Davey Crockett 6 Page 9

  Flavius’s study of the herd was cut short. Suddenly he found himself the focus of intense scrutiny. Women and children thronged around, each eager for a peek. The smallest timidly hung back, but the older boys and girls and the women pressed in close, poking and jostling him.

  One white-haired matron went so far as to grab his hair, yank his head up, and pry at his lips with a gnarled finger. It startled him so badly that he did not resist. She gouged a nail against his gums, then ran a finger over his upper and lower teeth, grunted, and gave a curt nod.

  Flavius laughed aloud. Damn him if the old biddy hadn’t examined him as if he were a horse! Checking if he was healthy! But what difference did it make, when they intended to kill him eventually? As that same uncle had also liked to say, there was no explaining heathens. They were as unpredictable as the weather, as temperamental as a hurricane. “They’re just not like us God-fearing folk,” the uncle frequently declared.

  Flavius knew that Davy claimed the two peoples were a lot more alike than either was willing to admit. That the white man and the red man could live in peace, if they’d sincerely try. That there was no need for the endless bloodshed. But then, Davy Crockett was probably the only white man in all of Tennessee who felt it was wrong for the government to forcibly relocate Indians from their homelands to make room for more settlers.

  It was the Irishman’s one true failing, his soft spot, as it were. And all because some Indians once saved his life.

  Flavius could understand being grateful. If it had happened to him, he would have given the Indians a horse, or maybe a couple of blankets and a handful of trinkets. That was how it was done. Indians loved trinkets. Everyone knew that. They’d have gone their merry way, content, and he would have gotten on with his life, just as it was before.

  But no, not Crockett! Davy had to go around befriending all Indians. As if he had to repay the kindness done him a million times over. It made no blamed sense.

  The sorrel came to a halt. The war party had reached the center of the great circle and the warriors were dismounting. Flavius, licking his parched lips, twisted to try to see what was going on. If the savages were going to make wolf meat of him right away, he’d like to know. For the moment, though, they ignored him. A stocky warrior dressed in the finest of buckskins had arrived—a high chief, judging by the attitude of the people. The newcomer stood before the horse bearing the corpse of the man slain by Heather, and bowed his head.

  The body had begun to stink long before. Instead of burying it, the war party had bundled it in layers of deer hide, adding more and more layers as time went by until it resembled a bloated sausage. It stank worse and worse as time went on, yet they would not get rid of it.

  A shriek rent the village. From out of the crowd hurtled a woman who tried to throw herself at the corpse. Timely intervention stopped her. Kicking and wailing, she was dragged from the scene. In her wake, the assemblage fell totally silent. It was so quiet that Flavius could hear a fly buzz.

  All eyes swung toward him. Flavius wanted to wilt—to wither away to nothingness, or to sink into the ground and keep on sinking until he came out in China. Swallowing to moisten his raw throat, he croaked, “It wasn’t me. I’m not to blame. Do any of you savvy?”

  No one responded. The stocky warrior issued instructions. The tall warrior who had led the war party personally guided the sorrel to a nearby lodge. All the dwellings were constructed of high poles and cured buffalo hides, similar to those of the Sioux described by Davy. Paintings on the outer surfaces were common, though what they signified was a mystery.

  A pair of young warriors dumped Flavius on the ground. His shoulder spiked with a severe pain, and he lay still to recover. They denied him the luxury. He was roughly hauled erect and shoved into the lodge. He had to stoop to get through the doorway, and, stumbling, he drew up short.

  The interior was neat and clean, not the hovel Flavius had anticipated. Overhead was an air hole—for ventilation, he reckoned. Since he was a condemned prisoner, he had not counted on having company. But he did—a young woman and an old woman were on their knees to one side. “How-do, ladies,” he blurted.

  The older woman rose. In the gloom it took Flavius a few seconds to realize that she was the same white-haired crone who had examined his teeth. She was partial to a long stick she used for a cane. Hobbling over, she warily circled him, as someone might a rabid dog.

  It would be smart to gain a friend, Flavius decided. Smiling, he said, “I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. We never meant to get in a scrape with your warriors. Honest Injun. You see, we were—”

  The cane whizzed, striking Flavius across the shins. Yelping, he toppled, in so much pain that he could barely think straight. “Why’d you do that, you miserable witch?” he bawled. “I ain’t out to harm you.”

  Again the woman struck, across the shoulders. To spare himself further anguish, Flavius tried to crawl into a corner. Only, there were no corners. The lodge was circular. Compensating, he backed against a pile of blankets and grabbed one for a shield.

  The old woman had followed, the cane raised to wallop the tar out of him. It was a word from the younger woman that saved him. Huffing, the old one backed off, but she wagged her walking stick menacingly.

  Flavius rested his head on the blankets, hugged the one he held, and fought back a wave of tears. He’d not had a good long cry in ages; he was long overdue. It wasn’t manly, true, but a man could endure only so much. A single tear trickled from his left eye. He was on the brink of a deluge when the old woman did the one thing she could do that would stiffen his resolve.

  She laughed.

  Flavius looked up. The crone jabbed her cane at his cheek and mewed like a kitten—or like a baby whining for its mother’s milk. The younger woman motioned at her, but the old one kept on laughing and pointing. Furious at the insult, Flavius clamped his jaw shut and refused to shed another drop. He would be damned if he’d give her the satisfaction.

  The old witch said something. Flavius refused to face them, refused to have anything else to do with anyone in the whole tribe. He was inspired by newfound determination. He had tapped into a vein of iron will, and his emotions were under complete control. Nothing could make him acknowledge their existence.

  Then his stomach rumbled.

  ~*~

  “Water,” Becky Dugan rasped. “Please. We need water.”

  No one knew that better than Davy Crockett. It was their second day without, and he was thirsty enough to drink any of the Great Lakes dry.

  All had gone well until a few mornings before. Each evening he had brought down an animal for their supper. Each dawn they had gathered enough dew to slake their thirst. Then game grew scarce, and although Davy roamed farther afield than ever, farther than was safe, he failed to find food. At the same time, the mornings grew warmer, reducing the amount of dew to practically nothing.

  Now two days had elapsed, two whole days with no nourishment whatsoever. Davy carried Becky. She was able to walk if need be, but she was not up to snuff. As for Heather, the woman had been pushed past the limits of her endurance. Exhaustion etched her once lovely features, bags sagged under her once magnificent eyes. Her clothes were soiled, the hem tattered, her shoes in disrepair.

  They're on their last legs, Davy mused. Unless Providence intervened, their time left on earth could be measured in hours, not weeks. Mechanically, he plodded to the southwest. Why he continued to do so when any hope of saving Flavius was gone, why he persisted when starvation loomed and death was imminent, he couldn’t say. Habit, maybe. Once a Crockett set out to do something, he saw it through. Come what may.

  It was late afternoon. Dimly, Dave felt a warm breeze caress the stubble that dotted his chin. He was in sore need of a shave and a bath, not to mention a solid week of rest in bed.

  Thinking about Elizabeth helped take his mind off his woes. Thinking of the many cozy nights spent snuggling, of the socials the
y attended. She loved to mix and mingle, and she had a passion for dancing. Secretly, so did he. He’d never fess up to it in front of his friends for fear of being teased. Men weren’t supposed to like to dance.

  What of his brood? How were they faring? He’d had three kids by his first wife, poor Polly. Elizabeth already had two of her own when they hitched up, and she wanted to have another three or four before she was past her childbearing prime. Once, he’d joked that at the rate he was going, he’d have enough to start his own school and set himself up as the teacher. Wouldn’t that be a hell of a note?

  Suddenly a creature appeared in the distance. Stopping, Davy squinted to make it out, but it was distorted by the haze. The size suggested a deer or antelope, maybe something bigger. “Game,” he croaked, and sat Becky down. “Stay put,” he told them.

  Heather merely nodded. She had taken to having long spells of moody quiet. Late at night, sometimes, she sobbed softly with her face buried in her arms.

  “I won’t be long,” Davy promised. It hurt his parched throat to speak. Hefting Liz, he stalked toward the figure. Now figures. Several had appeared and were bunched together. The range was much too great, but he fixed a bead on them anyway, not really intending to shoot. To his consternation, they trotted to the south a couple of dozen yards. Then they vanished, in the snap of a finger.

  That can't be, Davy told himself. Mentally reaching into the tiny reservoir of stamina he had not yet tapped, he ran toward the spot. To clear his head, he slapped both cheeks. Hard. Odds were he’d get off only one shot, so he had to make it count.

  Antelope normally bolted before a hunter came anywhere near them. So when none showed themselves, Davy suspected he had stumbled on deer. For once things were going his way. He smiled when he spied a wash ahead. Flattening, he crawled to the rim and cautiously poked his head out so as not to scare the deer into bounding off.

  Four horses stood at rest at the bottom. Four horses fitted with saddles and saddlebags and water skins.

  Saddles? Water skins! Davy pushed onto his knees and threw back his head to whoop for joy. The riders were white! Heather and Becky and he were saved!

  Footsteps pounded to his rear. Davy started to turn, but husky bodies slammed into his back and he was smashed to the ground. Liz was ripped from his grasp. Whoever had pounced on him spun him around and hoisted him to his feet. Two brawny frontiersmen had hold of both arms, and two more were in front. They were as dark as Indians, their hides bronzed by ceaseless exposure to the sun, but there was no denying that they were white. Davy smiled broadly, so overcome with relief and joy that words failed him.

  A strapping young frontiersman took a step closer. He wore an unusual wide-brimmed black hat and sported fancy ivory-handled flintlocks wedged under a wide studded belt. “Why’s this jasper grinning like an idiot?”

  A man with gray streaks at the temples and a sober air shook his head. “I ain’t rightly sure, Farley. Maybe he’s one of them there scatterbrains. They say that Injuns won’t harm simpletons.”

  One of the men holding Davy, a black-haired rogue whose left cheek bore a jagged scar, said thickly, “Simpleton, hell. It’s an act, Taylor. He’s one of the filthy vermin who been tradin’ with the Comanches. I say we stake him out over an anthill, like those red bastards did to my cousin.”

  “Simmer down, Kerr,” Taylor said. “We ain’t about to send a man to meet his Maker ’less’n we have proof he deserves it.”

  Kerr was a sulky bear whose glower would frighten children. “Proof be damned! Why else is he out here in the heart of Comanche country all by his lonesome? He must have his pack animals hid somewheres. Let’s stake him out, then go find ’em.”

  Taylor shook his head. “You’re putting the cart before the horse.”

  “That’s right,” Farley said. “It’s only fair this feller gets to speak his piece.” Nodding at Davy, he declared, “Cat got your tongue, mister? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Nothing would please the Irishman more than to answer. But his mouth and throat were so dry that the only sounds he could utter were strangled syllables.

  “See? A simpleton,” Taylor said. “All he can talk is gibberish.”

  “It’s an act,” Kerr insisted.

  The fourth frontiersman sided with Taylor. “I don’t know. Look at his eyes. And how his mouth keeps a-twitching. He appears awful addle pated to me. Reminds me of that hog I had to shoot when it went mad.” He shuddered and slackened his grip. “Makes my skin crawl. What if it’s catching?”

  Davy found his voice at last. “I’m no damn simpleton!” he rasped, tearing his right arm loose. “And I ain’t been wolf-bit! What I am is lost and hungry and thirsty!”

  “Lost?” Taylor repeated. “How could a grown man get lost out here?” He motioned at the unending sea of grass, then at the blue vault above. “The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. What’s hard to figure out about that?”

  “No, no,” Davy said. “I’m not lost lost—”

  “What did I tell you?” the fourth man said. “Addle pated.”

  Davy tried to pry Kerr’s fingers off, but the scarred malcontent squeezed harder. “Let go of me,” Davy insisted. “The others need water and food. Go help them, then I’ll explain everything. Please.”

  “Others?” Taylor said.

  Farley started to pivot. “What others?”

  The click of a pistol hammer being cocked riveted everyone in place. “Release him,” Heather Dugan said flatly, “or so help me, I’ll put a ball smack between your eyes.” She had come up on them unnoticed, Becky behind her, the pistol Davy had lent her held steady in her right hand. She was addressing Kerr, who took one look at the muzzle of the smoothbore and immediately backed off several strides, raising his hands.

  “Hold on there, lady. Be careful with that thing. I’m not hankerin’ to be killed by accident.”

  Heather shifted so she had a clear shot at all four. “I assure you that if I do pull this trigger, there will be nothing accidental about it.” The others were so stupefied by her arrival that they gaped in bewilderment. Wagging the pistol to shoo them to one side, Heather sidled toward the Tennessean. “Did they hurt you?”

  The last thing on Davy’s mind were the bruises he had sustained. “They have water,” he said, nodding at the wash.

  “They do?”

  Heather and Becky both licked their lips, and Becky wriggled in protest, bleating, “Hurry! If I don’t get something to drink soon, I’ll faint.”

  Davy snatched his rifle from Taylor and covered the quartet. “Go help yourselves,” he instructed mother and daughter. “I’ll watch these coons.” Backing off, he tried not to dwell on those full skins beaded with moisture. Oh, for a sweet taste! His tongue felt swollen, his throat was a desert.

  Farley regained his wits first. “Sorry, mister. We didn’t realize you had your wife and daughter along or we’d’ve known you couldn’t be a gunrunner.”

  “That’s right,” Taylor concurred. “You have to understand our position. Desperate times call for desperate measures. So many lives have been lost that we’re apt to shoot first and ask questions second.”

  Davy’s temples drummed from the pounding he had taken. Their jabber only made his condition worse. Gesturing sharply, he snapped, “Hush. We’ll set things straight directly.”

  “You seem to be feeling poorly,” Taylor said. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Poorly is an understatement,” Davy allowed. Dampening his lips, he inquired, “Where are you boys from, anyhow?”

  “We hail from down San Antonio way,” Farley answered.

  “Where?”

  “San Antonio de Bexar,” Farley amended.

  “Never heard of it,” Davy admitted. “But I’ve yet to set foot in Missouri.”

  Farley and Taylor exchanged looks. “Missouri?” Farley said. “Don’t they have maps where you hail from?”

  “We’re Texians,” Taylor explained.

  Astonishment
befuddled Davy. “Texas? Isn’t that a province of Mexico? What in blue blazes are you gents doing so far from home?”

  “Us?” Taylor said, then squinted upward. To his friends he said, “It must be the heat. The sun fried his brain and he’s not thinking straight.” Taylor smiled at the Irishman and encompassed the prairie with a grand sweep. “Begging your pardon, friend. But where do you think you are? You’re in Texas.”

  “North Texas, to be exact,” Farley said.

  A feather could have bowled Davy over. He gawked in dazed disbelief, exclaiming, “It can’t be!” Surely he’d have known, he told himself. Mulling it over, though, he realized he was being foolish. No signs were posted in the middle of the wasteland, no markers to signify the boundary between the land claimed by the United States and that under the control of its neighbor to the south.

  Kerr was amused by his confusion. “This here is Comanche land,” he said, accenting each word, much as an adult might to a child who could not master basic geography. “At least, they claim it is. We’ve been scrappin with ’em for years now, but so far they’ve had the upper hand.”

  The fourth man nodded. “That’s right, stranger. They raid us to their heart’s content. Hardly a week goes by that a cabin isn’t burned, or cattle run off, or someone’s taken captive. They’re devils. Coldhearted animals. Every last one of ’em deserves to be exterminated.”

  “Texas?” Davy said. He just could not get over it. Back in Tennessee he’d dallied with the notion of one day taking a gallivant down that way, just as he did of one day traveling to the Pacific Ocean, maybe visiting California and the Oregon country. But they were dreams. Fervent wishes he never saw coming to pass.

  “Where are you from?” Taylor asked.

  Davy answered, adding, “My pard’s in the clutches of a band I’ve been trailing for the better part of a month. I never did learn who they were, but it must be those Comanches you’re so wrought up about.”

  “Do tell,” Taylor said. “Then I propose we join forces.”