Davey Crockett 6 Page 8

  Flavius tried to sit up. If he was to die, he would not do so meekly. He would not be helplessly slaughtered.

  The warrior slammed a foot against his chest, knocking him flat. Again Flavius tried to sit, but the man pressed down, pinning him, then bent and stuck the tip of the blade against the base of his throat.

  This was it! Flavius feared. He was going to have his jugular slit. At least there would not be much pain. He grit his teeth to keep them from shaking, and wished Davy could be there to see how well he died.

  To his astonishment, the warrior reached lower and pried at the knots on the rope that bound his wrists. Soon his hands were free. Smirking, the Indian jabbed his neck, pricking the skin. It hurt, but Flavius did not flinch.

  Straightening, the warrior touched a finger to the tiny drop of blood on the blade, then rubbed the fingertip on both cheeks, smearing thin red lines. Then the man sheathed the weapon and walked off.

  What was that all about? Flavius thought as he gingerly ran a hand over his throat, verifying that the cut was small and not very deep. His forearms were partially numb from having been tied so long, so he flexed his fingers and wriggled his wrists to restore circulation.

  The Indians showed no interest in him whatsoever. Shortly before they had halted, one had downed a buck with an arrow. Several were carving it up.

  Since they had freed his hands, Flavius took it for granted that they would not object if he untied his legs. Bending, he tugged at a knot. A savage cry burst from a nearby warrior, and suddenly two of them were beside him with knives drawn. Flavius jerked both hands overhead and blurted, “Sorry! I figured it would be all right.”

  Glaring, the pair backed off. Flavius exhaled in relief that was short-lived. Another warrior, a stately man whose long hair bore gray streaks, came toward him. This one had an air of authority about him. Flavius had noticed that the others treated him with deference and appeared to readily do his bidding. Plainly, the man was the leader of the war party. Maybe even a tribal chief.

  Mustering a smile, Flavius said, “Howdy, mister. I sure hope you’re not one of those who hate whites just because our skin color’s different.”

  The elderly warrior scrutinized him, saying nothing.

  “Do you speak the white man’s tongue?” Flavius asked. The warrior kept on studying him as if he were a type of critter never seen before. “How about the Creek language?” Flavius had learned a smattering during the war, enough to ask for food when his company visited the villages of friendly Creeks. “I am a friend,” he declared in the Creek tongue, garnering no response.

  Inspiration motivated Flavius to hold his right hand in front of his neck with the palm out, his index and second fingers pointed straight up. He raised the hand until it was level with his head, then looked expectantly at the warrior.

  Some time ago, Davy had been taken prisoner by the Nadowessioux, as the French called them, or Sioux, as they were more commonly known. During his captivity, Davy had learned many of the peculiar hand signs the Sioux and other tribes used. Davy had offered to teach them all to Flavius, but Flavius had only bothered to memorize a few. One of those was the sign for “friend,” which he had just made.

  The elderly warrior acted surprised. His hands flew in a series of signs, too many and too rapidly for Flavius to comprehend. When the warrior was done, Flavius shook his head and shrugged.

  The warrior’s brow furrowed. Turning, he pointed at the body of the man slain by Heather, then at Flavius, and made more hand talk, none of which Flavius understood. But he gathered that the warrior did not accept his assertion of friendship, that the proof lay wrapped in the bloody blanket. It was the warrior’s turn to gaze down expectantly. Flavius was at a loss. None of the few signs he had learned could possibly explain how the death had come about. In any event, his captors would not take kindly to learning that Davy and he meant only to steal a few horses.

  The elderly warrior returned to the fire. Flavius leaned back, dejected. Where was Davy, anyhow? What could have happened to him? Why hadn’t he shown up to help? Initially, Flavius had been afraid the war party had made buzzard bait of his friend. But if that had been the case, the warriors would have helped themselves to Davy’s guns and tomahawk and personal effects.

  So, apparently, Davy had gotten away. And a fat lot of good that did Flavius. Davy did not have a horse, and was further burdened by Heather and Becky. Flavius could forget about his friend coming to his rescue. The only one who could get him out of the fix he was in was himself, a discouraging notion.

  Flavius held no illusions about his ability. He did not think fast on his feet, like Davy. Nor was he anywhere near as clever, or half as strong. Truth was, without Davy he’d have been dead a dozen times over. Now, on his own, his prospects were as slim as a blade of grass.

  The Indians were roasting their supper. They were subdued, speaking in low tones. Occasional glances cast in his direction were hardly friendly.

  The dead man had been placed a goodly distance from the fire. During the day Flavius had observed that they tended to shy away from it. Some tribes, he’d heard tell, believed it was bad medicine to be near a dead person. Perhaps these fellows were the same.

  To his great surprise, the elderly warrior walked over bearing a large piece of meat. Without comment the man plopped it in Flavius’s lap and wheeled. “I’m obliged,” Flavius exclaimed. Famished, he held the piece under his nose to savor the aroma. His natural impulse was to devour it in three gulps, but he willed himself to go slowly and finished about the same time the warriors did. Plenty of meat was left, meat that was cut into strips and placed on a flat rock close to the fire to dry.

  Darkness was descending.

  Flavius mulled an escape attempt. Once the warriors turned in, he would try to sneak past them to the horses. The saddle had been stripped from the sorrel, but he could ride bareback if need be. He would head due east until he struck the Mississippi, then go south to St. Louis.

  His scheme was spoiled by the same young warrior who had pricked his neck. The man materialized out of nowhere, roughly shoved him flat, and tightly bound his wrists. As an added insult, the warrior poked his ribs a few times. Snickering, the man left him.

  Flavius did not sit back up. Why should he bother? His fate was sealed. The Indians would take him to their village and torture him to death. No one would ever know how he met his end. Davy, Matilda, his close friends and kin, they’d go to their graves wondering. Would any of them shed a tear? Matilda, perhaps. Davy, maybe.

  He felt like shedding some himself.

  ~*~

  “You should be asleep, like your mother.”

  Rebecca Dugan sighed and shifted. She was on her side next to Heather, who had been slumbering for the better part of an hour. Becky, however, could not stop fidgeting and squirming. Now she rose onto an elbow, whispering, “Don’t think I haven’t been trying. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Davy was across the fire, his legs bent under him, Liz across his thighs. “Want more possum?”

  “Goodness gracious, no. I’m stuffed.” Becky patted her belly and giggled. “I haven’t eaten that much in my whole life.”

  “I take it you’re not as fussy about eating possum as your ma is?”

  “It was greasy, but tasty. I wonder why they don’t serve it at public eating-places. I never saw it on a menu.”

  Davy grinned. “Been to a good many, have you?”

  “Sure. My grandfather took us out to eat a lot. To his private club. To inns. To taverns. To an eating-house down by the wharves. All over.”

  “You’re a regular lady of the world, aren’t you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ve been all over, seen a lot of sights.”

  “Not that many. I’m not even twelve yet. I have a long way to go before I’m a lady.”

  The wavering howl of a wolf briefly intruded. “Being a lady has nothing to do with how old you are,” Davy said. “It has to do with how you are inside
.” He paused. “What if I was to tell you that you’ve been to more fancy eating places than both of my wives combined?”

  “You’re joshing.”

  “Not hardly. We never had money to spare for frivolities. The little I make goes for essentials like ammunition and shoes for the kids and flour and dry goods.”

  Becky propped her chin in a hand. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Crockett? I don’t believe you ever told us.”

  “I hunt.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Living in the backwoods isn’t like living in the big city, girl. We don’t have folks waiting on us hand and foot. We have to make ends meet as best we can.” Davy leaned back. “People where I come from grow their own food, make their own clothes, tend themselves when they’re sick.” An image of Elizabeth shimmered in his mind’s eye. “My wife tills our garden and sews and knits, and she’s dam skilled at it, too. Me, I keep food on the table. Twelve months of the year, day in and day out, I make sure my family doesn’t starve. That’s a heap of a responsibility.”

  “How do you make any money at it?”

  “I don’t like to crow about myself, but I’m one of the best bear hunters in all of Tennessee. I earn a few dollars here and there by helping other men lay away bear meat for the winter. I sell pelts, too, mainly bear and coon. Wolf hides, sometimes, but they’re a lot harder to come by.”

  “Do you like to kill?”

  It was the type of brutally blunt question that only someone of her tender years would broach. “Whether I like it or not’s got nothing to do with it. My family has to eat and in order to feed them, I have to kill game.” She did not appear satisfied, so Davy elaborated. “I’ve been doing it since I was knee-high to a praying mantis. It comes as naturally to me as breathing or sleeping.”

  “But doesn’t it upset you? Killing an innocent animal, I mean?”

  “Innocent how? In case you hadn’t noticed, practically every living creature kills to survive. Insects feed on plants and other insects, birds and fish feed on the insects, mammals feed on the birds and fish, and we feed on the whole kit and caboodle.” The wolf howled again, closer. “That’s one of the gripes I have about cities. They tend to make people forget how the world works. City-bred folks think that being waited on hand and foot is the natural order of things, when the real way of the world is dog eat dog.”

  “You make cities sound bad.”

  “In a way, they are. Have you ever held a broken piece of glass up to the light? It distorts everything. Cities are like that glass. They give us a false notion of how things are. And how can we be true to ourselves if we can’t be true to what’s around us?”

  Becky was growing drowsy. Yawning, she said, “You have me all confused. Me, I like city life. It’s real peaceful. No one is trying to kill you. No wild animals are out to rip you to bits. I feel safe in a city. I don’t out here.”

  She had a valid point, but Davy pressed his argument. “Cities aren’t the havens you make them out to be. They breed human vermin like murderers, cheats, and liars. Not to mention politicians.”

  “So are you saying there shouldn’t be any cities or towns? That we’d all be better off if we lived in the country?” Her eyelids fluttered, and she yawned again. “I may not be very smart, but that strikes me as silly.”

  “Me too, I reckon,” Davy admitted. “Now, why don’t you lie down and get some more rest. We have another long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “You won’t need to carry me. I can walk just fine.”

  “Fibber. You’re too weak yet. We’ll carry you until you can outrun an antelope.”

  She giggled. “No one can do that. You’ll be carrying me until I’m old and wrinkly.” Lowering to the ground, she cupped her cheek on her hand and added dreamily, “I like you, Mr. Crockett. Thank you for all you’ve done for us.”

  “Anytime.”

  Rebecca fell silent and within moments was breathing heavily. Heather had not moved once. Davy took the liberty of building the fire up a smidgen to keep them warm. He heard the wolf again, closer than ever. To the southeast a blazing greenish light flashed through the sky. A meteor, he figured. As he followed its arc to the horizon, he saw a pair of slanted red orbs peering at him from the darkness. Swiveling, he discovered more, dozens of disembodied eyes fixed on the camp. It was downright spooky.

  A low growl identified the owners of those eyes. One set glided nearer. Out of the inky blackness the shape of a wolf solidified, a large beast with an unusual white spot on its chest. The animal stopped and looked at Heather and Becky.

  Davy brought the rifle to his shoulder. Wolves were not particularly ferocious; none had ever attacked him, anyway. If these did, he could not drop them all. Maybe two or three. With any luck the rest would turn tail.

  The wolf with the white spot uttered a strange whine. Rotating, it padded off into the nocturnal domain that had spawned it. As if that were a signal, the rest of the pack melted into the night, living specters, there one instant, gone the next.

  The Irishman did not lower his gun until a wail in the distance assured him it was safe. Or as safe as it could be with the prairie crawling with wolves, bears, and big cats.

  Becky had hit the nail on the head. As much as he loved the wilderness, Davy had to concede that it was no place for people like the Dugans. They were as out of place as catfish on dry land. City folk were like pampered pets. They had to be led around by a leash and hand-fed, or they couldn’t cope.

  It troubled Davy to think that he had more in common with that pack of wolves than he did with most of the human race. For as long as he lived, he would never take to wearing a collar. Being coddled stripped a man of his dignity. It robbed an individual of the one crucial gift bestowed by genuine freedom: being self-sufficient.

  Give me freedom or give me death, Davy mused, and smiled. The sentiment was hardly original, but it was one he would live by until they planted him in his grave.

  Seven

  After seven days of grueling travel Flavius Harris stopped counting. The days tended to blur, one into another, so that it seemed to him as if his life had become an endless bone-numbing routine of constant misery. Each day was exactly like the one before it, a grueling pattern cut from the same torturous cloth.

  Flavius’s day always started with his being roughly snapped out of fitful sleep by strong hands that threw him over the sorrel. Ten hours of riding on his belly ensued, gut-wrenching hours that left him sore and stiff and nursing a knot of pain in his abdomen. Usually his captors allowed him half an hour in which to eat. Barely would his arms and hands return to normal before he was bound again. Each long, anxious night was spent curled into a ball on the damp ground, with no blanket for warmth. Every morning, toward dawn, the cold would cut into him like an icy knife. It would set his teeth to chattering, his body to quaking violently.

  Day after day after day was the same; night after night after night Flavius pined for Tennessee and lamented his misspent life. That it was coming to a close, that the final chapter in his earthly odyssey was about to be written, he had no doubt. As soon as the war party reached their village, his fate would be sealed. A grisly, horrible fate, the kind he once liked to talk about over his cups among friends at the tavern, the kind that happened to other people, the sort that set a man’s neck to prickling and gave him nightmares. Such as the massacre at Fort Mims by the Creeks, or the time a farmer named Johnson was found mutilated, his eyes gouged out, his tongue chopped off, and, oddly, every other finger and toe missing.

  Flavius tried to steel himself for the inevitable. He did not lack for bravery, but he was honestly uncertain whether he could endure prolonged torment without crying out, without betraying his manhood and bringing shame to the Harris name. So what if he was the only one who would know? It was enough. He would fade into eternity tainted by humiliation. The sole saving grace would be that his father and brothers were not there to see him besmirch the family reputation.

  Smothered by despair, F
lavius lost track of the hours, of the days, of the nights. So he was all the more surprised when, one sunny afternoon, he heard the tinkle of childish laughter and dogs barking. Rousing himself, he lifted his head and saw a village ahead—more lodges than he could count, a great village, the Indian equivalent of St. Louis or New Orleans.

  A cloud of dust to one side merited his interest. Under it milled thousands of horses, more horses than he had ever seen in one place at one time, more horses than logic dictated the tribe would ever need. Whoever these Indians are, they’re powerfully fond of the critters, he reflected.

  It was to be expected. During the long journey, Flavius had witnessed the skill of those who captured him. For amusement they often urged their animals into a gallop and put on an exhibition the likes of which would astound most European riding masters. Their horsemanship was without peer.

  With amazing agility, they could ride at full speed and swing onto the off side of their mounts so that only an ankle and part of a hand were visible, rendering them impossible to hit in battle. They knew acrobatic tricks that dazzled the brain. Whirling and twirling with remarkable skill, they scorned gravity.

  Despite himself, Flavius had been impressed. They had a very special relationship with their horses, these Indians. And their animals were worthy of the devotion. For as Flavius learned more about the warhorses, as he learned their character and daily observed how they behaved, he learned that they were some of the finest anywhere. They possessed all the qualities a man looked for in a mount: alertness, swiftness, endurance, and intelligence.

  As an uncle of his had been so fond of saying, animals did not grow on trees. They had to be selectively bred, the bad strains culled, the superior bloodlines improved—clearly a principle these Indians practiced. They were first-rate horse breeders, the presence of the enormous herd testifying to how seriously they applied themselves.