Davy Crockett 8 Page 7
Friends and kin always complimented Davy on his own bravery. He had a reputation for being as stalwart as they came. And while he was flattered, he knew that there were times when he did feel fear. Just like everyone else. Times when he had been so scared, his mouth had gone dry and he had broken out in a cold sweat. Times when he had wanted to scream. So he never regarded himself as being especially brave. Especially clever, perhaps. And loyal to those who were loyal to him. But not—
Davy almost slapped himself. To let his mind drift in the heat of combat was unforgivable. Suicidal too if the Karankawas had anything to say about it. And they did, the very next second.
Five husky warriors burst from cover, one unleashing an arrow that would have taken Davy’s life had he not flung himself to the right. Liz thundered, the archer toppled, and then the rest were upon them. Davy saw James Bowie slam the stock of his rifle into a Karankawa’s jaw. After that he had to concentrate on his own predicament, for two of the warriors were on him in a fury, both swinging knives.
Davy flung Liz at them and the pair skipped aside, granting him the space he needed to draw both pistols. He fired as they sprang, striking the man on the right but missing the one on the left. Backpedaling, he dropped the flintlocks and resorted to his tomahawk and his knife. The Karankawa came at him in a whirlwind of elemental ferocity, the man’s blade weaving a glittering tapestry of deadly thrusts and cuts.
Davy held his own. Standing his ground, he parried, stabbed, countered, hacked. Engrossed in simply staying alive, he did not realize the Karankawa he had just shot was still alive until a hand wrapped around his left ankle and clung fast. A glance showed the warrior had lost his weapon but not his resolve. At death’s door, pouring scarlet, the Karankawa had crawled close enough to grab hold.
A meaningless act of defiance, or so it seemed until Davy jerked to the left to avoid a lancing thrust meant to disembowel him. He evaded it, although barely, his movements hampered by the anchor on his leg. Davy kicked out, but it did no good. The Karankawa’s fingers were a vise.
The other warrior perceived the Tennessean’s plight, and renewed his assault. Gliding to one side, he speared his blade down low.
Davy twisted to block it. Not being able to move quickly, he almost failed. As the man pumped an arm to try again, Davy threw caution to the winds and threw himself forward. He was desperate. He had to do something. So long as the one warrior clung to his leg, the outcome was inevitable unless he hampered his second foe just as he was being hampered. Arms flung wide, he tackled the startled Karankawa, pinning the man’s arms as they went down.
Davy felt a stinging sensation in his ribs. Letting go of the tomahawk, he gripped the man’s knife arm to keep it at bay even as he drove his own blade up and in. Flesh gave way, and the Karankawa grunted. Davy sliced upward, the razor-sharp metal parting sinew and organs as easily as a hot knife parted wax. Warm liquid spurted over his hand and wrist. The warrior shook like a leaf in a hurricane, moaned, and sagged.
Shoving clear, Davy turned toward the one who had seized his ankle. He pumped the knife overhead, but did not carry through. The man’s wide eyes were fixed in lifeless intensity on the azure ether.
Davy pried at the warrior’s clenched fingers, but couldn’t loosen them. James Bowie and the other two were out of sight, battling beyond a thicket. In order to reach his friend in time to help, Davy removed the Karankawa’s hand the only way he could; he cut off three of the man’s fingers. Once that was done, Davy tore loose and stood.
At that moment the racket behind the thicket ended. Someone mewed like a kitten. Afraid of the worst, Davy ran.
Two warriors lay at James Bowie’s feet. His buckskins were ripped and grimy and sprinkled with scarlet dots. He had a cut on his right cheek, another on his leg. “They sure are scrappers, these Karankawas. I’d almost rather tangle with Comanches.” He grinned. “Almost.”
One other was as yet unaccounted for. Davy backed toward Bowie, saying, “I’d rather not tangle with anyone. Why don’t we light a shuck while we can?”
“We might as well. The last man is probably hightailing it for Snake Strangler. We’ll have forty or fifty on our tracks by this time tomorrow.”
Davy noticed that Bowie’s pistols were still wedged under his wide brown leather belt. “Didn’t you use your guns?”
“Why bother?” James hefted the big knife. “I’m better with this.”
The dead warriors testified to the truth of Bowie’s assertion. Both looked as if they had been chewed up by a sawmill. Davy couldn’t help but think that James Bowie must be one of the best knife fighters alive.
No arrows sought their lives as they gathered Bowie’s rifles and bent their steps eastward. Bowie fairly flew. Davy blamed it on anxiety over the Karankawas. But he was wrong, as he learned when his companion paused to inspect some footprints and then blistered the air with curses.
“They’re pushing harder than I told them to. In this heat it doesn’t take much for a slave to shed five to ten pounds. Which will bring in less at auction.”
“Arlo and Sedge are just afraid of the Karankawas,” Davy speculated. “They want to get as far away as they can.”
“I hope that’s all it is. But say what you will about those vermin, they’re not scared of anything.”
“What else could it be?” Davy wanted to know. Bowie was eating up the distance in loping bounds that would do justice to an antelope. Davy had to exert himself to keep up. “Sam and Flavius are keeping an eye on them,” he commented, thinking it would calm the taller man down.
Instead, Bowie went faster. A minute later, out of the blue, he said, “I refuse to lose another one. The last group was bad enough.”
“How’s that?” Davy replied between breaths.
Bowie’s cheeks pinched tight. “I lost thirty blacks. At one time. The only ones I’ve lost out of the several hundred I’ve funneled into Louisiana.” He was quiet for a bit. “Sam and I were alone. We had been on the go for days, and I was exhausted. Sam agreed to stand guard while I took a nap. But he fell asleep too. And when we woke up, all thirty were gone. Stolen right out from under our noses by Snake Strangler.”
“He let you live?”
“Shocked me too. I think it was his way of rubbing our noses in it. Of showing he could kill us whenever he wanted if he so desired.” Bowie growled like a cornered wolf. “I went after them. Tracked those devils clear to the Colorado River. But a storm came along and wiped out the trail.”
“What would the Karankawas do with thirty slaves?”
“The same thing they would do with thirty whites, or thirty Pawnees, or thirty Cheyenne.” Bowie was pumping his arms now. “The Karankawas aren’t known as cannibals for nothing.”
Eaters of human flesh. It seemed too far-fetched to Davy. In this day and age? With a modern city only a few hundred miles away? With the invention of the steam engine “promising a new age of wonder and discovery,” as one newspaper put it? How could cannibals exist on the boundary of America’s frontier?
“What’s this?” Bowie said, stopping.
Davy could read the sign for himself. The river rats had called a halt. One of them had walked back down the line. Then Flavius—whose tracks Davy knew as well as he did his own—had gone to the head of the column. Why?
“I don’t like it,” James said. “Not one bit.”
Not long after, Davy spied water ahead, a sprawling marshy area bisected by a strip of land no wider than his shoulders. Bowie took the lead, and had gone only a few dozen feet when up out of tall grass lunged a scarecrow figure in soaked clothes.
“Jimmy! Praise the Lord!” Sam exclaimed, and promptly collapsed.
Bowie caught his manservant and gently lowered him. A gash on Sam’s forehead oozed blood and his pants were a muddy ruin. “Sam? Sam? Can you hear me?”
The black man’s eyes flickered open. “Jimmy? I’m awful sorry. They took us by surprise.”
“Us?” Davy said, a bolt of lightning jolting him to
his core. He scoured the swamp. “Where’s Flavius, Sam? What happened to him?”
Sam grew sadder. “Two gators got him, Mr. Crockett. Ripped your poor friend to ribbons, they did.”
Six
Flavius Harris had never been so scared in all his born days. Fear so potent it paralyzed him churned his vitals. Sedge’s words echoed in his brain, over and over, “A couple of gators are swimmin’ toward you.” The hideous creatures were going to eat him! Gobble him up in great grisly chunks! And there was nothing he could do about it!
Then someone else drowned out the river rat. Impossibly, he heard Davy yelling. Yelling something Davy had said plenty of times: “Where there’s life, there’s hope! So long as you’re alive, never give up!”
And a tiny voice Flavius recognized as his own shrilly screamed, “Don’t just lie there! Do something!”
Flavius raised his head and blinked water from his eyes. He saw Sedge smirking evilly. Twisting, he spotted an alligator to his right, its back cleaving the water like the prow of a canoe. To the left was a second, even larger, brute. They seemed to be in a race to see which would get to take the first bite.
Flavius had lost Matilda when he fell. He still had his pistols, but both were soaked and liable to misfire. As for his knife, he dismissed it as worthless. He might as well throw spitballs.
Instinct took over where reason failed. The smaller of the alligators reached him a fraction of an instant before the other. It started to open its mouth wide. And Flavius, at the sight of its terrible teeth, sucked air into his lungs and flung himself downward, diving for the bottom. He had a vague idea that if he could swim under the beast, he could gain a few precious moments of life. A sharp tug on his hunting shirt almost upended him. Then he was free, but only for a second.
A blow to the small of his back smashed him into clinging muck. It was as if a tree had fallen on him. Only this tree had four rending limbs and rapier claws. The gator tore at his shoulders, at his hips. Mud seeped up pinto Flavius’s nostrils, into his eyes. He could not see a thing. The pressure grew worse, tremendously worse, his spine and ribs shrieking in protest.
Flavius tried to brace both hands and push, but he could not find a purchase. His fingers sank deeper into the muck. Frantic, he wrenched to the right. There was a ripping sensation along his back. Suddenly he was loose, and like an oversized crab he scuttled swiftly away, listening to the water roil behind him. Loud splashing buffeted his ears.
Certain the gators were hunting for him, Flavius glanced back. Two mighty tails whipped the water in a frenzy. Huge bodies rolled over and over. Incredibly, neither of the alligators were interested in him. Not knowing what to make of it, his lungs aching, Flavius swam on. Staying below the surface to avoid detection, he pumped his arms again and again. Only when his lungs were fit to burst did he arch upward.
He was sixty feet from where he had fallen in. The gators were locked in combat, their monstrous forms agitating the water into a bubbling foam. From the jaw of the smaller dangled part of his hunting shirt, impaled on several teeth.
As for Sedge, the river rat was watching in amusement. “Stupid brutes!” he bantered. “Why fight? That fat fool has enough meat on him for the both of you, and ten just like you besides.”
Flavius ducked under and continued to swim. Burning rage lent him strength. Always the most peaceable of souls, he rarely harbored ill will toward anyone. But he sorely wanted to wring the river rat’s skinny neck! Or to shoot Sedge so full of holes, he’d look like a sieve! The overman and his partner were cold-blooded fiends. If ever someone deserved to die, it was them!
Again Flavius surfaced. He had doubled the distance. Ahead, against the bank, grew a thick patch of reeds. A prime place for snakes. Flavius swam into it anyway and lowered both legs. He could stand, but he did not climb out. Not yet. Shivering more from his narrow escape than the coolness of the water, he wrapped his arms across his chest and waited.
Presently, a shout rang out. Soon the tramp of feet sounded. Peering up through the reeds, Flavius saw Sedge hiking merrily along. The river rat was as happy as a lark, whistling to himself. Next came the glum slaves, trudging noisily, their chains clanking and rattling. Last, Arlo Kastner strolled by, beaming like someone who had just won a turkey shoot.
Small wonder. The river rats had the blacks all to themselves now. They’d find a buyer of their own and reap the profits, have enough money to last a lifetime if they didn’t squander it. More than likely, they would split it and make themselves scarce, maybe head back east so James couldn’t find them.
Flavius did not move until the slavers were out of sight. Pushing reeds aside, he took a step, only to freeze when a sinuous shape wound off among the stems. Steeling himself, he scrambled onto solid ground and sank onto his knees. Relief and gratitude poured through him. By the grace of the Almighty, he was alive. It was a miracle.
If it was the last thing he ever did, Flavius vowed, he would make the river rats pay. He would wait for Davy and James to return, then Sam and he would—Sam! What had happened to him? Sam hadn't been with the others when they marched past. Filled with alarm, Flavius heaved erect and hurried back along the trail. He almost called out Sam’s name, but thought better of it; the slavers might hear.
A commotion in the water brought him to a halt. The alligators were still there. Or rather, one of them was. The bigger beast was eating the smaller. No one had ever told Flavius they did such a thing. Evidently human beings weren’t the only cannibals. The smaller gator’s belly had been ripped open, spilling its guts, which the larger beast chewed on with reptilian gusto.
Flavius began to sidle past, one slow step at a time. -He was shocked to discover his rifle in the grass at the water’s edge. It made no sense to him for the river rats to leave a perfectly good rifle behind, until he recollected both already had two rifles apiece. One more would be an unnecessary extra burden.
Flavius took a step toward his gun, then imitated a tree. The big alligator had stopped chewing and was staring at him with what Flavius could only describe as a wicked gleam in its eyes. Less than ten feet away, it could reach him unbelievably quickly if it elected. Flavius swallowed hard, slowly tucked at the knees, and extended his right hand.
The gator stirred. Lifting its snout, it cocked its head as if to better study him. Then, apparently deciding he was no threat, it resumed chomping and tearing at its rival.
Flavius snatched Matilda and bolted. He remembered approximately where Arlo and Sam had been standing when the river rats struck, and he scoured the vicinity, finding crumpled grass and a scarlet smear but no body. “Sam?” he said softly.
Out in the water several other gators milled. Flavius guessed that Arlo had slain the black man, then thrown the body in to dispose of the evidence.
“Oh, Sam,” Flavius said sorrowfully. He had liked the man. It would have been nice to sit down over a pitcher of ale and swap stories sometime.
His fury returned, with a vengeance. The river rats must be held to account! Pivoting, he gave chase, jogging past the big gator with nary a glance. Somehow, he would stop them. Somehow, he would make them pay for their base treachery and the foul murder.
Flavius thought about staying put until Davy and James caught up. But he didn’t know how long that would be. Hours maybe, and he didn’t fancy being all alone all that while. Already, the enormity of the swamp gnawed at his nerves. On all sides were water and rank growth, crawling with creatures of every kind, creatures that would as soon kill him as look at him.
Flavius ran faster. The tracks were clearly defined in the soft soil. It didn’t take a Davy Crockett to follow them. So it was not all that long before Flavius glimpsed movement in the distance and distinguished Arlo’s slender frame. Flavius slowed, content to dog them for the time being, until he concocted a plan of action.
Picking them off from hiding had merit. The only drawback was that Flavius had to wait for nightfall, when they made camp, so the two cutthroats would be together.
Flavius could not imagine how they must feel. Frightened, lost, bitter, resentful. Sad too, he reckoned. Inexpressibly sad. Everyone and everything they loved were thousands of miles away. Lost to them for all time. They were like flowers ripped out by the roots and cast into the wind. No one should have to go through the nightmare they were enduring.
Then and there, Flavius made up his mind he was against slavery and would be for as long as he lived. It was inhuman, treating people as if they were animals. No, less than animals. Horses and cows weren’t forced to go around shackled to one another, were they?
A crack-crack-crack drew Flavius’s gaze to the slavers. He had to sneak closer to learn the cause. One of the slaves in the second bunch, an older man whose sorrow perpetually bent his shoulders, was on his knees with his head bowed. Either he had collapsed, or he’d simply refused to go on. Whichever the case, it incensed Arlo Kastner. The river rat was applying a whip to the old man’s back, the lash biting deep.
“On your feet, you damn darkie!” Arlo fumed. “If you don’t, I’ll peel you like an onion. So help me, God!”
The old man didn’t so much as flinch. He absorbed the punishment silently, almost as if he didn’t feel the sting of the rawhide. The other slaves were aghast, but there was little they could do.
Arlo might have gone on beating the old man until the black was a quivering wreck, but at that juncture Sedge appeared, waving his arms and saying, “What in hell do you think you’re doing? Tryin’ to kill him?”
“If I have to!” Arlo responded, pausing for breath. His face was slick and his chest rose and fell with each breath.