Davey Crockett 6 Page 6

  Davy studied the members of the war party. They were unlike any Indians he had ever seen. Swarthy, muscular, well proportioned, they wore leggings and moccasins but no shirts. Their shoulders and chests were painted with lines and symbols, as were their faces and foreheads. Most of their hair had been shaved, except for a strip high in the middle that had been slicked to stand straight up. It reminded Davy of porcupine quills. Eagle feathers were worn by several. Added decoration consisted of bead necklaces and bracelets. The leggings were fringed.

  Flat on his belly, Davy waited for the last pair to turn in. The old one was relating something or other in a language that was so much Greek to Davy. Every warrior, he noted, was armed with a knife. Bows, quivers, and lances were scattered among the sleepers.

  Suddenly Heather unfurled. Gesturing at the older warrior, she said, “Please. My daughter is very ill. Something must be done or she’ll die.”

  The men stopped talking, the oldest regarding her intently.

  “I know you’re the leader here,” Heather told him. “Help her, I beg you. She’s burning up.” To demonstrate, she placed her hand on Becky’s brow, then pointed at the flickering flames.

  The older warrior rose. Walking over, he pressed a callused palm to the girl’s head. His features were a blank slate. Grunting, he walked back to the fire and sat.

  “Damn you, you heathen!” Heather railed. “I’m not going to sit here and let her die! Either do something, or so help me, you’ll regret it!”

  Her outburst woke up every last warrior. Some glanced at the captives, muttered, and went back to sleep. Several sat up. A long talk ensued, the older warrior doing most of it. Repeated looks were cast at mother and daughter, looks that did not bode well. At length the men lay back down. Davy was glad when the leader turned in too. But the short warrior stayed up, a bow next to him, a quiver across his back.

  Flavius had not reckoned on a sentry being posted. It complicated things. His heart went out to Headier, who was slumped over Becky, her shoulders quaking as she silently sobbed. He looked at Davy, but his friend did not motion for them to move in. Soon, Flavius hoped. Before he was too tired to be of any use.

  The short warrior drew his knife and honed it on a whetstone just like the one in Davy’s possibles bag. He wondered if the warrior had taken it from a dead white, or traded for it. The man stroked the edge of the blade smoothly, engrossed in the chore.

  Davy folded his arms and rested his chin on his wrist. It would be another hour before they could do anything. The rest must be deep in slumber, the sentry’s senses dulled by lack of activity.

  Closing his eyes, Davy recalled his grandfather and grandmother, both dear people, both slaughtered in their home by rampaging Creeks. For years afterward he had hated Indians as feverishly as any white man alive did. Then came that day his illness laid him low and those Indians took him to the Quaker.

  It was rare when a man knew he had gone through a major change in his life. Most changes took place gradually, building up over months or years, subtly altering character until the man was not the same as he had once been, without realizing a change had taken place. That day, though, was a major turning point in his life. It was the reason he would not shoot an Indian unless set upon. The reason he did not open fire on this bunch from ambush.

  They had not harmed Heather or Becky, which was encouraging. Their painted faces and bodies, though, were proof they were a war party. Whether they were after scalps or out to count coup, as was the Sioux custom, was irrelevant. They would not take kindly to having their captives rescued. To avoid a bloodbath, he must resort to guile, to the wiles of a fox.

  His left leg was nudged. Glancing around, Davy saw Flavius nod at the camp. The short warrior had risen and was stretching. As Davy looked on, the man circled the fire, then paused, facing them. They were safe enough, since they were too far away for the glow to illuminate them.

  Why, then, did the warrior lean forward as if he had spotted something?

  Why did he grip the hilt of his knife?

  The man came toward them.

  Five

  Davy Crockett tensed, then slid his hand down his side to the tomahawk. He had to dispatch the warrior quietly and pray none of the others were light sleepers. Grasping the handle, he prepared to rise onto his knees. Countless hours spent in practice made him confident he could throw the weapon with extreme accuracy and bury it in the man’s chest.

  Flavius was ready to bolt at the first outcry. Outnumbered as they were, they would be swiftly overwhelmed. And since they could be of no help to Heather and Becky dead, he would rather flee so they could try again another day.

  The warrior stopped, his eyebrows knit. Davy realized that the man was gazing past them. Whatever had drawn his interest was out on the prairie. Could it be the sorrel? Davy wondered. Although hobbled, the animal could move about a little. Had it drifted toward the camp, close enough to be observed? Davy could not turn to see, because the movement might give him away.

  Clearly perplexed, the warrior took a few more steps. He slowly relaxed and removed his hand from his knife. Quirking his mouth upward, he turned around and took his seat by the fire. Whatever he had seen was either gone or had been a figment of his imagination.

  Davy did not replace the tomahawk. He might need it before the night was done. Staying where he was, he bided his time, exercising the patience of a panther.

  The sentry let the fire burn low but not out. Arms folded, the man tried his best to stay awake. Every so often his eyes would close, his chin would dip. Whenever it did, he jerked his chin up again and shook himself. This happened a dozen times or more. Then he dozed off again and did not awaken.

  Davy waited another five minutes for safety’s sake. Shifting toward Flavius, he whispered, “You get the horses. I’ll see to Heather and Becky.”

  Flavius would rather it was the other way around. Horses had a nasty habit of nickering at the wrong moment. But Davy angled to the left and was gone, crawling silently, before Flavius could say anything.

  Snaking to the right, Flavius gave a wide berth to the pale glow that bathed the grass. When the horses were between him and the sleepers, he rose into a crouch. Most of the animals were also asleep. A bay had its head up and was peering to the south. Possibly, it had heard Davy—which amused Flavius. Usually, he was the one who made too much noise. Slinking toward the west end of the string, he congratulated himself on outdoing his friend.

  The bay tried to turn toward him. Flavius heard it sniff loudly a few times. He had forgotten about the wind, which was blowing his scent right to them. Afraid the bay would whinny, he froze. The bay gave its mane a toss, bobbed its head, and pawed the ground. Flavius did not like that one bit. The darned critter would agitate the whole blamed string. Sucking in a breath, he marshaled his courage and boldly rose. Advancing slowly so as not to scare it, he whispered, “No need to be afraid, feller. I’m as peaceable as they come.”

  The bay was not so sure. Just as horses owned by whites grew accustomed to the scent of their owners and became agitated when they caught the scent of Indians, so these animals were accustomed to the odor of Indians and regarded that of whites as they would the odor of a roving cougar or a bear. The bay tried to back away. Brought up short by the rope, it pawed the earth again.

  Flavius stopped to avoid upsetting it further. One of the sleepers moved, draping an arm across his chest. Another mumbled. Flavius glimpsed Davy across the way, close to Heather and her daughter.

  The Irishman had seen what the bay was doing, and halted. It would not take much to bring the warriors to their feet, brandishing their weapons. The sentry was sleeping soundly enough, but was bent so far forward that he might pitch over.

  When neither of the woodsmen made any threatening moves, the bay calmed. Flavius felt safe in edging near enough to gently touch its muzzle. The horse sniffed his fingers, then his sleeve. Rubbing it, he sidled to the rope. None of the other animals showed the least interest in him.

>   Davy sank onto his stomach and made like an eel. Reaching Heather, he plucked at her dress. She did not react. Cautiously rising onto a knee, he pushed her arm. She smacked her lips and moved the arm but did not wake up. Taking a gamble, he clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her off Becky, urgently whispering in her ear, “Don’t cry out! It’s me, Davy!”

  Heather had gone rigid and clawed at his hand, only to relent when he identified himself. She turned, whispered, “Thank God!” and pressed her face against his neck. He felt moisture dampen his skin. “I’ve been so afraid. I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “Shhhhh,” Davy said. He was surprised that she had not been bound. Maybe the warriors figured she was not about to desert her ailing child. Peeling Heather off, he gave her the rifle, then scooped Becky up.

  Across the camp, Flavius had untied four of the horses and was working on the fifth. The bay was one of those he had freed. Without any warning, the horse abruptly wheeled and pranced into the night—almost brushing the sentry. The man leaped erect, blinked in confusion on seeing the animal loose, and took a step after it.

  Davy was backpedaling into the darkness, but he was not quite quick enough.

  The warrior whirled, a hand flying to the quiver on his back. A harsh shout ripped from his throat as he nocked a shaft to the sinew string.

  Davy was helpless, his hands full, unwilling to drop Becky in order to draw a pistol. The other men were heaving upright, many talking all at once. The sentry sighted down the arrow, centering the barbed tip squarely on Davy.

  Heather shot him. Liz boomed, belching lead and smoke, the impact smashing the bowman backward.

  Simultaneously, several events occurred. The remaining warriors turned toward Davy, Becky, and Heather, fury and blood lust contorting their features. Flavius realized his friend’s plight and did the only thing he could think of. He whooped and hollered and flapped his arms, sending the four horses into flight. They weaved among the warriors, creating confusion, causing several to leap aside, barreling one over.

  Davy pivoted and fled. “Run!” he urged, racing flat out, listening for the buzz of feathered shafts and the swish of heavy lances. Heather kept pace, her dress swirling around her legs, her golden hair flying.

  Flavius ran in the opposite direction. Thanks to the damn bay, everything had gone all to hell. A glance showed him that several of the warriors had gone after the horses, two were chasing Davy, and two were after him.

  Terror lent wings to Flavius’s feet. Pumping his arms and legs, he ran as he had never run before. Yet that would not be enough. His portly build rendered him less fleet than most men, and he had no illusions about the outcome.

  The warriors were lean shapes in the gloom. Arrows rattled in their quivers. In the lead was a tall man who had the grace and speed of an antelope.

  They're going to catch me! Flavius thought, and bit his lip to stifle an outcry. Losing his head would cost him his life. He had a rifle, didn’t he? And a pair of loaded flintlocks? The savages would not take him without a struggle. He looked back to see if they had gained. The very next step, his right foot snagged on something and he was flung onto his face, thudding down so hard that his breath whooshed from his lungs.

  It was a shallow rut, barely three feet wide and five feet long. Flavius placed his hands flat to push erect. Footsteps drummed, and he braced for the feel of iron fingers on his arms and neck. Instead, the tall warrior loped past a few yards to his left. Seconds later the other man hastened by on the right. They had not seen him fall!

  Flavius watched as they dwindled in the darkness. When he could no longer see them, he rose and hurried to the southeast. One of the warriors was leading a pair of horses to the string, and the man who had been shot was being examined by another. Of Davy, Becky, and Heather there was no sign.

  The sorrel was right where they had left it. Flavius removed the hobbles, stuffed them in the saddlebag, and climbed on. He would stay put until Davy showed. They had failed to obtain extra mounts, but they could get by. Provided they escaped.

  To the northwest two warriors appeared, the tall one and the other. Somehow they had found him. Flavius lashed the reins and cut to the left as an arrow cleaved the space his head had just occupied. At a mad gallop he outdistanced them, speeding into the night until he was well out of bow range.

  He aimed to go no more than a quarter of a mile, to stay relatively close to be of help to Davy. But when Flavius brought the sorrel to a stop and shifted in the saddle, the campfire had vanished. He rose in the stirrups and still could not see the flickering light. “I can’t have gone that far,” he declared. The only other explanation was that the Indians had extinguished it, which made sense if they believed they would be attacked again.

  Where did that leave him? He had to find Davy, but he was averse to aimlessly roving the prairie. The last time he had gotten hopelessly lost, and might again. Or blunder onto some of the Indians.

  Flavius dismounted. Wrapping the reins around his right wrist, he sat down. Once morning broke, he would hunt for his companions. Until then, he might as well make himself comfortable. Where are you, Davy? he thought. Did they get you?

  ~*~

  The answer was no, but not from a lack of trying.

  Three hundred yards southeast of the camp, Davy Crockett hunkered in a gulch. His lungs were raw, and pulsing blood hammered his temples. He had led the warriors on a merry chase, winding this way and that, flattening on occasion, rising when the coast seemed clear. Becky had not uttered a peep once. Nor had she awakened, which troubled him. At his side Heather was sprawled, a hand over her mouth to stifle her rasping gasps.

  “Did we shake them?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t rightly know,” Davy confessed. Gently depositing Becky, he rose high enough to peek over the rim. The fire had gone out or been smothered. Quiet reigned, but he was not deceived. The war party would not give up easily. If he was in their moccasins, he’d regroup and commence a sweep at first light.

  “How’s Rebecca?”

  Davy felt the girl’s forehead. It was as hot as a red coal, and when he lightly shook her, she did not respond, A bad sign. Wrapping the blanket tightly around her shoulders, he nestled the child in his lap and leaned back against the gulch wall. “She needs food and rest.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Heather said testily. “She needs a hell of a lot more than that.” Wringing her hands, she tilted her pale face to the sky. “What am I to do? Please don’t let her die. She’s my pride and joy.”

  “We’ll do all we can.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I was—”

  A scuffling noise stilled her tongue. Davy carefully passed Becky to Heather, then slowly uncoiled, drawing a pistol. There had not been time to reload Liz. In the murk to the north something moved. A man, an animal, he could not say. It was soon gone. Earlier, he had heard a horse galloping to the southeast and took some small satisfaction in thinking that the warriors had lost at least one of their mounts.

  Davy tucked the flintlock under his belt. He uncapped his powder horn, gripped Liz, and fed the proper amount of black powder into the barrel. Next he removed a ball from his ammo pouch. Wrapping a patch around the conical lead, he slid the ramrod from its housing, then tamped the ball down the barrel. As he finished, Heather started to softly weep. “Chin up,” he whispered. “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

  “Spare me the platitudes,” she said bitterly. “I am sick and tired of always being told to look at the bright side. People like you don’t seem to realize that sometimes there is no bright side.”

  “You sound as if you’ve lost faith.”

  “I never had much to begin with. Losing my father at an early age was a valuable lesson. It taught me that all the wishes in the world don’t amount to an ounce of dog droppings.” Heather bit her lower lip. “Then I met the man I married. He was so decent, so kind, so understanding. He treated me like a princess, he worked his fingers to the b
one to provide for our family. His death nearly destroyed me. I would have slit my wrists if not for Becky.” She choked off.

  “No need to go on.”

  “Isn’t there?” Heather snapped. “Or don’t you want to hear the brutal truth? Oh, sure, I met Jonathan Hamlin and fell in love all over again. But look at what happened to him! And now my darling daughter!” She placed a hand on Becky. “I swear to you, Davy Crockett, by all that’s holy. If she doesn’t pull through, I will refuse to live another day.”

  “That’s foolishness,” Davy said. “Life is too precious to be squandered.”

  “Tell that to my husband. Tell that to Jonathan Hamlin.” Heather’s voice began to rise. “Tell it to Becky!”

  Davy thrust a hand over her mouth. “Please,” he said. Heather swatted it aside. Livid, she clenched her fists and continued in a low growl. “Life isn’t a storybook, damn you. Our lives don’t always have happy endings. Bad things happen to good people all the time. And it’s not fair.”

  “I know,” Davy agreed, thinking of his grandparents and his first wife. “We just have to take each day as it comes. Hardships make us stronger, if we let them.”

  “More corny sayings,” Heather spat. “Words, words, words. What good do they do? Do they stop us from suffering? Will they spare Becky from being a cripple her whole life through? Words don’t deliver us from evil. They numb us to it.”

  Davy hesitated. It was hardly the right time or place to debate her outlook on life. Yet his intuition told him that she was close to the breaking point, that what she needed more than anything else was sincere encouragement. “Look, I don’t claim to have all the answers. I’m a backwoodsman, not a minister. You could count on two hands the number of times that I’ve set foot in a church.”

  Heather glumly stroked Becky’s hair.