Davey Crockett 6 Read online

  Dawn was about to break. To the east a pale glow rimmed the horizon. Rising stiffly, he stretched and did knee bends to limber up. Then, after throwing on the saddle, he mounted and rode northward in search of tracks.

  Dew moistened the virgin grassland. He was so thirsty that after a while he stopped, tore a strip from the blanket, and used it as a sponge to soak up water and wring it into a cup. When the cup was full, he drank slowly, relishing every mouthful. People tended to take basics like food and water for granted. It was only when they were deprived of those basics that they fully appreciated how precious nourishment was.

  Going on, Davy roamed far and wide. He came across the prints of antelope, of deer, of elk, of wolves and coyotes and a painter, of a black bear, of a mother grizzly and her cub, of rabbits and quail and prairie dogs, of sparrows and robins and crows, of a hawk and a small owl, but nowhere did he find those he was searching for.

  It was downright aggravating. Davy halted again, pondering. Things were in a pretty considerable snarl, and he had no ready solution. The sun was two hours into the sky. What if he went the whole day and did not locate the others?

  Refusing to abide glum thoughts, Davy rode westward. He had gone a mile or so when a stick figure took solid form in the distance. A tree—a lone tree, he assumed at first—and he made for it. Where there were trees, there was water. And game. Images of food on the hoof made his mouth water. He had not eaten in so long that his stomach growled constantly, like an irate wolverine.

  He was a couple of hundred yards out when something struck him as strange. The base of the tree was broader than it should be, given the slim trunk. A brownish tint hinted that an animal of some sort was resting there. A deer maybe, Davy speculated, and tucked Liz to his shoulder.

  At a range of one hundred yards, the animal stirred. Davy saw it shift, saw a limb move. It was on the other side of the tree, so he could not quite make out what it was yet. But he was ninety percent convinced it was indeed a whitetail.

  At fifty yards misfortune struck again. The horse snorted.

  ~*~

  Flavius Harris was lost in dreamland. He was home, in his cabin, seated at the table. Matilda had whipped up a feast to celebrate his homecoming, and spread out before him was heaven on earth, enough food for a regiment. Roast venison, roast turkey, fried chicken. Beans and turnips and beets. Taters covered by thick gravy. Corn on the cob smothered in butter. Bread so fresh, its aroma was intoxicating. Two pies, cherry and apple, and a cake. He could not make up his mind which to eat first. Finally choosing the turkey, he helped himself to a leg and raised it to his mouth. He was delirious with ecstasy.

  A noise awakened him. Flavius could not say what it had been, but he knew it had come from close by. He lay still, listening, and heard the clomp of hooves. Indians, he figured, and sat bolt upright. The sound came from behind him, from behind the tree. Whirling, he snapped up his gun, cocked the hammer, and fired, all in the blink of an eye.

  Too late, Flavius saw who it was. His rifle boomed and bucked, and in horror he watched as Davy Crockett toppled from the sorrel onto the hard earth. “Nooooo!” Flavius wailed, leaping to his feet. He dashed madly to the spot, raw terror eating at his innards. He had killed the best friend he ever had! He had murdered a man who was more like a brother to him than his own brothers! Worst of all, he had rubbed out the one person who could see him safely back to Tennessee.

  Flavius sank onto a knee and gripped the Irishman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” he said, rolling Davy over.

  “You should be, you danged nuisance.”

  The hand that slapped Flavius across the cheek was a blur. Rocked onto his heels, he broke out in a broad grin. “You’re alive! Praise the Lord, you’re alive!”

  “No thanks to you.” Davy sat up and brushed grass from his hunting shirt. At the last moment he had seen who it was and held his own fire. He’d had a split-second warning before Flavius shot, enough for him to dive off the sorrel and save himself. Even so, the ball had whizzed dangerously near to his chest as he fell. “How many times must I tell you to always be sure of your target before you squeeze the trigger?”

  “I know, I know,” Flavius said. He was so happy at being reunited that he didn’t care if Davy bent his ear. He deserved it.

  “Remember what happened to Meriwether Lewis?” Davy mentioned. Everyone had heard about the famous Lewis and Clark expedition, and how one of their own men had accidentally shot Lewis, mistaking him for an elk. “And my uncle?”

  Flavius had heard the story a dozen times. The uncle had gone deer hunting and saw what he took for a deer in a patch of grapes. Only it was a neighbor, whom the uncle shot through the body. “I know, I know,” he repeated impatiently, then on an impulse he threw his arms around Crockett and gave him a mighty hug. “Wallop me with a rock if you want. Skin me alive. This coon is floating on clouds.”

  Davy shrugged free and stood. “You’re worse than my kids sometimes, you know that?” Picking up Liz, he inspected her to make sure she was not damaged. On straightening, he was surprised to see that Heather and Becky had not come running at the shot. “Where are ...” he began.

  “I lost them,” Flavius bleated, staying where he was. He’d be harder to hit on the ground.

  “You what?”

  Flavius could not help himself. The words spilled from him like milk from an overturned pitcher. “Late last night. We made camp in a gully, and I went for some fuel for the fire. By a sheer fluke I came across some trees and a creek. So I loaded up on wood and headed back, but for the life of me I couldn’t find them. Hell, I couldn’t even find the gully. I tried and tried, for hours. Honest to God, I did.” He was so upset, his voice quavered.

  Davy rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I know you tried your best. Now let’s see if we can backtrack.”

  Standing, Flavius said, “The first thing we need to do is find two rows of cottonwoods. That’s where the creek was.”

  “There are some cottonwoods over that way,” Davy said, and pointed at a barely visible long line of trees and brush an arrow’s flight to the west.

  Flavius was flabbergasted. “That’s where they been the whole damn time?” he blurted. Dazed, he moved toward the vegetation. “I must have gone past them a hundred times and not realized it. Damn me for being the biggest fool ever born!”

  Davy did not waste another moment. Mounting, he caught up with Flavius and extended an arm. “Climb up. They’re probably worried half sick about us.”

  The mention jarred Flavius’s memory. Awkwardly clambering on, he held on to the cantle and said, “That reminds me. The little girl is ill.”

  “What?”

  “She was shaking like a leaf and had a bad fever,” Flavius explained. “That’s why I left them in the first place. I wanted to make her nice and warm with a big fire.”

  Being sick in the wilderness was a grave matter. There were no doctors, no hospitals, no medicines. A person did not have the luxury of lying abed for days or weeks until healed. Becoming seriously ill was often a death sentence, as surely as if someone plunged cold steel into the heart.

  Friendly Indians sometimes helped out, as had happened to Davy once, well before he left on this gallivant. While hunting with friends, he had been stricken by a bout of a mysterious malady. His companions had left him for dead, a callous betrayal of trust he never forgave—especially when he later learned that one of them had secretly hankered after his wife, and that was why they had deserted him.

  He would have gone to meet his Maker. No doubt in his mind. But some Indians he did not even know came along and kindly carried him to the home of a Quaker woman, who nursed him back to health. He would always remember those Indians. It was why he did not share the common view that all red men were vermin and should be exterminated.

  But now no friendly Indians were handy. Little Becky must get plenty of rest and food to keep her strength up, or they would be digging a small grave before too long.
Davy trotted to the cottonwoods. They followed the stream north a couple of hundred feet to a mud bar bearing jumbled footprints.

  “That’s where I sank in,” Flavius said.

  Davy hurried, bending down low to the ground to better read the sign. The tracks came from the east, and it was not long before he located the gully. Riding down into it, he galloped northward.

  Flavius was happy that everything had worked out just dandy. They would have Becky fit as a fiddle in no time, and soon they would be on their way to the Mississippi. Then St. Louis, and home. Wouldn’t it be grand, he thought, if Matilda had a feast waiting for him, just like in his dream? All that food! The juicy turkey, the roast corn on the cob, those delicious pies, and that—

  “Is this the spot?”

  They were there so soon? Flavius looked down. Charred strands of grass were all that remained of the small fire. A few prints and scuffmarks indicated where the mother and daughter had huddled beside it. “Yep,” he answered, elated.

  Then he realized that the two were nowhere to be seen. “But what happened to Heather and Becky?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Swinging a leg over the saddle, Davy slid off. To a seasoned tracker, reading footprints was as simple as reading a book. Heather and Rebecca had sat side by side for a couple of hours. Every now and then Heather had risen. Her tracks led to random clumps of grass she had fed to the flames. Davy guessed that she had kept the fire going for a couple of hours after Flavius left. At last it went out, and Heather had risen and paced in a circle. She had been worried about Flavius, Davy deduced, but more worried about Becky. The girl had been lying still, curled into a ball. Her mother curled up around her to add warmth. They must have spent a harrowing night, Heather fearing the worst.

  At daybreak they had risen. One set of tracks led to the west. Their size and depth revealed that Heather had been carrying Becky. Apparently the child was too weak to get about on her own.

  Remounting, Davy trailed them. He was at a loss to understand why Heather had picked that particular direction. She knew Flavius had gone south. The length of her strides showed that she had been moving swiftly, practically running at times. Where did she think she was going?

  Over a low rise, in a wide gulch rimmed by dry brush, lay the answer. From the rim the Tennesseans saw evidence of another fire, and hoof prints.

  “Someone was here,” Flavius said, stating the obvious. “Heather must have seen the smoke and mistook it for one of us,” Davy deduced. Kneeing the sorrel down the slope, he felt the nape of his neck prickle. The hoof prints were those of unshod horses. “Indians.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Flavius swiveled to survey the plain. “A war party, you reckon?” He recalled the many tales of atrocities blamed on Indians, of white women taken captive and never seen again, of captives ruthlessly butchered, or worse. Most of the tales were tavern gossip, the kind of stories men swapped when they had imbibed a bit too much. But they filled him with cold dread.

  It took Davy a while to put the pieces together. Eight warriors had ridden in from the southwest the evening before. They had been in no particular hurry, riding in single file—a practice of men on the warpath. The warriors made camp and spent the night quietly. Normally they would have left at the crack of dawn, but Davy noticed that one of the horses had been limping when it arrived, and he had a hunch the Indians had put off leaving to tend to the stricken animal.

  It must have shocked them immensely when Heather blundered onto their camp. A white woman and child, where no whites had any business being. She had tried to flee, but several had overtaken her and dragged her back. One had carried Becky.

  “They left less than an hour ago,” Davy concluded.

  “Then we have a chance to catch them,” Flavius said.

  That they did, even riding double. The frontiersmen trotted to the southwest under the bright sun, their hunger forgotten, their thirst ignored. The need to save their friends eclipsed all else. Davy verified that his pistols were loaded and primed, then loosened the tomahawk under his belt. As much as he would like to have Heather and Becky returned without bloodshed, it was unlikely the warriors would be so inclined.

  The Irishman was not able to judge exactly how long it would take to catch up. Two factors were in their favor, though, one being that an Indian mount was going lame, the other that Heather and Becky would have to ride double with separate warriors, further slowing the war party down.

  Worry for the girl gnawed at Davy. She was a sweet, spunky, wonderful child who had gone through more than her share of hardships but had not let them break her spirit. Should something happen to her—He erased the idea from his mind, refusing to harbor it. Becky would be fine. She had to be.

  Each minute was weighed down by an anchor. Davy chafed at their slow progress, while in reality he pushed the sorrel a bit too recklessly.

  The Indians never deviated from their southwesterly heading. Who they were, where they hailed from, was a mystery.

  In Tennessee, Davy had been able to tell one tribe from another by the differences in their moccasins. No two tribes fashioned their footwear exactly alike. Some had wide soles, some had narrow. Some had curved soles, some were straight. It was the same west of the Mississippi, but he was not versed in the style of the respective tribes here.

  For all he knew, he was wrong. The war party might really be a party of harmless hunters who were taking Heather and Becky to their village so the child could be treated for her illness.

  And cows could fly.

  By midday it was apparent that they would not see hide nor hair of the Indians before nightfall, if then. They had been an hour behind at the outset; they were still an hour behind. The sorrel was flagging, so Davy had Flavius climb off and the two of them walked for half an hour to give the horse a breather.

  Flavius was sore and tired and hungry enough to eat grass, but he did not complain. He was fond of Heather, even more fond of Becky. She had always treated him decently, and any sacrifice that must be made to save her was fine by him. “If either is harmed, there’ll be hell to pay,” he remarked.

  Davy shared the sentiment, but he was willing to acknowledge that the Indians might not be to blame, not if Rebecca was as sick as Flavius had let on. There was only so much the warriors could do, if they were disposed to do anything. Becky meant nothing to them. They might abandon her to die, afraid that whatever afflicted her was contagious, and Davy could not blame them. It was common knowledge that whites carried diseases against which the red race had no immunity. Smallpox was one example; it had wiped out more Indians than all the guns ever made.

  “There’s a good side to this,” Flavius commented. “Play our cards right, and each of us can end up with a horse of our own.”

  “Play them wrong, and the buzzards will feast tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got it to do, regardless.”

  Davy had no argument there. He would not rest until the females were safe, even if that entailed following the war party clear to Mexico. How well he remembered the ordeal his uncle James had gone through. Captured by the Creeks, James spent over seventeen years among the tribe. He gained his freedom when, by sheer coincidence, Davy’s father learned that James was alive and bought him from an Indian trader.

  It had taken James many months to adjust to being among his own kind. Some whispered that he never did. Whatever the case, James devoted the rest of his life to searching for the secret silver mine of the Creeks—a mine neither he nor anyone else ever found.

  Davy knew of other whites taken captive. Usually, men were killed outright. The lucky ones were adopted. As for the women, whether adopted or not, invariably they endured a fate worse than death, a stigma so vile that they refused to be rescued or purchased if the chance arose. This was particularly true of those who gave birth while in captivity. They would rather stay with their captors than endure the shame heaped on their shoulders should they return to “civilized” society.

  Davy would spare Heather that
outrage. Becky was too young for breeding. Among most tribes on both sides of the Mississippi, girls were not married off until they had their first monthly—or their first “visit from Flo,” as the ladies in his neck of the woods were fond of saying.

  It was one of the longest afternoons of Davy’s life. In a way he was glad they did not spot the war party before nightfall. The Indians might well have spotted Flavius and him first, nipping their rescue in the bud. As it turned out, the sun had relinquished the sky to the stars when a tiny pinpoint of earthbound light prompted Davy to rein up. “Yonder they are,” he announced.

  Flavius had been dozing. He couldn’t help himself. Fatigue seeped from every pore in his body, and his eyelids were as heavy as lead. On hearing Davy, he roused himself with an effort and focused on the campfire. “Should we go in with our guns blazing?”

  It was not as silly as it sounded. They would drop two or three with their first volley. Maybe convince the rest that a superior force was attacking. Spook them into running off. Then again, the warriors might rally, and Davy had no desire to end his days so far from Tennessee, his carcass left to rot. “We’ll wait until they bed down.”

  What to do with the sorrel? Davy mused. They might need to make a hasty retreat, so it was prudent to leave the horse untied. But the ornery critter might wander off while they were gone. Against his better judgment, he hobbled it.

  Flavius was as nervous as a buck being stalked by hunters, but he did not let on, not with precious lives at stake. Little was said during the next four hours. Presently the moment of truth arrived. Swallowing hard, he cat-footed after Davy. They were more than a mile from the camp. By the time they were close enough to note details, he was so winded that his attention lapsed and he bumped into his friend when Davy unexpectedly halted. It earned him a severe look.

  The eight horses were in a string to the north of the fire. Six of the warriors were asleep. An elderly man and a short one were by the fire, talking in low tones. South of the fire were Heather and Becky, the mother in misery, seated with her daughter’s head in her lap.