Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3) Page 8

  There was nothing Davy could do. Dilbert and Hillman were watching him to ensure he did not meddle. Cyrus gave the signal; instantly the hilltop crackled with gunfire and lusty yells. But things did not work out as the whites had planned.

  He-Bear must have sensed that something was amiss. For even as Cyrus snapped his fingers, He-Bear gave a signal of his own. Bounding to the left, the Atsina howled like a rabid wolf. It was the cue for his warriors to close with the whites, as from scattered points on the hill five hidden warriors leaped to their feet and charged.

  All hell broke loose.

  Guns boomed. Arrows whizzed. Heavy lances cleaved the air. White men and red men grappled in life-or-death struggles. Blood and oaths flew fast and furious.

  In the midst of the bedlam, Davy Crockett sped toward his friend. He saw the warrior behind Flavius cock the pistol and prepare to blow Flavius’s brains out. Davy brought up his own gun, but before he could fire a rifle thundered high in a tree and the warrior was catapulted backward by a heavy ball that smashed into his forehead.

  Davy skirted Dilbert, who was locked in fierce combat with a husky Atsina. Hillman was already down, a lance jutting from his chest. Davy leaped over him, avoided another pair of fighters, and broke for the grass.

  Flavius had ducked to keep from being hit by stray lead. He swiveled to see if the woman had done the same and was flabbergasted to find her sneaking off on the heels of Pashipaho. She was being foolish. A moving target always drew more fire.

  Darting over, Flavius shouldered her aside. She spun, levering a leg to kick, a leg she lowered when she saw who it was. She gave him the oddest look.

  Flavius nodded at the ground and squatted. To his amazement, she kept on going. No! he wanted to shout, but couldn’t with the buckskin crammed into his mouth.

  A ball thudded into the soil a few yards away. The next one might rip through the blonde.

  Flavius jumped and tucked, bowling her over. Rebecca tumbled, winding up on her side with him across her legs. He had no intention of moving, even when she thrashed and squirmed and railed into her gag. They were safer where they were.

  Davy was witness to his friend’s heroic act. He was almost there when a painted visage reared before him and he stared down the muzzle of a rifle. Flavius’s rifle, in the hands of an Atsina.

  In pure reflex, Davy threw himself to the right. The Kentucky went off almost in his ear. Acrid smoke enveloped him as he rose to his knees, his ear ringing unbearably. A shape loomed, distorted by the smoke. He pivoted on the balls of his feet as the stock of Flavius’s rifle swished past his head.

  Davy rammed his pistol up and in. The muzzle gouged into firm flesh, and he fired. A yelp greeted the muffled retort. Diving clear of the smoke, he palmed his tomahawk.

  The Atsina was still on his feet, one hand pressed over the wound in his belly, the other clawing for a knife. He had dropped the rifle. Ablaze with a thirst for revenge, he cleared the beaded scabbard, and thrust.

  A deft arc of Davy’s tomahawk parried the blow. Reversing his swing, Davy sheered into the man’s chest. The warrior screeched like an enraged hawk and tried to sever Davy’s neck, but Davy dodged, sidestepped, and brought the bloody edge of the tomahawk down on the crown of the Atsina’s head.

  All around, the battle swirled. Whites and Indians were prone, never to rise again. Puddles of blood stained the soil. Scarlet drops had spattered the grass.

  Davy wrenched the tomahawk loose, claimed the rifle, stripped off the ammo pouch and powder horn, and ran to where Flavius lay on top of Rebecca Worthington. “I’ll have you free in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he said, hunkering.

  “I tried to warn you,” Flavius said the second his gag was yanked out. Twisting so Davy could cut the strips that bound his wrists, he glanced up in time to see a settler pitch from a tree, the feathered end of an arrow protruding from the man’s back. “Hurry!”

  Davy worked as rapidly as possible. Shoving the rifle, ammo pouch, and powder horn at Flavius, he bent over the woman, who was gazing forlornly southward, not at the conflict. “We’ll get you to safety, ma’am,” he promised.

  Rebecca did not respond or move. She appeared to be in the grip of sorrow so profound, she was blind to what was going on around her.

  Davy pulled the woman to her feet and had to loop an arm around her waist to keep her from falling. “Are you hurt, Miss Worthington?” he asked. Receiving a blank gaze, he shook her gently. “Ma’am? Snap out of it. We’re liable to be turned into pincushions if we don’t make ourselves scarce.”

  “Where is he?” Rebecca said softly.

  Thinking she might be referring to Cyrus or possibly Norval, Davy glanced over a shoulder. The hilltop was a madhouse of butchery and bloodshed. Neither was anywhere to be seen. Davy prayed that Norval had not been a casualty. As for Cyrus, he couldn’t care less. He ushered her toward the gully. “We’d best light a shuck while we can.”

  “No!” Rebecca said. She tried to break loose.

  The ordeal had sapped her energy. Davy had no problem pinning her arms to her sides as he swiftly steered her among the trees.

  Flavius followed, reloading as he ran. He was in dire dread that the Atsinas would give chase at any moment. None did, though, and gradually the curses, screams, and clang of steel grew fainter.

  They entered the gully, flying now, Davy supporting the woman, who had stopped resisting and was as limp as a wet rag.

  Davy remembered seeing Thunder Heart in the thick of the clash, and resolved never to trust another Atsina for as long as he lived. The treacherous band never had any intention of trading for their captive. They were as bad as the settlers. Good riddance to the lot!

  At least the woman had been saved. And Flavius was all right.

  Davy looked back several times. Evidently none of the warriors had observed their escape. Reaching the bottom, he hustled into the trees.

  Since Rebecca was having difficulty walking, and was as pale as a sheet, Davy stopped in deep shadow at the base of an oak and carefully lowered her so she could sit. “What’s wrong, ma’am?” he tried again, worried that she had been violated. The shock of being outraged sometimes did terrible things to women.

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  “Who is? Cyrus? Your uncle?” Davy stroked her hair. “Maybe they got away,” he suggested, although he very much doubted it.

  Flavius did not say a word. He had a sneaking hunch why the woman was so distraught, but he kept it to himself for the time being.

  Davy leaned Rebecca against the bole. “Why don’t you rest a minute?” he said, even though they could not spare five seconds, let alone sixty.

  Rebecca’s lovely eyes focused on his face. Some semblance of life animated her countenance. “I’m sorry. I have no right to put your lives in danger. Let’s go while we can.”

  Above them war whoops resounded. Davy crouched in front of her, unlimbering his tomahawk. Somewhere or other he had dropped the bow and not even realized it. Kayne’s pistol was wedged under his belt, but he had not reloaded it.

  Flavius sank behind a scraggy bush. It had not escaped his notice how He-Bear looked at the woman when she was not aware. The Atsina chief was not going to let her slip through his fingers.

  Pebbles clattered in the gully, punctuated by the pad of moccasins. Several Atsinas appeared, one covered with blood not his own. They paused, staring right and left.

  Three more Big Bellies appeared, one limping. It was He-Bear himself, a gash on his left thigh where a knife had bitten almost to the bone. His contorted face testified to his temperament. All the Atsinas carried rifles now, Davy saw, which could only mean one thing. He-Bear barked orders and the band spread out, racing into the trees like a pack of bloodhounds, heads bent to search for sign.

  The Atsinas never suspected that their quarry was only twenty feet from the gully mouth. And by a sheer fluke, none came within ten feet of the oak tree. Davy thought for sure that one of them was bound to spot the fresh tracks, but
Fate smiled on him. The warriors melted into the forest, He-Bear last, hopping like an oversized jackrabbit.

  “Whew!” Flavius exhaled when the Indians were gone. “If this day doesn’t turn my hair gray, nothing will.”

  Davy warily stood. Sooner or later the Atsinas would backtrack. He had to have the woman long gone by then. But first there was an unpleasant duty to perform. “Stay with Rebecca,” he told Flavius. “I’m going back up.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To find out if any of them are still alive,” Davy said.

  Flavius balked at being separated again. “You’re wasting your time. Those red devils wouldn’t have left, otherwise.”

  “We have to be sure. It’s the right thing to do.”

  A mild oath escaped Flavius. “You and your conscience! One of these times, that hankering of yours to always do right will get you into more trouble than you can handle.”

  “Probably. But I have it to do.” Davy started off, stopping when Rebecca asked him to wait. She rose, her temporary weakness gone.

  “Take us with you.”

  “I don’t know if that’s wise,” Davy hedged. Some of the Atsinas just might still be up on the hill. “You’re better off here.”

  “I insist,” Rebecca said, walking over to him. “Those men up there came on my account. They fought to save me. It’s only right that I do what I can for them.”

  Flavius shook his head, muttering, “Lordy, there are two of you!”

  Time was precious. Davy took the lead, leaving his friend to guard their rear. Smears of blood on the gully floor marked where He-Bear had walked. Shy of the rim, Davy guided Rebecca into a cleft. “Stay put until I’ve made certain the coast is clear.”

  “I’m not a little girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “Please,” Davy said. “Flavius will watch over you.” Climbing the rest of the way, he poked his head up high enough to survey the top. Fluttering leaves and rustling blades lent motion to a supremely tranquil scene. No one would ever guess that five minutes ago human beings had been killing each another in wanton abandon.

  Rather than stand and expose himself, Davy slid to the west on his stomach, propelled by his elbows and knees. At the nearest tree he stopped and knelt. A smoky odor lingered in the air. Mingled with it was the unmistakable scent of freshly spilled blood. An aura of death hung heavily over the woodland.

  The body of a dead settler was the first Davy spotted. The man had been speared low in the gut by a lance. To finish him off, his adversary had cut his throat. A pool of drying blood framed his head and shoulders in a scarlet halo.

  Davy crept on by. Here and there were other bodies, mostly those of whites. Horror, shock, astonishment, dismay; the emotions portrayed in their contorted faces ran the gamut of reactions to dying.

  Davy went to each and every one, checking for a heartbeat if it was not apparent that the victim had perished. He had confirmed five kills and was nearing a sixth form when a low groan gave him cause to hope.

  It was a skinny man, on his stomach. Davy had to roll him over. “Dilbert!” he exclaimed.

  The weasel had been transfixed by an arrow high in the left shoulder. In addition, his cheek had been slashed and his left wrist partially severed. The worst of all his wounds, however, was the one across his midsection. Someone had disemboweled him, leaving his intestines to spill out.

  The stench was revolting. Covering his mouth, Davy moved on. Obviously, Dilbert had not been the one who groaned. Rounding a tree, he nearly stumbled over a middle-aged settler by the name of Craig, who had taken a ball in the ribs.

  Placing a hand under the man’s shoulders, Davy raised him high enough to prop against his left leg. “Craig?” he said. “Can you hear me?”

  The settler’s eyelids fluttered open. He gazed blankly at the sky, then blinked and licked his lips, which were flecked with red drops. “Kayne? That you? Everything is a blur.”

  Davy identified himself.

  “One of the coons from Tennessee? Did we lick ’em, boy? Did we give ’em what for?”

  What should he say? Davy reflected, surveying the bodies strewn pell-mell from the north end of the hill to the south. “We gave as good as we got,” was his reply.

  “Good.” A contented smile creased Craig’s weathered visage, a smile that died when he erupted in a violent coughing fit. He wheezed, grasped Davy’s arm, and died. Just like that.

  “Damn,” Davy said softly. Lowering the body, he closed the man’s eyes. He would have liked to dig a grave, but it was out of the question.

  A twig cracked to his rear. In a twinkling Davy whirled, raised his tomahawk to throw. He scared Rebecca so badly that she stepped back, a hand to her slender throat.

  “It’s only me!”

  “I told you to wait in the gully,” Davy said more gruffly than he intended. Beyond her, Flavius sheepishly pretended to be interested in a thistle. “You shouldn’t have let her come.”

  “How was I to stop her?” Flavius protested. He’d objected when she tramped off, but short of throwing her to the ground and sitting on her, he had been powerless to prevent it.

  “Keep your eyes skinned,” Davy advised. “The Atsinas might come back at any moment.”

  “Why would they?” Rebecca asked. “They’ve killed all my rescuers.”

  Had they, indeed? Davy had his doubts. Kayne, Norval, and Cyrus were missing. Striding to the west slope, he sought their bodies below, in vain. So there was a slim chance the trio had gotten away.

  Flavius verified that an Atsina was dead by poking the warrior with his rifle. As he moved toward another, a glint of metal in the high grass lured him to a prize the Atsinas had overlooked in their haste to reclaim their female captive. “Look at this, pard!” he said, hoisting a long rifle chest high. “A present for you.”

  Davy accepted the gun gladly. Being unarmed in the wilds was akin to being naked. He helped himself to Craig’s bullet pouch and powder horn. Added proof, if any were needed, that the Atsinas most definitely would return. The war party had neglected to strip the fallen of all their arms and other valuables.

  “I count four dead Indians,” Flavius announced.

  That matched Davy’s initial tally. The settlers had fared even worse, losing six men. “Hunt for a rifle for Miss Worthington. And anything else that could come in handy.”

  Flavius remembered that Hillman had worn a new Green River knife in a shiny new sheath. But when he reached the body, knife and sheath were gone. So was a gold locket the man had worn containing a photograph of his wife.

  A few yards to the south, Rebecca halted after making a wide circle of the battleground. “I don’t see him here, do you?”

  Davy was bent over another settler whose possibles bag had not been taken. Tugging on the strap, he idly glanced at her. “Which one?” he asked, figuring she was not aware that three settlers were missing.

  “Pashipaho. The Sauk who abducted me.”

  “I haven’t seen him since the shooting commenced,” Davy said. “Why? Did you want to see his body for yourself?” Some women—and men—were like that. They were not satisfied until those who abused them were dead and gone.

  Rebecca blinked in surprise. “His body? Gracious, no. I’m glad he escaped. He never did me any harm.”

  Why did Davy feel she was holding something back? He removed the possibles bag, slipped the strap over his arm, and adjusted it across his chest. “It’s commendable you don’t hold a grudge,” he said. She began to answer, but a gasp choked it off.

  From the vicinity of the gully wafted voices. The Atsina war party was returning.

  Chapter Eight

  Davy Crockett did not waste a second. Springing to Rebecca’s side, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the west slope. They went over the side without slowing.

  Flavius did not need to be told to follow suit. Back-pedaling to cover them, he spied vague movement off through the trees. Another few moments and the Atsinas would spot him. Flatten
ing on his side, he rolled backward a good ten feet. He did not intend to roll past the crest, but gravity claimed him. Like an out-of-control barrel, he shot down the slope, gaining speed swiftly.

  Davy and Rebecca were scrambling downward on the fly. A low squawk from Flavius alerted Davy to the two-legged avalanche about to slam into them. Throwing an arm around her, he jumped out of the way.

  His momentum building, Flavius tried to arrest his descent by gouging his elbows into the ground. All that did was spike pain clear up to his shoulders. In desperation, he jammed his rifle stock into the grass.

  It worked. Sort of. The stock wedged against a bush or a mound or something. Flavius was not quite sure. But suddenly he was levered into the air, the rifle acting as a fulcrum. He managed to hold on to it as he tumbled end over end and crashed to a bruising stop against a small pine that cracked under the impact.

  Dazed and hurting, Flavius sat up. His main worry was for his rifle and a pistol he had taken from a dead settler. As he examined them, Davy and the woman reached him.

  “Did you bust anything?”

  “I don’t think so. My brainpan was rattled, but I’ll live,” Flavius said.

  Rebecca glanced at the top of the hill. “Listen!” she whispered. “They must be close by.”

  The guttural tones of the Atsinas rang out crystal clear. Davy hauled Flavius to his feet and shoved him toward a row of trees fifteen feet below. “Hurry!” he urged.

  Not that any urging was needed. Flavius and Rebecca were right on his heels as Davy rushed between a pair of closely spaced saplings and dropped onto his stomach. No sooner had they imitated him than several swarthy figures were silhouetted on the crest. One was much bigger than the others.

  He-Bear, Davy guessed. The Big Belly leader took a few more steps, and Davy could see him clearly. He-Bear was scanning the slope. The big Atsina scowled, and when one of the warriors made a comment, He-Bear’s reply was curt and harsh.

  At a gesture from their chief, two Atsinas started down.

  Rebecca grasped Davy’s arm. “They’ve seen us!”

  “No,” Davy whispered. “They’re just checking. Maybe they heard something when Flavius hit that tree.”