Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Read online

  The sun rose ever higher. Thanks to the dense walls of vegetation, cool shade cloaked the trail. It was more like a tunnel, Davy mused. The ground had been well worn. Countless feet had passed along it over many years. Davy could not establish its age, but it had to be quite old.

  Along about the middle of the morning, Davy rested briefly. He did so more for the old-timer’s sake than his own. Doffing his coonskin cap, he wiped his forehead and listened to the merry chirps of playful sparrows.

  Hoodoo Tom had removed his pack and was idly caressing it. “If it is the Old Ones we’re up against, we’d best be careful,” he said quietly. “Word has it that anyone who runs into ’em is never seen again.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The trapper tittered. “Don’t be sassin’ me, young coon. It ain’t polite to mock your elders.”

  Davy was going to point out that it didn’t matter which tribe had taken Flavius captive so long as they got him back safe and sound, when faint voices fell on his ears. Putting a finger to his lips, he rose.

  The voices were growing closer.

  A gap between trees afforded Davy a means of taking cover. Squeezing between them, he had to make room for the mountain man, who crouched at his side. Hardly were they settled before a pair of warriors walked into view to the east. And what warriors they were!

  Raven hair ringed by decorated headbands fell past wide shoulders rippling with muscle. Broad chests were naked except for necklaces of finely wrought green stones, possibly gems. Loincloths that fell halfway to their knees and knee-high moccasins completed their apparel. Each held a war club bearing wicked spikes near the top.

  The men were as unique as their garb. High brows, aquiline noses, and square jaws lent them superbly handsome aspects. Their thighs were as thick as tree stumps, their hands brawny, their builds hinting at immense latent strength.

  Most macabre of all were their headdresses, which consisted of a pair of antlers attached to a kind of cap strapped tightly to their chins.

  “Old Ones!” Hoodoo Tom whispered in Davy’s ear.

  Davy had to admit that he had never seen Indians like these. Actually, he had never even heard of any like them. They moved with supple grace, conversing softly, soon disappearing around the next bend to the west. Davy did not speak until a safe interval had gone by. “Sorry I doubted you, old-timer.”

  “Did you see those war clubs?” Hoodoo Tom said. “We call ’em eyedaggs, ’cause those spikes can gouge out an eyeball as pretty as you please.”

  “Their village must be nearby,” Davy speculated. Since one man could move more stealthily than two, he suggested, “Maybe you should wait here for me.”

  “And miss out on all the fun? Not on your life, hoss. Lead on.” Hoodoo Tom looked after the departed warriors. “Did you see the heads on them fellers? Wouldn’t you like to have a head like that?”

  “I’m happy with the one I’ve got,” Davy said, sliding onto the trail. His soles made no sound on the packed earth. Even so, he stopped at each bend to make sure no one was approaching from the other side.

  Half an hour of rapid travel did not turn up any village. Just when Davy figured that he had misjudged, in the distance laughter tinkled.

  “We’ve done it!” Hoodoo Tom whispered. “We’ve done what no other white man ever has! We’ve found the Old Ones!”

  Davy advanced slowly, Liz leveled. They climbed a hill. Suddenly the forest ended, and before his wondering gaze unfolded a spectacle from the dawn of time. Amazed, he admired high grass-covered earthworks in a verdant valley, and noted figures moving about.

  Hoodoo Tom was agog. “Lookee there! This explains all the peculiar mounds found in these parts, and elsewhere! The Old Ones are the builders! Just like that ’breed claimed.”

  Davy regained his wits and motioned to seek cover behind some bushes. In vain, he hunted for sign of Flavius among the villagers.

  The mountaineer shrugged out of his pack. “Ain’t very many of them, are there? That should make it easier for us.”

  Davy’s eyes narrowed. Given the size of the mounds, he’d expect the valley to be crawling with inhabitants. Yet he counted less than three dozen, and not a single child anywhere. Why should that be?

  In a field adjacent to a rectangular mound, a handful of women cultivated crops. Some men were doing work on the top of a cone. And six or seven warriors were gathered beside a birdlike earthwork.

  “Where do they live?” Davy wondered. “I don’t see any lodges? Do you?”

  “Maybe in there,” Hoodoo Tom said, pointing.

  A woman had just emerged from an opening at the base of the rectangle. Carrying a clay vase or pot, she walked toward the stream bordering the village to the east.

  Davy saw that the opening through which the woman came had vanished. Grass grew in its place. Watching closely, he learned the secret when a man walked up to the mound, parted a green hide or blanket, and went inside.

  The rectangular mound was a giant lodge! The doorways were cleverly arranged so that from a distance they appeared to be part of the mound itself. What better defense than to hide right under the noses of their enemies?

  Of course, the strategy would only work if the villagers had ample warning. So there must be lookouts. Davy surveyed the valley from end to end but did not spot any. And that bothered him.

  “So what’s your plan, hoss?” Hoodoo Tom asked.

  “We wait until dark. Then I sneak on down there.”

  The trapper pursed his lips. “There you go again, thinkin’ I ain’t fit company. But I’m taggin’ along anyhow. You’ll need someone to cover your backside.”

  Davy made himself comfortable. They had a long wait ahead, and he wished he had brought pemmican. Sticking a blade of grass in his mouth, he chewed thoughtfully.

  “I ain’t complainin’, mind you,” Hoodoo Tom commented, “but this delay will likely spell trouble for us later on. Those Rees we walloped are liable to be ahead of us by the time we start on down the Mississippi again.”

  “It could work in our favor,” Davy said.

  “Maybe so. Maybe we’ll spot ’em before they spot us. Or maybe they’ll get tired of lookin’ and head on up the Missouri when they get to where it flows into the Mississippi, down south a ways.”

  Davy doubted it. The Arikaras were not likely to give up, not after chasing the trapper overland hundreds of miles, clear to the northern reaches of the Mississippi. What motivated them? What had Hoodoo Tom done to earn their tireless pursuit? Fishing for information, he said casually, “Those Rees sure must hate you.”

  Hoodoo Tom laughed. “I reckon they do, at that. But they’re not alone. The Blackfeet and the Crows ain’t none too fond of me, neither.”

  “What did you do to get them so riled?” Davy inquired. Whatever answer he would have received was cut short by the abrupt appearance of two warriors on the trail. As silent as specters, the Old Ones had given no hint of their arrival.

  Davy crouched, worried that the pair had overheard them, even though they had spoken in whispers. The two men were the same ones who had gone by earlier, only now they carried a slain doe, lashed to a long pole.

  The Old Ones intently scanned the brush. They were suspicious, all right.

  Davy reached for his tomahawk. If the pair ventured closer, he had to render them unconscious, or worse, without allowing them to cry out. A shout would bring the whole village on the run. It would also doom poor Flavius.

  Hoodoo Tom drew a flintlock and curved his thumb around the hammer. “I can pick those buzzards off before they take a step,” he boasted.

  “No!” Davy whispered.

  The foremost warrior tilted his head, as if he had heard. The man listened for a bit, then gave a shrug and addressed the other. They tramped down the slope, the doe swaying from side to side.

  “You should’ve let me kill the varmints,” Hoodoo Tom complained.

  “And what about my friend?” Davy said.

  “Oh. Him. I pl
umb forgot.” Smirking, the trapper said, “I wouldn’t want your partner to be harmed on my account.”

  The warriors bearing the deer were greeted by four others and a tall woman. In short order the doe had been butchered and was being roasted over an open fire. The entire tribe gathered, women bringing vegetables and other dishes.

  “It’s a celebration of some sort,” Hoodoo Tom guessed.

  Until sunset the Old Ones ate and drank and lounged and laughed. Davy counted thirty-one, six of them with white hair. But not a single child was present.

  Torches were lit. A procession of six robed figures climbed recessed steps to the top of the birdlike mound and started a fire in the center. Forming a circle, they linked hands and commenced to chant.

  Hoodoo Tom pried the bushes apart for a better look. “Must be callin’ on the Great Mystery,” he observed. “Pretty soon drums will start up, I bet. I ain’t seen an Injun ceremony yet that didn’t include ’em.”

  The mountain man was right. Shortly, the vibrant pulse of drumbeats rumbled across the valley. Not very loud initially, they rose in volume as the rest of the tribe assembled on the mound. Masked figures began to prance and dance in time to the tempo.

  Hoodoo Tom was all teeth. “We’re lookin’ on something no other white men have ever witnessed.”

  Ordinarily, Davy would have shared the oldster’s excitement. But he had Flavius to think of, and as yet, there had been no sign of him.

  During the afternoon Davy had memorized the lay of the land between the hill and the mounds, and the positions of the three mounds in relation to one another. Every tree, every shrub, every gully was equally important.

  Stars speckled the heavens. The chanting rose to rival the drums as other Old Ones joined in.

  Davy fidgeted with impatience but did not move yet. If the Creeks were any example, the ceremony would last until late. There was plenty of time.

  Hoodoo Tom had acquired a wooden sliver and was picking at his yellow teeth. “This reminds me of the time I was spyin’ on some Arapahos,” he mentioned. “They’d traded for liquor, and by mornin’ they were so fuddled, not one could stand.”

  “Why were you spying on them?” Davy asked, his gaze on the bird mound.

  “One of the bastards had something I hankered after,” Hoodoo Tom said, and patted his pack.

  The crisp night air throbbed to the raw rhythm of the drums, the chorus swelling and tapering much like ocean surf. Most of the Old Ones were stomping their feet and parading clockwise around the fire. One, an ornately garbed figure wearing an immense headdress in the likeness of a bird of prey, was leaping and bounding in mad abandon that grew wilder and wilder.

  “That feller must be actin’ the part of a piasa,” Hoodoo Tom said. “Saw some Cheyennes doing the same thing years ago. One of their warriors was dressed up as a white buffalo, complete with horns and a tail.”

  Davy stood. With all the Old Ones involved in the ceremony, he could check the lodge mound for Flavius. “I’m going,” he announced.

  “Wait for me,” Hoodoo Tom said. To Davy’s surprise, he left the pack where it was.

  “You’re not bringing it?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t want my treasures to fall into the hands of those heathens. George would never forgive me.”

  Rather than follow the trail, Davy angled to an oak partway down. Scattered trees and brush provided sufficient cover for him to reach the bottom undetected. He made no more noise than would a field mouse. Nor, to the man’s credit, did Hoodoo Tom.

  Flickering, writhing shapes were cast on the valley floor by the roaring fire atop the bird mound. The rectangular mound was on its left, and Davy swung wide to approach from the opposite side. He never took his eyes off the ceremony for long, for he never knew when one of the Old Ones might turn to stare across the valley.

  As it was, Davy should have paid more attention to the shadowy base of the great lodge. For as he came within a stone’s throw, a bulky silhouette detached itself from the mound.

  Davy froze so unexpectedly that Hoodoo Tom bumped into him. They were in the open, the nearest cover twenty yards to their left. Exposed and vulnerable, they watched, aghast, as an antlered warrior moved toward them.

  “We’re goners!” the trapper whispered.

  As if to accent the point, on top of the bird mound someone yelled shrilly and pointed in their direction.

  Chapter Six

  Flavius Harris was stupefied by the men with antlers until he realized the antlers were part of a headdress. A long exchange took place between the trio and those who had brought him to the village. Other Indians joined in. Soon he was surrounded by dozens.

  Flavius stood quietly, smiling meekly at one and all to demonstrate his peaceable intentions. None returned his smile. But it was encouraging that they did not abuse him with taunts and blows. They acted more curious than anything else.

  The hubbub died when a white-haired man arrived. He was dressed in a flowing robe adorned with the biggest feathers Flavius had ever beheld. Judging by the reception, Flavius figured that the newcomer must be a tribal leader.

  The chief listened to the stately woman and another warrior, then stepped up to Flavius. Intense, smoldering eyes raked him from head to toe. Gnarled fingers plucked at his hunting shirt, at his possibles bag, at his belt. Comments were made.

  It was impossible for Flavius to determine whether the leader was kindly disposed, or otherwise. Smiling wider than ever, he tried to catch the man’s eye, but the chief went on with the examination.

  A warrior produced Flavius’s weapons. His knife was openly admired. His pistols and rifle were treated with cold disdain, tinged with a smidgen of fear.

  At a word from the leader, two antlered warriors clasped Flavius by the arms and ushered him to the rectangular mound. He thought they were going to take him to the top, but to his astonishment, they walked to the base and parted a cleverly disguised hanging.

  It was a hide with the hair still on, dyed green to resemble grass. So expert was the dye job that even close up, Flavius mistook it for solid ground.

  A warrior pushed him. Flavius nearly stumbled going through the doorway. A dank, earthy scent assailed his nostrils, mixed with an odor reminiscent of pine needles.

  Sunlight streaming in revealed a small chamber with no other exit or opening of any kind. The flap was closed, plunging Flavius into inky gloom. Moving to the hide, he parted it just enough to see out.

  The husky warriors had taken up posts, arms folded. Immobile as statues, they stared into the distance. Escaping was out of the question.

  Flavius slumped to his knees. A fine pickle he was in! Somehow, he must convince these Indians that he meant no harm, and persuade them to let him go.

  The morning dragged, weighted by millstones of tearing anxiety. The tribe went on about their daily activities. Women worked in a nearby field tilling the soil, or tanned hides, or sewed, or sat and talked. Warriors crafted weapons or sharpened knives or took part in an activity that prickled Flavius’s scalp.

  It started when the women filled a basket with overripe melons. A somber man carried it to an open space between the mounds. Twenty feet away, nine warriors lined up, their war clubs in hand.

  The man snatched a melon, held it a moment, then yipped and threw it in a high arc. It was a signal for the first warrior to barrel forward, cocking his arm. As the melon swept lower, the warrior swung. His timing was impeccable. The club connected solidly, smashing the melon to bits.

  And so it went. Each warrior had a turn, then moved to the end of the line to try again. Sometimes the melons were pulped. Sometimes they were impaled by the nasty spikes that protruded from the bent clubs. Not one warrior missed.

  Flavius imagined what one of those clubs would do to his noggin, and gulped. Unarmed, he wouldn’t last two seconds out there.

  The practice session had been over about an hour when a familiar figure approached bearing a bowl and a jug or pitcher. It was the stately woman who had bee
n with the party that captured him.

  Seeking to earn her goodwill, Flavius held the hide aside and beamed. She hesitated, a glance at the guards giving her the confidence to pass through.

  Flavius extended his hand. “Howdy, ma’am. Flavius Harris is my handle. Do you savvy English, by any miracle?”

  The woman put the bowl and jug down in the center of the chamber. Her blank expression was an eloquent answer. Moving to the hide, she bunched it, looped an attached cord, then tied the cord to a peg in the wall, a peg Flavius had not known was there. She gestured for him to sit.

  Vegetables and jerked deer meat filled the bowl. Flavius stuffed a tomato into his mouth and ate with relish. Lifting the jug, he sniffed. A taste of the cool water relieved his dry throat and mouth. “I’m grateful, ma’am,” he said.

  The woman stood near the doorway, quizzing him in her singsong tongue.

  Frowning, Flavius shook his head. “I wish to high heaven I knew what you were saying,” he said in earnest. Remembering Davy’s encounter with the Sioux, he tried the finger language Davy had been taught.

  Holding his right hand in front of his neck with the palm out and his index and second fingers pointed upward, Flavius raised his hand until his fingertips were as high as his head. It was the sign for “friend.” Davy had made a point of teaching it to him, just in case.

  The woman’s eyebrows puckered and she tossed her head to show she did not understand.

  Flavius did not give up. He clasped his hands in front of his body, the left hand down. This was sign talk for “peace.” But again the woman indicated that she was at a loss. “Damn,” he said aloud. “How am I ever going to convince you that I’m no threat to your people?”

  The woman tapped a finger on her bosom and said the word “Illini.”

  “Is that your name?” Flavius said. Touching his chest, he repeated his first name several times.

  Shifting, the woman pointed at one of the guards and said again, “Illini.” Then at the other. “Illini.”