Davy Crockett 7 Read online

  Priscilla gestured to the elderly Mexican, who hastened off to do her bidding. “I’m sure there is a logical explanation. Let’s finish our meal in peace and retire to the library.”

  Tanner turned. Davy, gazing past the Texican, saw something materialize in the gloom, a vague, grotesque shape that loomed larger by the moment, acquiring the silhouette of a horse and rider, but a horse and rider unlike any Davy ever beheld. For both man and beast were immense, the horse an enormous black stallion whose nostrils and eyes were flared wide, the man a hulking brute from whose broad shoulders flapped a long, coarse cloak.

  All of this Davy noted in an instant. They were charging straight at the window, but he expected them to stop short. No sane rider would do otherwise. Grasping Liz, he tried to shout a warning, a shout that died in his throat, smothered by the shock of suddenly seeing the rider’s head burst into bright flames.

  Demonic laughter rang out. Everyone swiveled toward the source. And the next second the horse smashed into the window at a full gallop, shattering the glass into thousands of tiny shards. Someone screamed. Becky wailed. A servant shrieked in mortal terror.

  Davy threw both arms in front of his face to protect himself from flying glass. He glimpsed the giant, roaring lustily and waving a curved sword, a heartbeat before the black stallion rammed into the table. He was knocked backward, off his feet. A chair fell on top of him.

  Bedlam ensued. More riders burst into the dining room. Lusty curses mingled with cries of horror. A gun boomed. A gruff voice thundered, “There she is, boys! The old hag! Take her! Quickly now!”

  “Mother!” Marcy Tanner screeched.

  Throwing the chair off, Davy gripped the edge of the table and heaved upright. Directly across from him was the giant. Flames and smoke spurted from the man’s sizzling hair. Their eyes met, and the intruder laughed with abandon.

  “Lift a finger against my boys and the women die, landlubber!”

  Several servants were sprawled on the floor, one in a spreading scarlet pool. Taylor lay motionless, partially under the table. A pair of scruffy riders had seized Priscilla Tanner and were roughly throwing her over a saddle. She fought like a tigress, but she was helpless to resist.

  Marcy was trying to reach her mother’s side. Another pair of invaders blocked her, smirking when she struck at their legs and their mounts. “Don’t just stand there!” she railed at the Irishman. “Do something!”

  But Davy did not move. What else could he do? Eight or nine freebooters were just outside, their rifles leveled. Elsewhere guns crackled and popped. Others were keeping the caballeros occupied.

  The giant with the flaming hair chortled. “Smart man,” he said to Davy. “Odd kind of hat you’re wearin’, though. Is that a raccoon’s butt on your head, mate?”

  This from someone whose hair was ablaze? Davy could only marvel at the giant’s daring. Pitch had been smeared thick over the man’s long locks, then set on fire. So long as the flames were extinguished within a short while, it would do no real harm. A bizarre ruse, worthy of a lunatic.

  “Give the lord of the manor a message for me,” the giant bellowed. “Tell young Master Tanner his mother is being held by none other than Blackjack Tar. So long as he does as I want, she will come to no harm. But if he defies me, I will send her back in bits and pieces. So help me God.”

  With that, Blackjack Tar wheeled the black stallion and plunged into the Stygian night. His minions did likewise, the man who held Priscilla giving her a rough smack on the posterior. More shots resounded as the Mexicans tried to stop the marauders.

  Davy ran to the ruined window in time to glimpse Tar’s flaming head seconds before the flickering orange and red daggers were snuffed out. Darkness swallowed the freebooters just as caballeros on horseback lit out after them.

  The Tennessean pivoted to help others. He had no inkling of what Marcy Tanner was going to do, so he was caught off guard when she sprang at him and commenced beating on his chest. He tried to clutch her wrists, but she would not be denied.

  “How could you let those devils take her? Don’t you know what they’ll do? The outrage they’ll commit?”

  Tears gushed from her eyes. Davy braced himself as she slumped and bawled. Nearby, Taylor was rising and rubbing a nasty welt on his temple. A couple of servants were attending to fallen companions. Davy sought Heather, thinking she could comfort Marcy, and was bewildered to find her gone. Becky was crouched under the table, silently weeping. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Those wicked men stole her.”

  “What?”

  Sniffling, the child pointed into the gloom. “Didn’t you see? One of them grabbed her by the hair and pulled her onto his horse.”

  Davy had been so preoccupied with their fiery leader that he had failed to keep track of his friends. A check revealed Flavius sprawled beside his chair, crimson matting what little remained of his hair.

  “No!” Davy said, and shoved Marcy into the arms of a Mexican woman dressed all in white. A cook, perhaps. Darting to his friend’s side, he knelt. A heavy object had caught the portly backwoodsman across the head, leaving a jagged gash. “Pard?”

  Adrift in a whirling inky current, Flavius Harris grew aware of pressure on his right shoulder. And rhythmic movement. Someone was gently shaking him. Why? What had happened? The last thing he remembered was hearing a tremendous crash and beginning to shift in his chair. Then the ceiling caved in.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Flavius opened his eyes and experienced a sickening sensation, as if the floor were spinning around and around. “Davy?” he croaked.

  “Lie still. You took a blow to the head. Hard as your noggin is, you should be fit as a fiddle in no time.”

  It was supposed to be a joke, but Flavius did not appreciate the humor. A midget with a hammer was beating on the inside of his skull. “I don’t think I can get up yet,” he said thickly. “And I sure could use some water.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll fetch it.”

  Many of the plates and bowls and glasses were in fragments on the floor, but Davy found an intact water pitcher and an upended glass. Filling the latter, he was about to bend over when hooves pounded outside.

  Toward the house raced a knot of riders led by a madman. But not a madman with flaming hair. Handsome features distorted in panic, Farley Tanner hauled on the reins, hauled so hard his mount’s head was wrenched to one side. Springing from the saddle, the Texican took two long strides and vaulted over the windowsill, landing amid broken shards that crunched under his boots. Frantically, he scanned the dining room, his brow knitting in consternation. “Heather?” he cried.

  Marcy had been sobbing uncontrollably. At the sound of her brother’s voice she tore loose from the cook and flung herself at him. “It was Blackjack Tar! He kidnapped Mother! And Heather!”

  “Mother?”

  The color drained from Farley’s face like water down a spout, leaving him as pale as a sheet. Ashen, he gripped his sister’s shoulders. “You must be mistaken. What use would she be to an animal like him?”

  Squirming in pain, Marcy exclaimed, “You’re hurting me! Let go!”

  Davy placed the glass in Flavius’s hand and ran to the siblings. In order to help Marcy he pried at Farley’s iron fingers, and was in turn seized by the Texican and shaken like a lamb in the grip of a rabid wolf.

  “Crockett! She must be wrong. Say she is. Please.”

  “It’s true,” Davy confirmed, and quoted Tar’s exact message. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It happened so fast, there was little I could do.”

  “It can’t be.” Farley deflated like a punctured balloon. “Not Mother and Heather, both.”

  “We’ll find them,” Davy predicted. “As my grandpa was so fond of saying, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  Farley Tanner placed both hands flat on the table. “You don’t understand. It’s not that easy. Blackjack Tar was a pirate once. Sailed out of their base on Galveston Island. The worst of the bunch
, he took dozens of captives over the years.” Farley hung his head. “Not one was ever returned alive.”

  Six

  Fully a third of the freebooters had once been pirates or smugglers. As recently as five years before they had virtually controlled the Gulf of Mexico, preying mainly on Spanish galleons.

  American ships had not been set upon-—initially. It wasn’t that the pirates feared the Americans. The truce stemmed from the War of 1812, and the part played in that conflict by a pirate so famous even Davy and Flavius had heard of him.

  Jean Laffite was a Frenchman. History might never have noted his existence if not for a tragedy that aroused his undying rage against Spain. In 1797 he had shown up on a Caribbean Island, Martinique, where he had fallen passionately in love with the beautiful ward of a Spanish official. The official refused to let them marry, so they eloped. But their love did not have a happy ending.

  The young lovers were hunted down. Their marriage was annulled and Laffite was thrown in prison. In despair, his former bride killed herself. From that day on the Frenchman swore eternal revenge on the Spanish crown. When they made the mistake of releasing him, he launched a career of piracy unrivaled in its annals. And most of his depredations were directed at his avowed enemies.

  Along came the War of 1812. By then Jean Laffite was a leader of the notorious Barataria company of cutthroats. The British recognized his ability and offered to make him an officer in the Royal Navy if he would aid them in their war against America.

  Unknown to the British, Laffite had a fondness for their enemies. For years Laffite had overseen a lucrative slave- running operation in the southern states. Among his many American friends was a certain hothead from the bayou country by the name of Jim Bowie.

  So instead of aiding the British, Laffite rushed to New Orleans to inform the governor of an impending British attack. During the battle, Lafitte’s men fought so splendidly they were given an official pardon by the United States government for all past crimes.

  In 1817, Laffite set up headquarters on Galveston Island. By 1820, he had virtually swept the Spanish from the Gulf.

  In the past few years, though, the pirate leader’s fortunes had taken a turn. With the Spanish largely gone, prey became scarce. Some of his men had broken his promise and gone after American shipping. Now pressure was being exerted on the government to drive him from Galveston Island.

  With piracy and smuggling largely at a standstill, it was no wonder many pirates and smugglers swelled the ranks of the freebooters roving Texas. To them, the farms and ranches were easy pickings, succulent targets they couldn’t resist.

  All of this Davy Crockett learned the next morning from Taylor. When the frontiersman concluded his account, Davy said, “I take it you’ve heard of Blackjack Tar?”

  “Who hasn’t?” the Texican said glumly. He was despondent over the abductions, but not nearly as crushed as Farley Tanner. The younger man had been all for gathering up every last caballero and going out after the brigands, until Taylor pointed out that it might get the women killed. Since midnight Farley had paced the grounds, head bowed, a portrait in misery, refusing to so much as speak to a living soul.

  “Where does Tar hail from?” Davy wanted to know.

  “England,” Taylor said. “He deserted the Royal Navy during the war. Word has it he was an officer. Some say he was about to face a court-martial for brutal treatment of his own men when he jumped ship. At any rate, he became one of Laffite’s lieutenants. About six months ago, they had a falling- out over attacking American ships and Laffite kicked him off Galveston Island.”

  “Why does he set his hair on fire? Is he addlepated?”

  “Oh, that. No, he’s not a loon. Tar is as canny as a fox, as vicious as a panther. The hair business is an old pirate trick. It’s meant to inspire fear in their victims, and it works. Imagine being on a galleon when a horde of bloodthirsty pirates swarm over the side, some with their hair ablaze.”

  Davy envisioned terrified Spanish passengers quaking in abject terror. “It beats everything I’ve heard all hollow.”

  “The freebooters were bad enough before Tar came along,” Taylor continued. “But after he joined their ranks and became their leader, they’ve slaughtered and raided like never before.”

  “He’s the top freebooter?”

  The Texican nodded. “Tar is largely the reason the people at Nacogdoches are thinking of calling it quits and abandoning their homes. He murders and plunders at will. And now he has his sights set on San Antonio.”

  “What do you make of last night?”

  “I can’t rightly say what he’s up to. He’s stolen women before, but only young ones like Heather. For him to take Priscilla makes no sense.”

  A soft sound caused Davy to shift. They were on the bench on the front porch. The sun bathed the garden in a radiant glow, but he was in no mood to admire the colorful setting. Especially not when Becky Dugan was six feet away and had overheard every word.

  Taylor was equally appalled. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, child. It shows a lack of manners.”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said, coming over. “I didn’t mean to.” She had barely slept a wink all night, crying for hours on end in Marcy’s room. “I just wanted to ask Mr. Crockett when he’s going after my mother.”

  Davy sat up. He would like nothing more, but he feared bringing harm to Priscilla and Heather.

  Becky rested her small hands on his. “You’re one of the best trackers anywhere. You can find my mother and bring her back.”

  Taylor came to Davy’s rescue. “Child, there are forty men on this ranch who would go after her right this minute. Think, though. If the freebooters saw us coming, what might they do out of sheer spite?”

  Becky pondered a few moments. “That’s if a lot of men go. But one or two could get through. Davy and Flavius. They’re from Tennessee. And Tennesseans can do anything. They’ve told me so.”

  Inwardly, the Irishman cringed. His tall tales were catching up with him. How could he explain without making her more miserable than she already was?

  “There you are, Rebecca! I thought you were going to wait for me?”

  Through the doorway hustled Marcella Tanner. She wore a crisp clean dress and had brushed her hair until it shone, but there was no hiding the dark bags under her eyes or her haggard countenance. “Isabella has breakfast ready. Come along.”

  Becky held her ground. “Not until Davy gives me his word he’ll go after our mothers.”

  Marcy frowned. “Don’t be pestering the men. They have enough to worry about.” Taking the girl’s elbow, she said, “Now, enough dillydallying. The porridge won’t stay hot forever.”

  From the steps linking the porch to the garden came a low cough. “It’s not such a bad notion, you know. Two or three men can pull off what a small army couldn’t.”

  Farley Tanner was a specter in mortal guise. His clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled. In his right hand was clutched his crumpled hat. Stubble covered his square jaw. His once-wide shoulders were bent under crushing emotional weight, but a faint gleam of hope animated him as he approached.

  “I can’t stand this waiting around for word from Tar. Who knows what will happen to Mother and Heather in the meantime.”

  “What do you propose?” Taylor asked.

  “The Tennesseans and I will head out within the hour, while the trail is still fairly fresh. We won’t rest until we’ve overtaken the freebooters. By this time tomorrow all of us can be back safe and sound.”

  “Or all of you could be dead,” Marcy said.

  Farley gave his sister an acidic glare. “It’s our mother we’re talking about. Would you rather we twiddle our thumbs while those bastards do God knows what to her?”

  “How dare you,” Marcy countered. “How dare you imply I love Mother less than you?”

  “I didn’t—” Farley started to respond, but got no further. “My insides are twisted into a knot, I’m so worried. I didn’t sleep a wink. All I
want to do is curl into a ball and cry until I run out of tears. But I won’t, Farley. And I won’t do what you’re doing, either. Wasting myself in useless pacing. Being aloof. Denying comfort to those who need it most.”

  The blistering rebuke deeply affected her brother. “I’m sorry—” he said, and again was cut off.

  “Since you’re behaving so childishly, I have to keep my wits for the both of us. I would like nothing better than for Mother and Heather to be back among us, but I’m sensible enough to realize that the risk outweighs the prospect of success.”

  “Maybe not,” Davy said, as much to his surprise as to everyone else’s. When they looked at him, he elaborated. “Becky is right about one thing. Flavius and I can track anyone, anywhere. Why, once I tracked a baby turtle through thick grass. Try it sometime yourself.” He paused. “Locating Tar’s bunch shouldn’t pose a problem, but I can’t guarantee the outcome when we catch up.”

  Farley squared his shoulders. “See, Sis? The notion isn’t as silly as you make it out to be. It might be the only hope our mother has. Or have you forgotten that Blackjack Tar never leaves a living witness?”

  Marcy gnawed on her lip in raw anxiety.

  “I have a brainstorm,” Taylor threw in. “Give me half your men. We’ll follow far enough back that the freebooters can’t spot us. That way, if you run into trouble, signal and we’ll come on the run.”

  Davy and the Texicans focused on Marcy. She was the key. Without her consent they wouldn’t presume to act. She studied each of them, then looked down when Becky tugged on her dress.

  “Please let them. I don’t want my mother to die.”

  The heartfelt appeal did what no amount of argument could. Marcella glumly sighed. “My better judgment tells me we’re making a mistake. But I won’t buck you, Farley. If you and the others believe it’s our only hope, do what you have to.”

  Brother and sister embraced, Farley smiling and brimming with confidence, Marcy upset beyond measure, fearful of the end result of their decision.

  Within an hour the plan was put into motion. The two Tennesseans and Farley Tanner rode northward, their saddlebags crammed with enough jerked beef to last a month. Taylor and twenty heavily armed Mexicans were preparing to leave two hours later.