Davy Crockett 7 Page 6

  Since the exterior was unfinished, Davy took it for granted the interior would be the same. But apparently, as soon as a room was completed, it was immediately fully furnished. A spacious living room, an ample dining hall, and numerous smaller chambers in the east wing of the sprawling house were lavishly adorned. Polished hardwood floors shone brightly. Draperies and tapestries were in abundance. In the living room was a bona fide marvel: a chandelier. In the corner was another: a grand piano.

  “Where did they get all this stuff?” Flavius exclaimed as Priscilla guided them on a brief tour.

  “Traders come from Mexico City every month, and from points east when they can make it past the freebooters,” Taylor said.

  As they entered the living room, Marcy came through a door on the opposite side. Gone was the dirt and dust of the trail, the tangled hair, the shabby dress she had worn when rescued from the Comanches. She waltzed in adorned in the best raiment money could buy, and she was so breathtaking that Davy and Flavius gaped like schoolboys.

  Heather Dugan hardly noticed. For right behind Marcy came her brother. Farley wore clothes similar to the Caballeros’. A wide black leather belt banded his slim waist, accentuating the width of his chest and shoulders. Even Davy had to admit he was as fine a figure of a man as any woman was ever likely to meet. Heather was mesmerized.

  Not saying a word, Farley crossed to her and tenderly took her hands in his. As if by magic, the others found something else to do.

  Davy ambled toward a double window that opened onto the main porch. A convenient bench in the shadows beckoned. Sinking down with a sigh, he stretched his legs and relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time since he had struck Texas.

  Suddenly two figures came through the opening. Farley had Heather by the hand and led her to one side, within spitting distance of the bench. Enrapt in each other, neither noticed Davy. He was all set to announce his presence when Farley turned and planted a passionate kiss on Heather’s mouth. “Oh,” she said when they broke for air.

  “I’ve been counting the seconds since we were separated,” Farley said. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

  “It’s only been a few hours.” Heather tried to make light of his feelings.

  Farley did not seem to hear. “Those weeks together out on the prairie. They were wonderful, weren’t they? Getting to know you, growing to feel as I do.”

  “Maybe we should go back in.”

  “No,” Farley said quickly, much too quickly, Davy thought. “I have something to say, and I better say it now while I have the courage.”

  Grinning, Heather said, “Don’t worry. I’ll sit by you at supper if you want.”

  Davy had never seen the tall Texican so deathly serious. It gave him an inkling of what to expect. Sure enough, the very next second Farley Tanner sank onto a knee and held Heather’s hand as if it were the most delicate flower in all creation.

  “Farley, what on earth—?”

  “Heather Dugan,” the Texican said, and had to lick his lips to continue. “I would like you to do me the honor of being my wife.”

  Five

  Before the shocked woman could answer, footsteps drummed on the portico. Up rushed a stocky caballero who briskly launched into an excited string of Spanish. Farley Tanner had snapped erect and spun. His cheeks darkened, but whether from embarrassment at being caught on his knees or in anger at the message the caballero brought was impossible for Davy Crockett to say.

  The caballero kept jabbing a thick finger to the northwest. Davy looked in that direction and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Over by the stable, though, a commotion had erupted. Grim-faced men in wide-brimmed hats and shiny spurs were hurriedly saddling mounts by lantern light.

  “What is it?” Heather asked when the stocky Mexican fell silent.

  “Freebooters,” Farley said. “On my rancho.”

  “Would they dare attack here?”

  “Never,” Farley stated with supreme confidence. “They know how many guns they would face. And say what we will about them, they aren’t fools.” He hitched at his belt. “We’ll finish our talk another time.”

  Heather snatched his sleeve. “Must you go? Can’t your men handle it?”

  Farley shrugged her hand off. “Please. What kind of hombre do you take me for? I would never ask my caballeros to do anything I am unwilling to do myself.” Pausing, he softened his tone. “Some of my outriders spotted a large band of strangers about an hour ago. A few shots were fired, but no one was hurt. I must go investigate. That’s all.”

  “What if the freebooters are still in the area?”

  “Doubtful,” Farley said. “I have more good hands working for me than any American in Texas. It’s likely they’ve ridden eastward to crawl back into their burrows. But I have to be sure.”

  Heather wanted to say more, but the tall Texican strode off. She started to follow, then stopped, put a hand to her throat, and moaned softly. She did not see Davy rise, and jumped out of her skin when his arm fell across her shoulders.

  “He’ll be just fine,” the Tennessean predicted. “He’s a human hurricane when he gets his dander up, as you well know.” During their scrape with the Comanches, Farley had proven his courage and ability time and again.

  Heather bleakly nodded. “Even so, all it takes is one measly bullet. One lucky shot and …” She didn’t finish.

  “Tell you what,” Davy said earnestly to take her mind off her worries. “Why don’t you escort me back inside? If’n we act real friendly, maybe we can set their tongues to wagging. As a lark,” he stressed.

  Despite herself, Heather Dugan grinned. “I do declare, Mr. Crockett. When you ladle on that southern drawl of yours as thick as you just did, I know we’re in the soup.”

  Her long dress swishing, Heather led the Irishman indoors.

  Priscilla was seated in a high-backed chair, chatting with Taylor. The mother’s eyes pinched when she noticed her son was missing. Under a huge painting of the gray-haired patriarch of the family, Flavius Harris listened to Marcy relate their grand plans for their land grant.

  Being around women always left Flavius tongue-tied. Beautiful ones, like Marcella Tanner, aggravated his condition. He never knew what to say. Consequently, he was sweating torrents and praying to high heaven supper would soon be served.

  “Another ten years,” Marcy predicted, “and the Tanner ranch will be the talk of Mexico. We’ll hold fine balls to rival those of Boston and Philadelphia. When anyone of importance passes through San Antonio, they will make it a point to savor the famous Tanner hospitality.”

  “That’s nice, ma’am.” Flavius did not see fit to tell her that balls and such were as foreign to him as talk of life on the moon. He’d never been to a dress ball in all his born days, and wouldn’t want to go to one, neither. When it came to dancing, he was plumb hopeless. The few times he’d tried, he’d either trod on Matilda’s toes or banged her shins or found some other clever way of making a complete fool of himself. He was so awful, in plain fact, that once, after he had tripped over Matilda’s feet and nearly spilled the two of them into a bowl of cider at a church social, she had turned and said in all seriousness that he was a ‘catastrophe waiting to happen.’ Marcy was staring. “You must be the same, Mr. Harris.”

  “How’s that again?” Flavius blurted, realizing he had not been paying attention.

  She nodded at the portrait of her father. “He had a wanderlust as deep as the ocean. It’s what brought him to Texas. Davy and you must share that urge to roam. Why else have you come so far from home?”

  Flavius could have told her the truth. He could have smiled and said, “My pard’s to blame, not me. He’s the one who always has to take a gander at what lies over the next rise.” But for some peculiar reason he puffed out his chest a mite and announced, “That’s us, all right. Gallivanting fiends.”

  Just then a servant in a crisp black suit arrived and announced dinner was ready. Flavius hesitated when Marcy held out her elbow, t
hen gingerly grasped it, much as he would a brittle egg, and awkwardly ushered her into the dining room.

  It was spectacular. A table twice the length of Flavius’s cabin was flanked by polished mahogany chairs. On a flawless white tablecloth sparkling silverware had been precisely arranged. Fine china fit for Tennessee’s governor had been set out, along with bowls and platters heaped with steaming food.

  The sight left Flavius speechless. There was venison, buffalo, and beef. There was ham, lamb, and grouse. Mountains of potatoes. Bowls of thick gravy. Stacks of freshly baked bread. Sweet cakes. And more. So much more that Flavius let go of Marcy and stumbled toward the table as if he were a dazed sleepwalker.

  “Is something wrong?” Marcy asked.

  “All this is for us?” Flavius squeaked.

  “Well, it is a special occasion,” she responded. “My brother wanted everything to be perfect.” Marcy glanced around. “Where is Farley, anyway?”

  Flavius didn’t know and didn’t care. Forgetting his manners, he sank into a chair without waiting for the ladies and fondled the rim of a serving dish laden with thick, juicy slabs of prime buffalo meat. “Oh Lord,” he breathed, inhaling the aroma. It was sweeter than the fragrance from a bouquet of flowers.

  Davy Crockett could not help but chuckle. Priscilla was regarding Flavius as if he were crazy, and some of the servants were openly dumbfounded. Flavius had eyes only for the food; at the moment he was as happy as a flea in a doghouse.

  Clearing her throat, Priscilla Tanner moved to the head of the table and bid everyone to take a chair. She asked about Farley’s absence, frowning when an elderly Mexican whispered in her ear.

  Becky finally showed up, watched over by a kindly maid in a frilly apron. “Look what they gave me!” she said, beaming at her mother and holding aloft a large doll similar to those Davy had seen in a shop window in San Antonio that afternoon.

  “It was Farley’s idea,” Marcy said.

  Heather bit her lower lip and gazed out the window. Beyond, a veil of darkness shrouded the benighted prairie.

  Davy could guess what she was thinking. “Let’s dig in before my friend does,” he suggested, “or there won’t be a lick of food left for us.” Everyone laughed except Heather, who was too distraught to do more than politely tweak her rosy lips.

  Flavius heard the offhand remark. Had anyone other than the Irishman dared to poke fun at his expense, he’d have taken exception. Ignoring it, he selected a slice of bread and layered it thick with butter, stroking the knife slowly and smoothly, fascinated at how the creamy texture changed with each stroke.

  Priscilla asked Taylor to give thanks. The lanky frontiersman bowed his head, clasped his hands, and intoned, “We thank the Almighty for the blessings we daily receive, and for the meal we will partake of. May we find favor in His eyes and be spared from the Evil One. Amen.”

  Davy cracked an eyelid. He’d never pegged the oldster for a religious sort, yet Taylor was as solemn as a minister at a baptism. “Amen,” he chorused when everyone else did, and set to filling his belly.

  The women chirped gaily about everything under the sun. Priscilla had been to London, Paris, and Athens, and regaled Heather and Becky with tales of her travels. Somehow the topic shifted to Greek heroes and the subject of Heracles came up. When the matriarch happened to remark that the famed strongman once slew a lion with his bare hands, Flavius looked up from the soup he was inhaling and snorted like a bull.

  “That’s nothing, ma’am. Davy, here, once killed eight bears in seven days. Ain’t a hunter anywhere who can boast the same.”

  Priscilla took the claim in stride. “A remarkable achievement, I’m sure. But Mr. Crockett relied on his gun. Not his bare hands.”

  “Begging to differ.” Flavius would not give an inch. “But to finish off one of those rascals, Davy had to use his butcher knife and tomahawk. At close quarters.”

  Becky lit up like a candle. “Did you really?” she asked the Irishman.

  Davy swallowed a bite of corn, nodding. They were in the mood for a story, and he aimed not to disappoint them. “It was in the wild Obion country,” he said, warming up. “I had a couple of pretty tolerable coon dogs and an old hound that could sing as pretty as you please.”

  “Dogs can’t sing,” Becky cut in.

  “This one could. Knew ‘Rock of Ages’ by heart. Anyway, they started a big gang of turkey gobblers and I brought two down. Then, on our way back to camp, I cut through some heavy cane. Along about then that old hound set to warbling. Soon the others joined in. When I caught up, I saw they were after the largest black bear ever seen in America, or I’ll eat my coonskin cap.”

  “Yuck. That would taste terrible.”

  “The bear was the size of a huge black bull,” Davy elaborated. “I just had to have him. So I hung the gobblers in a tree and lit a shuck after the dogs. They were afraid to tangle with the monster, he was so fierce.”

  “What happened?” Marcy probed.

  “Well, they cornered that bruin in a thicket and got into a pretty considerable snarl. The racket they raised was heard clear down in Florida, I’ve been told. I couldn’t get a clear shot for the life of me. Pretty soon that bear lit out and ran to a high oak tree. The sun had set, and it was hard for me to take a bead. So I snuck closer and saw him sitting in a fork and growling at my dogs.”

  “Did you shoot him?” Priscilla inquired.

  “Once. As best I could sight my gun, what with the night black as pitch. Heard him roar, and he came tumbling down on top of my dogs. That old hound yipped, hurt bad. So I did the only thing I could. I drew my butcher and my tomahawk and ran in close to help them.”

  Becky was agog. “Mercy. Weren’t you scared?”

  “I would have been if I had the brains of a turnip,” Davy said. “But all I could think of was saving my dogs. The bear had backed into a gully, so they couldn’t get at him all at once. The old hound was tom open, and one of the others was limping.” He recollected the event as if it were happening then and there. “I ran up within four or five steps of that bear when he reared and tried to wrap those arms of his around me. I knew if he got ahold of me he’d hug me altogether too close, so I hacked at him with my tomahawk and stabbed with my knife.”

  No one interrupted.

  “It was a tolerable confusion, I don’t mind telling you. There I was, thrusting and slashing. And there were the dogs, biting and barking. As for the bear, he was in a full-tilt rage, and sorely craved to do one of us in. He hurt all three dogs and they drew back. That left just me and him, alone in the black gully, with nary a moon or hardly any starlight to show me where his heart was.”

  Becky had her mouth half open, a forkful of ham forgotten. “I knew it was root hog or die,” Davy related, “so I stepped in close enough to have his breath fan my face. Then I buried my butcher in his chest where I thought his heart ought to be.” Leaning back, he stopped for dramatic effect. “That hairy feller straightened up, put his paws to his chest, snarled, ‘You got me, dam you!’ and keeled over.”

  For a bit the room was quiet, then Becky pealed with mirth and the women exchanged amused looks.

  “I wish I may be shot if that critter didn’t weigh in at over six hundred pounds,” Davy said. “Took three grown men and four packhorses to tote the meat and the hide to my cabin. Gave us enough to last through the winter and on into the next spring.”

  “You love to hunt, I gather?” Priscilla asked.

  Davy nodded. “Whatever else I may do in my life, I’ll always be a hunter first and foremost. It’s in my blood, as folks have it. I’ve been filling the supper pot since I was old enough to hold a flintlock. Imagine I’ll go on using a rifle to my dying day.”

  “My husband was a hunter also,” Priscilla said. “Walter liked nothing better than to go off into the wilds, just him and his gun.”

  Davy had leaned Liz against the table. Patting her, he said fondly, “Our forefathers had the good sense to include the right to bear arms in the Const
itution. I reckon the day we give that right up is the day our country will no longer be called free.”

  Priscilla agreed, adding, “Your passion surprises me. Perhaps you should change your calling. With your flair for storytelling, you’d do well in politics.”

  Flavius perked up. “I’ve been saying the same thing for years, Mrs. Tanner. Maybe he’ll listen to you, since all he does when I bring it up is roll his eyes.”

  “I’d sooner be a freebooter than a politician,” Davy quipped.

  “I agree they have a lot in common,” Priscilla said playfully, “but unlike freebooters, some politicians are honest, decent people. Like you, Mr. Crockett. And the good Lord knows we could use more true leaders in Congress.” She made a tepee of her fingers. “If my Walter and I hadn’t moved to Texas, he’d have run for office one day.”

  Davy did not see the link. “What stopped him from running here?”

  “Haven’t you heard? All top posts in the government are filled by royal officials sent from Spain. Even native-born Mexicans are denied the right to hold office. It’s been the same for over three hundred years.” Priscilla glanced at the servants. “Quite frankly, Mexico is a powder keg waiting to explode. I have many good Mexican friends, high clergy, rancheros, businessmen, officers in the military, you name it, and each and every one of them hates the current state of affairs. All it would take to set them off is the right spark”

  “The taxes will be that spark,” Marcy said.

  Davy looked at her.

  “Spain recently raised our taxes so high that—”

  A single shot cracked in the night, so loud and distinct they all heard it. Taylor rose and went to a high window that ran half the length of the room. “Mighty odd,” he said. “Who’d be shooting this late?”