Davey Crockett 6 Read online

  “I lost my first wife, so I know what you’ve been through. Losing a loved one has to be the worst experience ever. It tears us up inside, twists our innards until we want to scream. We think about giving up, about throwing ourselves off a cliff, or stepping in front of a speeding wagon.”

  Her interest was piqued. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I owed it to my children, and to myself. Life is precious. My ma used to teach us that we should always make the best of it. ‘Don’t squander your gift,’ she’d say when we were sulking about one thing or another.” Davy paused. “It’s like being thrown from a horse. Some folks never ride again. But those who want to make the most of what life has to offer get right back up and climb in the saddle.”

  It was a while before Heather replied. Out of the blue, she commented, “Both your wives were lucky women.”

  “How’s that?” Davy thought they had been talking about Heather’s relationships, not his own.

  “Men like you are rare, Mr. Crockett. You have courage, wit, compassion, qualities every woman wants in her man but doesn’t always find. My first husband was wonderful, but he lacked backbone. He wouldn’t stand up to my stepfather until it was too late. As for Jonathan, he loved me dearly, and I him, but as you saw for yourself, he wasn’t the most competent person who ever lived.”

  Davy did not see what any of this had to do with what they had discussed.

  “Most women would never admit as much, but we draw strength from our men, just as men draw strength from us, I suspect. Think of us as plants that need water to thrive. We get that water, get our strength, from our loved ones. And when one of us loses the other, we wither, like a flower dying on a vine.” She sighed. “Does anything I’ve just said make sense?”

  “I think I understand,” Davy said.

  Heather gazed at the myriad of stars. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t have all the answers. I’ve always believed the Good Lord put us here for a purpose, but for the life of me, I have no idea what that purpose is. I thought I did, once. But the older I get, the more confused I become.”

  Davy squeezed her hand, and she responded by quickly bending and kissing the back of his. “What was that for?”

  “For being here when I needed someone. For being a friend.” Heather rested her head against the gulch wall and shut her eyes. “I’m so tired. Please forgive me.”

  “Get some rest,” Davy told her. Rising, he scoured the plain for hostiles. And Flavius. In the confusion earlier, he had not seen where his friend got to. Since he had not heard any shots or screams, he reasoned that Flavius had eluded the warriors and was lying low somewhere. He regretted being separated again, but it could not be helped.

  What he regretted even more was Heather being forced to kill that sentry. The war party would not leave the area until they avenged the loss. Come sunrise, the warriors would fan out, hunting.

  But his immediate concern was Becky. Unless something was done, the girl might die. He seemed to recollect seeing a water skin in the Indian camp. It was a shame he had not thought to grab it at the outset.

  Davy glanced at the mother and child. They slumbered soundly, the one so sick that she would not notice if a gun went off next to her ear, the other so exhausted that she slept the sleep of the dead. The starlight accented their pale skin, rendering them angelic in repose.

  They needed a horse. Specifically, the sorrel. Without it, the likelihood of eluding the war party was mighty slim. Doubling over, Davy tenderly touched Becky’s chin, then Heather’s head. They should be safe enough while he was away, but he leaned Liz within easy reach of Heather, just in case.

  Rotating, Davy stealthily scaled the gulch, crept into the grass, and bore to the east. The darkness did not dampen his homing instincts. He knew exactly where the sorrel was, and he estimated that it would take no more than twenty minutes to get there and back.

  Wolves howled in the distance. A pack was on the prowl, but wolves rarely posed a threat to humans. When rabid, yes, and sometimes when they had not eaten for quite a while. Otherwise, they gave everything on two legs a wide berth.

  Davy slowed when he heard rustling to his left. Leveling a pistol, he trained it on a patch of grass. The stems were waving from side to side, as they would if a warrior were crawling through them. A head appeared, with two of the longest ears on any creature this side of the Hereafter. A jackrabbit was foraging for succulent sweet shoots. It took a number of short hops, then nibbled a bit, its nose twitching. Davy did not budge. He took it for granted that the thing would catch wind of him and skedaddle, but it came steadily closer.

  Davy thought of Becky. Switching the pistol to his left hand, he inched his right to the tomahawk. The jackrabbit did not notice. Blithely, it hopped nearer.

  Like a predator about to pounce, Davy did not take his eyes off its short furry neck. A patch of grass at arm’s length lured the unsuspecting creature over. He saw its stubby front paws, saw its large front teeth gnaw at the grass. And in a blur of motion, Davy arced the tomahawk up and around. The keen edge sheared into yielding flesh behind those big ears.

  Leaving the head, Davy held the creature by the hind end and hastened on. When he came to where the sorrel had been hobbled, he slowly stood. He took it for granted that the animal had drifted, but it could not go far.

  So where was it?

  Davy turned from side to side. He was loath to accept that the horse was gone, yet he could not deny the obvious. The logical notion was that the war party had found it. Once again Providence had dashed a fleeting hope. Now he was stuck afoot with the two females to protect, an unappealing proposition if ever there was one.

  The Irishman faced the west. He knew where other horses were, horses that were heavily guarded, horses no one in his right mind would contemplate going after, but horses for the taking if someone was clever enough. When a man found himself between a rock and a hard place, he had to choose the lesser of two evils.

  Loosening his belt, he shoved the rabbit partially under it, then drew the buckle snug. He would need both hands free.

  The wind picked up again, as it did every night, but this time Davy did not mind. Any movement of the grass would be blamed on it. Pulling his coonskin cap lower, he headed for the Indian camp. The horses had been tethered on the north side, but by now they were probably in the middle, surrounded by the warriors. Slipping in and snatching one would be difficult.

  Every ten strides he stopped to reconnoiter. Seven or eight horses, no matter how well restrained, inevitably made noise. A nicker, the stomp of a hoof, the swish of a tail, something was bound to give their presence away.

  Davy guessed that he was within forty feet of where the camp had been when he smelled a lingering whiff of smoke. For the longest while he lay rock-still, listening. Frowning, he finally rose and walked to where smoldering embers sparked red. So much for getting his hands on a horse. The Indians had gone. Pivoting, he surveyed the darkling expanse.

  Where to?

  A possibility dawned on him, a horrible possibility that set him racing southward as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels. In his mind echoed the names of those who might pay for his stupidity with their lives.

  Heather and Becky!

  ~*~

  Flavius Harris dreamed again.

  Matilda had just plowed the south forty and was fixing supper. At his bidding, she came out onto the porch to massage his sore shoulders. He had spent the whole day in his rocking chair, and was stiff from lack of exercise.

  Life was grand. Matilda had been waiting on him hand and foot since he returned. Why, she even scrubbed his back when he risked his health by taking a bath.

  “I’ve missed you so much, my dearest beloved.”

  Flavius grinned, then saw her cat approaching. Times past, she’d doted on that calico critter as if it were a long-lost child. She even preferred it to him in bed. Claimed that it kept her warmer. Now his grin widened and he drew back his left foot. “I’ve been meaning to do this for yea
rs.”

  “Do what, handsome?”

  “Take a gander.” Flavius shoved the feline clear off the porch. It landed on all fours, as cats are wont to do, arched its spine, and hissed at him like a den full of riled snakes. “I should shoot that ornery cuss,” he observed, “and hang its mangy hide over the fireplace.”

  “Whatever you want, my darling, wonderful man.”

  Flavius bent forward a few more inches. “You’re missing a spot. To the left and down a bit.” She dutifully traced a nail to the spot and kneaded his skin. “Ahhhh. That’s it. If’n I’d known you were so good at this, I’d have had you do it long ago.”

  Matilda just tittered gaily.

  Flavius laughed when she pinched him. He did not laugh when she pinched him again, twice as hard. Nor did he find it humorous when she grabbed him by the hair and tugged. “What the hell?”

  Belatedly, Flavius realized that the pain he was feeling was not part of his dream. It had drawn him out of his fantasy, into the world of the living. Once more someone pinched him, so hard that he flinched. And the pressure on his hair grew greater.

  “Damn it all!”

  Befuddled, drowsy, Flavius opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  He was surrounded by painted warriors.

  Six

  Yet another brisk morning dawned. The squawk of a bird roused Davy Crockett. Sitting up, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then squinted at the rising sun. His stomach let him know that it did not appreciate going without food for nearly two days; it rumbled like thunder. Pressing his hands against the back of his head, he stretched, then glanced at the sleeping forms of Heather and Rebecca Dugan.

  Davy had been thrilled to find they were safe and sound. Rather than wake them, he had hunkered and rested Liz across his thighs. Someone had to stay up all night keeping watch. But the best of intentions often run aground on the harsh rocks of reality. His weary body had refused to cooperate, and in the still hours before first light he had fallen asleep.

  Now Davy scratched the stubble on his chin, adjusted his coonskin cap, and stood. Other than a flock of birds winging overhead and a coyote skulking to the northeast, the plain was devoid of life. Of the war party, of the horses, of Flavius, there was no trace.

  A moan signaled that Heather was awake. She smacked her lips, scrunched her mouth, and patted her disheveled hair. “I feel like death warmed over,” she mumbled.

  “Shucks. You’re as pretty as ever,” Davy said. Being married twice had taught him that women had a knack for looking lovely in the morning, whereas men looked as if they had just taken a tumble from a high cliff and landed in a hog wallow.

  “Flatterer,” Heather said, grinning. The grin evaporated when Becky groaned and shifted and opened her eyes. “Mother? Why is my head so fuzzy?”

  Heather clasped her shoulders. “You’ve been sick. But praise the Lord! You’ve come out of it! At last!” She checked Becky’s forehead and announced, “The fever hasn’t broken yet, but you’re not as hot as you were yesterday.”

  “A good sign,” Davy admitted. Kneeling, he confirmed it. The worst of the sickness was over, though not the threat to the girl’s life. To fully recover she required plenty of food, water, and rest. He could supply something to eat, but water and rest depended on circumstances over which he had no control. “How about breakfast?”

  “You found something?” Heather asked.

  Davy indicated the makeshift spit he had set up before dozing off. The rabbit had been neatly skinned and chopped into sizable chunks arranged on long, fragile branches pruned from the brush that lined the gulch. Soon he had flames crackling. He crouched on one side of the fire, Heather on the other, both of them staring at the juicy morsels like famished wolves.

  “I won’t even ask what it is,” Heather commented.

  Davy refrained from telling her. It might upset Becky, who was eyeing the meat as if it were manna from heaven.

  “I’m thirsty,” the girl said. “Is there anything to drink?”

  “That’s next,” Davy promised—although how he would make good on his pledge had him stumped. Their only recourse was to plod across the prairie until they stumbled on a waterway, and the child was in no condition for a long trek.

  Heather was too impatient to wait. She snatched a small piece of meat off the end of the spit, rolled it in her palm, and blew on it. Like a starving bobcat she tore into the chunk with her front teeth. Tiny rivulets of blood trickled down her chin, but she did not mind. Manners were forgotten; society’s rules were thrown out the window when a person was brought to the brink of extinction.

  Peeling off a strip, Heather blew on it some more, then offered it to Becky. The girl weakly raised a hand to take it but could not hold her arm steady. So her mother fed her, one small piece at a time.

  Davy tempered his own hunger until the meat was nice and brown. Helping himself to some, he ate slowly. To gulp it down would only make him sick. He handed a piece to Heather, who nibbled while feeding Becky. Without being obvious, he ate much less than they did.

  Becky was smiling and had sat up under her own power before she was done. “That was the tastiest meal I’ve ever had, Mr. Crockett.”

  “As famished as we were, you’d say the same about fried worms.”

  Becky actually laughed. “No, I would not. No one eats worms.”

  The meal had done wonders to restore their spirits. Davy was averse to changing the subject, but precious daylight was being squandered. “I have a few things to say,” he declared. “We’re in a fix. Afoot, without provisions, hostile Indians to deal with, one of us feeling poorly, it’s enough to give a body gray hairs.” He playfully tweaked Becky’s chin to give the impression that he was far less worried than he was. “But our plight isn’t hopeless. There’s a way out.”

  They hung on his every word.

  “We need a horse. Ours have run off, and the only others to be had are the ones that belong to those warriors we tangled with.”

  “You’re not suggesting that we steal theirs?” Heather asked, aghast.

  “Not the war party’s, no,” Davy clarified. “They’ll be on the lookout for us. What I propose is that we follow them, dog their tracks clear back to their village, and take what we need from the tribe’s herd.” He went on quickly to stifle her protest. “Usually it’s the boys who keep watch, which will make it easier. Besides, they won’t figure on us having the gall to pull such a stunt.”

  Davy did not mention that it would be a miracle if they reached the village alive. His object was to inspire hope, not crush it.

  “But Becky can’t walk—” Heather said.

  “We’ll take turns carrying her until she’s strong enough to do it on her own.” Davy tweaked the girl again. “It won’t be a problem. A feather weighs more than she does.”

  They bought it, or at least Becky did. Heather had doubts she did not voice, but her expression reflected them. Davy took first turn toting Becky, who fell asleep with her cheek on his chest. They returned to the site of the war party’s camp. From there, the hoof prints led to the southeast. Within a quarter of a mile he found where several of the warriors had dismounted and gone on ahead on foot. The tracks showed why.

  “They have Flavius.”

  Now the trail bore to the southwest. The sorrel’s prints stood out, since it was the only shod horse in the bunch. Davy walked briskly, invigorated by the meal and spurred by fear for his friend. The warriors had spared Heather and Becky, but they might not be so charitable toward Flavius.

  He had been wrong about how light the child was. By midday his shoulders ached and his legs were sore, but he declined to give Becky to Heather when Heather asked, saying, “I’m not halfway winded yet. I’ll let you know when it’s your turn.”

  Most wild animals gave them a wide berth. Coyotes were common, as were deer that stayed well out of rifle range. At one point they came on a colony of prairie dogs. At a shrill whistle from a sentry, the creatures scampered in
to their dens. Later, Davy saw a large animal to the south, so large it had to be either a buffalo or a grizzly. Thankfully, whatever it was did not catch wind of them.

  Shortly thereafter, Heather insisted on carrying Becky. Davy stayed on the alert for something to shoot, but other than a curious hawk and several quail that were gone before he could bring Liz to bear, Nature did not oblige him.

  “How far ahead do you think they are?” Heather inquired as the sun dipped and their shadows lengthened.

  “Five or six hours,” Davy admitted. By sundown tomorrow it would be twice as much. But so long as a storm did not wash away the tracks, time was not a factor.

  Being so far behind was an advantage in one respect. Davy had no qualms about shooting an opossum that had no business being abroad before nightfall.

  Heather regarded it with displeasure. “I’ve never eaten one of those things,” she mentioned as he peeled the skin off with his tomahawk.

  “Folks back home do all the time,” Davy said. Backwoodsmen learned early on not to be too fussy about what they ate, not if they wanted to eat. He had fond recollections of the opossum dish his mother made. A favorite dish was fried strips garnished with onions and greens. “Do like my ma told me once. Hold your nose and close your eyes, and your stomach will be in for a big surprise.”

  Mother and daughter beamed. Despite being tired and grimy, despite the daunting challenge ahead, for the first time in days they were relaxed and relatively content. It pleased Davy no end. He finished butchering the opossum, his thoughts drifting to a much more serious matter.

  “Why do you look so grim?” Heather asked.

  “Flavius,” Davy said simply.

  “Don’t worry. They haven’t harmed him yet, have they? Maybe that means they intend to take him back to their village. He’ll be safe until then.”

  Would he? Davy wondered. Or did the warriors have other plans?

  ~*~

  At that exact moment, Flavius Harris was asking himself the same question. After a miserable day spent belly-down on the sorrel, his arms and legs bound, he had been dumped on the ground so hard that it set his head to ringing. The Indians had ignored him while they made camp. But seconds before one of the younger men had ambled over, sneered, and drawn a long knife from a beaded sheath.