prized horse, she jumped to the conclusion Flavius must be a freebooter.”