Davy Crockett 8 Page 4

  Davy could have dropped one or two, but he didn’t. He had never shot an enemy in the back, and he was not about to start. Whoever was concealed in the undergrowth did not share his outlook, however. Guns boomed several more times, and at each sound an Indian fell.

  Flavius wanted to whoop for joy. They were saved! The only question was: Who had done the saving? He did not show himself for fear it might be other Indians who wanted scalps of their own.

  The last of the war party disappeared. Snapping brush marked their passage. As the sounds faded, the undergrowth to the east parted and out walked two men.

  Davy slowly rose. Surprise was piling on surprise. One of the newcomers was a tall white man in buckskins, the other a black in homespun clothes. Each held a pair of smoking rifles. They came to the pool, the white man stepping over a warrior who was still alive. Hearing the man groan, the newcomer handed his rifles to the black fellow, then drew the biggest knife Davy had ever set eyes on. The blade alone was nearly a foot long. It sported a plain wooden handle.

  Stooping, the white man gripped the warrior by the hair, wrenched to one side to better expose the neck, and slit the warrior’s throat with a single short swipe. Just like that. Wiping the polished blade clean on the warrior’s loincloth, the tall man uncoiled and walked to the water’s edge. “Good thing we heard the ruckus or you’d be buzzard bait along about now.”

  Davy, gazing at the ruptured throat, simply nodded.

  The tall man smiled. He was a strapping specimen. Broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist. Deep-set eyes were an unusual shade of blue, almost blue-gray. Chestnut-brown hair framed a handsome face dominated by a high, wide forehead and a strong chin. Bushy sideburns angled halfway down his jaw. Putting his hands on his hips, he addressed Davy. “Is that a dead coon you have on your head, friend?”

  “We call it a coonskin cap where I come from,” Crockett answered.

  “Ah. And where might that be? From your accent, I take it maybe Kentucky or Tennessee.”

  Davy confirmed it was the latter. Moving toward the pool, he introduced himself, then Flavius. “We’re on our way to New Orleans,” he mentioned. “Those Indians you chased off stole our horses.”

  The man’s features hardened. “The Karankawas,” he said bitterly. “They’ve caused me no end of grief the past few years.” He glowered in the direction they had taken. “That was Snake Strangler and his bunch.”

  “Snake Strangler?” Davy repeated. An unusual name.

  “A cottonmouth crawled into his father’s lodge when he was four. Somehow or other, the boy got a grip on its neck and choked the snake to death.”

  “Did the snake give him, that scar?”

  The tall man patted the big knife at his hip. “No, that was me. We don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on a few things. He thinks his people own this swamp, and I say a man has the right to go where he damn well pleases. One of these days we’ll settle our differences, one way or another.”

  Davy waded across, Flavius right behind. The alligator floated belly-up. Beside it bobbed a Karankawa with a new nostril. “I reckon we’re in your debt,” he mentioned as he emerged. The black man was busy reloading the four rifles.

  “Think nothing of it, friend,” the tall man said, offering his hand. “You’d have done the same for me, if I’m any judge.” He shook. “I’m James, by the way.”

  Davy made two observations. First, their savior was immensely strong. Second, the man had made it a point not to reveal his last name. Why? Was he a fugitive from justice? A brigand? Perhaps one of the freebooters who had plagued Texas in recent years, looting and killing to their heart’s content?

  James indicated the black man. “This is Sam. He’s been looking after me since I was knee-high to a nanny goat.” Davy thought it strange that anyone as powerful and imposing as James needed someone for a wet nurse. Especially since Sam did not appear to be much older than James himself. “Pleased to meet you.”

  The black rose. “Here you go, Master Jim. Loaded, she is.” He handed over a rifle. “What’s next? Do we get the rest on the move before that awful Snake Strangler comes back with his whole tribe?”

  Davy looked at James. “Master?”

  “My father bought Sam for me when I was a sprout. We’ve pretty much grown up together. I think of him more as a friend than a slave, but the stubborn cuss won’t stop calling me that even though I’ve threatened to cut out his tongue if he doesn’t.”

  Sam showed his teeth. “Pay me no mind, Mr. Crockett. It’s my way of remindin’ Jimmy he can’t walk on water, no matter how high an opinion he has of himself.”

  “Oh. I think I understand.”

  Flavius sure didn’t. At a loss for words, he had not said a thing since the newcomers showed up. He gazed to the west, fretting that the war party might double back and catch them off guard.

  James was studying the Irishman. “You say that you’re on your way to New Orleans? Sort of off the beaten path, aren’t you? No one in their right mind tries to cross the swamp when there’s a perfectly good road from Nacogdoches east.”

  “I was hoping to shave some time off the journey,” Davy disclosed, and patted Flavius on the shoulder. “My friend and I have been away from home much too long. We have a hankering to get back before our womenfolk forget what we look like.”

  “Well, without horses you won’t shave any time,” James said. “And alone, you might not make it at all. The Karankawas will be up in arms. Snake Strangler won’t rest until he’s made gator food of all of us.”

  Davy scratched his chin. “Are you proposing we join forces?”

  “There’s strength in numbers,” James said. “I have two other men working for me, both good with a gun and a knife. You’re welcome to tag along so long as you remember I’m in charge and hold up your end of the chores.”

  Gazing beyond the pair, Davy asked, “Where are these other gents?”

  “About a mile from here,” James said. “Sam and I were hunting for a member of our party who wandered off and got lost when we heard the hullabaloo.”

  Flavius’s interest perked up. “This fellow you’re hunting wouldn’t happen to be a black feller? Wearing a danged peculiar animal hide? A hide with spots?”

  James and Sam swapped looks. “That would be the one,” the former said. “You’ve seen him? Where at? The sooner we fetch him back, the sooner we can be on our way. And the safer we’ll be.”

  Davy did not like being the bearer of bad tidings. “Your friend is dead. Snakebit. We were going to bury him, but the Indians had other ideas. They carved out his heart—”

  An oath escaped James and he flushed beet-red with anger. “Damn Snake Strangler all to Hell! The Karankawas consider the heart a delicacy. By eating it, they think they take on the qualities of the heart’s owner.”

  A queasy sensation took root in the pit of Flavius’s stomach. “So those tall tales we heard are true? The Karankawas are cannibals?”

  James cradled the rifle and accepted another from Sam. “Not in the strict sense of the word, no. They won’t eat every part of you. Just the juiciest tidbits.” Graff laughter rambled from his keg of a chest.

  “That makes me feel a whole lot better,” Flavius said.

  When, in truth, he felt immensely worse. The notion of being devoured by wild beasts was horrendous enough; the idea of being eaten by people was downright sickening.

  Davy fell into step behind James. “You haven’t mentioned what you’re doing here. Our excuse is that we were in a hurry. What’s yours?” When there was no response, he said, “It sounds as if you know all about the Karankawas. Yet you’re willing to try and cross cannibal country? Is it me, or do you have a secret death wish?”

  The tall man snickered. “Not at all. I had no choice.” Staring out over the unending swampland, he said somberly, “A man does what he has to do. In my case, it made good business sense.”

  “What kind of business are you in?” Davy casually inquired.

  “You’ll find
out soon enough,” was the puzzling response.

  Flavius observed one of the fallen warriors move weakly. “I think some of the Injuns are still alive. Shouldn’t we do something? Put them out of their misery maybe?”

  “Let them suffer,” James declared.

  “Isn’t that a mite harsh?” Davy asked.

  “Is it?” the tall frontiersman countered. “I say let them rot. Buzzards have to eat too, don’t they?” He forestalled further debate by picking up the pace.

  Davy was trying to place their benefactor by his accent. Louisiana would be his first guess, Mississippi or maybe Arkansas his second.

  James moved with the fluid grace of a panther, as much at home in the swamp as one of the great cats would be. Despite the growing darkness, he confidently led them along a winding maze of game trails until at length they came to a large clearing, and a camp.

  A telltale acrid scent of wood smoke had given Davy forewarning. The two men James had mentioned were crouched near a fire, sipping coffee. But they were not the only ones present. Sprawled in exhaustion on both sides of the glade were twenty men and women. Blacks, linked ten in a row by lengths of chain shackled to their ankles.

  “Slaves!” Flavius blurted.

  Most of the men wore loincloths similar to the man the Tennesseans had encountered earlier. The women wore short leather skirts, but were stark naked above the waist. Copper rings adorned their noses and ears. Mud layered their legs, and their bodies bore scuffs and scratches. Davy scanned their haggard faces, reading the misery in their eyes, and frowned. “So this explains it. You’re a slave runner.”

  “I get the impression you don’t approve,” James said. Davy had never much liked the concept of one human being owning another. Back in 1808 a federal law had been passed banning the importation of slaves, but the trade flourished nonetheless. Slave smuggling was practiced all along the Gulf of Mexico and up the Atlantic coast as far north as Virginia, or so he’d heard tell.

  The two men by the small fire rose. Scruffy characters whose caps and seedy clothes identified them as river rats, they glared at Davy and Flavius in open hostility. “What the hell is this?” rasped the one on the left. “Where did you find these bumpkins?”

  Flavius bristled and took a step. “I’d be careful who I insulted, mister. After what we’ve been through, we’re not in the mood to be trifled with.”

  The other river rat tittered. “Better watch out, Arlo. This fat fool thinks he’s tough. Maybe we should teach him a lesson, eh?” A flick of the wrist, and a stiletto appeared in the man’s right hand. “Want me to cut him into little pieces and feed him to the snappers?”

  Davy was set to intervene, but James beat him to it. Striding forward, the tall man rested a palm on that big knife and said ominously, “if there’s any cutting to be done, I’ll do it. Put that toothpick of yours away, Sedge. Or would you rather match blades with me?”

  Sedge smirked slyly, then winked at Arlo. “Sure, Jimbo, sure. Whatever you want. I’m not crazy enough to challenge you. I’ve seen what you can do with that short sword.”

  Arlo rose on his toes to peer into the benighted woods. “Say? Where’s the darkie who got away? I thought you were going to bring him back?”

  “He’s dead,” James reported.

  “Damn,” Arlo swore. “That’s one hundred and forty dollars gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I hope that doesn’t mean our cut will be less. It’s not our fault he slipped his shackle. If that boy of yours had done his job—”

  James loomed over the river rat, his countenance crackling with wrath. “It’s my money, not yours. And don’t blame Sam. He checked the shackles before they bedded down, just like he always does.”

  Arlo mustered a bleak smile. “Don’t get your dander up. I’m not layin’ fault on anyone. None of us noticed that darkie’s ankle was so thin, or we’d have tied him too.”

  Sedge laughed. “So we lost one. So what? We have twenty left. At the going rate, they’ll bring in close to twelve thousand dollars. Not bad for three weeks’ work, eh?” Nudging Arlo, he sipped from his battered tin cup.

  It was rare for Davy to take an instant dislike to someone, but he intensely distrusted both river rats. Their ilk were all too common in waterfront dives along the Mississippi, back-stabbers who would kill a man for pocket change if they thought they could do it without being caught. Why James had seen fit to ally himself with such vermin was a mystery.

  Arlo had money uppermost on his mind. “What about the bumpkins?” he asked. “I hope you don’t plan to cut them in? Sedge and me ain’t takin’ any less than what we agreed.”

  James moved to the coffeepot. “Did I say you would get any less? I’m a man of my word, Kastner. Five percent is the amount we agreed on. Five percent is what each of you will receive.”

  Davy did some mental calculations. Six hundred dollars apiece was what it came to. Double a year’s earnings for most folks. Extravagant pay, but given the perils, the pair must earn every cent.

  Flavius looked at the wretches in irons. Twelve thousand dollars they were worth! A king’s ransom. More money than he had made in his whole life. No wonder smugglers were willing to take enormous risks to deal in black ivory, as the trade was known. A man could amass a fortune in no time.

  Flavius had never had much of a hunger to be rich himself. He’d always been content with his lot in life, making the best of what it had to offer. Which annoyed Matilda no end. After they had been wed about three years, she’d shocked him one day by saying she had always wanted to be wealthy. “Then why in tarnation did you marry me?” he had responded. He should have known he was in trouble when she’d sweetly asked, “You don’t want to be rich?” Without thinking, he’d replied, “You must be joshing. What chance do I have? I’m not about to work myself to a frazzle for something that will never happen. So why bother?” For his stupidity he had been treated to the tongue-lashing to end all tongue-lashings, a verbal blistering that began with, “A jackass has more brains than you!” and ended with the woman’s argument of last resort, “Why I married you, I will never know!”

  Davy reached for a cup that lay on a flat rock, but Sam snatched it up, filled it, and held it out for him to take.

  “Here you go, sir.”

  “Thanks. But don’t call me sir. We’re all equals here.”

  The river rats cackled with glee. Sedge slapped his thigh, spilling some of his coffee, then declared, “Did you hear this lout, Arlo? He thinks whites and darkies are the same.”

  Arlo snorted. “Some yacks ain’t got the brains God gave a turnip.” He wagged a finger at Davy. “I don’t know what you use for eyes, mister. But if you’ll take a gander at those Negroes yonder, you’ll see they’re a lot different from us ordinary folks.”

  Davy looked, all right. He saw human beings who had been pushed to the limits of their endurance. Innocents who had been ripped from their homeland and dragged to waiting ships. Shattered spirits who had endured a torturous sea voyage and wound up on a foreign shore. Broken men and women who would spend the rest of their lives in servitude. They, and their children, and their children’s children. He looked, and was sick to his soul.

  “Why, I do believe this fella is about to cry,” Sedge said.

  “It’s as my ma used to say,” Arlo remarked. “There’s a simpleton born every minute.”

  Maybe it was the ordeal with the Karankawas. Maybe it was the loss of the horses. Maybe being hungry and tired was to blame. Or perhaps it was a combination of all those factors that triggered an explosion deep within the Irishman. For before he quite realized what he was doing, he had shot to his feet, taken a step, and hurled the coffee in his cup into Arlo’s face.

  Shrieking like a painter, the river rat leaped up. He sputtered, wiped a sleeve across his eyes and cheeks, and bellowed, “Son of a bitch! You damn near blinded me! I’ll gut you for that!”

  Sedge leaned over to grab a rifle propped on a log. The metallic click of a trigger being coc
ked transformed him to marble.

  “Simmer down, all of you,” James ordered. “There will be no shooting. Not unless you want Snake Strangler to pinpoint where we are.” Sidling around the fire to where he could see all of them clearly, he added, “It’s a long way to New Orleans. We’d better learm to get along or none of us will get out of the swamp alive.”

  Coffee dripped from Arlo’s chin and dribbled down his neck. He glanced at the tall frontiersman’s rifle, then at the Irishman. “I never say no to a man holdin’ a gun on me. But this ain’t over, stranger. Mark my words. You’ll regret being born before this is done.”

  Davy had no doubt the river rat would carry through on the threat. But he didn’t care. There was only so much abuse a man could abide if he really was a man. Refilling his cup, he sat back down.

  Flavius Harris was fit to cry. Why couldn't things go right for once? Just when he thought they had been saved and the worst was over, fickle Fate had thrown them in with a slaver and a pair of rabid cutthroats.

  Flavius was beginning to think somebody up above didn’t like him.

  Four

  By noon the next day they had covered a mere seven miles.

  At first light they were up. The river rats rekindled the fire, and Sam made coffee. Davy Crockett was mildly surprised and pleased when James made it a point to hand out a piece of jerked venison to each of the slaves. It wasn’t much, but at least the blacks were being fed.

  Three large leather pouches were packed with the jerky and other essential items, one pouch carried by each of the slavers. They were also armed to the teeth. Walking armories, with two rifles apiece, one of which was normally slung over a shoulder, as well as three pistols and two knives. Except James, who only sported the one knife, the big one with the wide, thick blade.

  Davy was curious about it, and when they stopped for brief rest at mid-morning he idly commented, “That’s some pigsticker you’ve got there. I don’t believe I’ve seen it’s like anywhere.”