Davy Crockett 7 Read online

  The freebooter with the blue bandanna on his head stepped past Tar, then gestured. Four cutthroats converged to deprive Davy of every weapon and hauled him upright. One removed his coonskin cap, sniffed it, made a show of scrunching up his face, then shoved it back onto Davy’s head. Tar laughed lustily in appreciation.

  Farley Tanner, Heather, and Priscilla had all twisted and were gazing at the Irishman in regret and sorrow. Davy smiled at each of them in turn to show there were no hard feelings. He had figured he was walking into a trap, but he had to do it. As his grandpa had impressed on him time and again, “Always be sure you are right, then go ahead.” No matter what the personal consequences might be.

  “So, mate. What might your name be?” Blackjack Tar asked.

  Davy told him.

  “And how do you figure into this?”

  “I’m a friend of the Tanner family. Anyone who harms them answers to me.”

  The giant’s expansive visage split in a grin. “You really are barmy, aren’t you? Here you are, unarmed, defenseless, surrounded by blighters who would like nothing better than to split you from stem to stem, and you have the nerve to threaten us?”

  “Let’s kill him now and be done with the ass,” suggested the man in the blue bandanna.

  “Now, now, Mr. Quint. This fellow went to so much trouble to partake of our hospitality, it wouldn’t be sporting to deprive him.”

  “I don’t like him, Cap’n,” Quint bluntly declared. “Me instincts tell me he’s trouble. And me instincts ain’t ever been wrong.”

  “True. But what can he do? He’s just one man.” Blackjack Tar clapped his subordinate on the back. “You fret too much, mate. Always have. All those years sailing with me should have taught you that I always know what’s best.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “Then tie him up and leave him be. He’ll keep until morning.” Tar turned to depart. “Oh. And remove all their gags. No need we can’t be civil and permit them to spend their last hours pleasantly. Always be a true gentleman, eh?” He chortled at some private joke and stalked out.

  The freebooters obeyed their leader’s orders to the letter. Davy was deposited close to Heather, his wrists and ankles bound so securely that the circulation to his limbs was impaired. None of the other captives spoke until the last of the cutthroats had left.

  “I’m sorry, Crockett,” Farley said. “Tar threatened to harm the women if I tried to warn you.”

  “And he promised to hurt Farley if we did anything,” Heather said.

  Davy tested the loops binding his wrists. As tight as they were, he felt that with considerable wriggling he might loosen them a trifle. He set to it, gritting his teeth against the discomfort.

  “The man is a brute,” Priscilla remarked spitefully. “A monster who delights in terrorizing others. He should be hung from the highest tree. If my Walter were alive, he would have Tar staked out over an anthill.”

  “Have you learned why he abducted you?” Davy asked.

  “No,” Farley said. “He keeps hinting, but he won’t come right out and say.” Lowering his voice, he whispered, “What about your partner and my men? Where are they?”

  Davy hesitated. As much as he would like to disclose the plan his capture had set in motion, he was leery of listening ears outside. “Probably right where they’re supposed to be,” he said, and let it go at that.

  “Tar is up to something,” Farley said. “Something big. He’s gathering as many freebooters as he can. More than have ever banded together before.”

  “I shudder to think what they intend to do,” Heather said. “An army of men who live to pillage, rape, and murder.”

  Farley jerked around. “Don’t say that word.”

  “What word? Rape?”

  “It isn’t fitting for a lady.”

  Heather bestowed a sweet smile on him. “I like being placed on a pedestal. But we have to be practical. You’ve seen how some of those men look at me.”

  Farley’s features grew flinty. “If anyone so much as lays a fingers on you, I’ll rip out their throats with my bare teeth. So help me God.”

  Lowering her head, Heather snaked toward the Texican. He pumped his shoulders, levering his body closer to meet her halfway. They ended up face-to-face, nose-to-nose. Farley swooped his mouth to hers to plant a lingering, hungry kiss, heedless of his mother and the Irishman.

  Priscilla did not take umbrage. To the contrary, her eyes grew slick with moisture and she had to clear her throat to say, “Look at them, Mr. Crockett. Lovebirds. Just like Walter and I when we were their age.” She coughed. “It’s unfortunate they’ll never know the same happiness Walter and I shared.”

  “Don’t give up yet,” Davy said. “I admit our prospects aren’t worth crowing about, but we’re not licked until we give up the ghost.”

  “An optimist, I see,” Priscilla said, not unkindly.

  “What does always looking at the dark side get you, except a sour stomach?” Davy responded. “ There are plenty of woes to go around without adding to them.”

  Priscilla rested her cheek on the earth. “Once I thought hope should always spring eternal. Now I can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s an immature outlook.”

  “Not in my book.” Davy’s right wrist was bleeding, his skin scraped raw by the constant friction. “You can hang me for a chipmunk if I ever give up without a tussle.” He resorted to his favorite tactic to take her mind off their fix. “I had a cousin once. The practical sort. Whenever misfortune laid him low, he’d always say, ‘That’s the way the hog bladder bounces.’ Well, one day he was in the hog pen, feeding them, and an old boar went berserk. Slammed my cousin into the fence and busted his neck against a rail. Seems to me that’s life in a nutshell.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s too ridiculous for words. But we’ve still got to slop the hogs.”

  Priscilla began to laugh, caught herself, then broke into racking howls of mirth, so loud that in another minute Quint and two other men dashed inside with pistols drawn. Bewildered, they regarded Priscilla as if she were a raving lunatic. “What’s gotten into the old hag?” the sea dog demanded. “Doesn’t she know her hours are numbered?”

  “So are yours, friend,” Davy said.

  “Reckon so, do you?” Quint snapped. “Me and me mates will teach you different once the Cap’n is done with you. I’ll do you me own self, with this.” He patted a dirk on his hip. “Carve you up so your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  Sniffing in contempt, Quint pushed through the flap, his cronies in tow.

  “What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on that one,” Farley Tanner stated.

  Heather pecked his chin. “Don’t think about him. Don’t think about any of those riffraff. Lie close to me and let’s savor the short span we have left.”

  Gazing tenderly at her, Farley replied, “My only regret is bringing this down on your head. If I hadn’t invited you to my ranch ...” Despondent, he closed his eyes and groaned in torment.

  “Don’t you dare blame yourself,” Heather scolded. “Why must men always heap the blame for all the calamity that befalls them on their own shoulders? Blackjack Tar is responsible. Him, and him alone.” She kissed Farley, but he did not react. “Damn it! Quit behaving so childishly. I expect better of the man I want to marry.”

  Farley’s head shot up as if he had been booted in the ear. Amazement transfixed him, to be replaced by a flood of affection he expressed by lavishing hot kisses on the woman he cherished.

  Davy politely took an interest in a support pole. Both his wrists were bleeding now, but it couldn’t be helped. He continued to move them back and forth, up and down, around and around. By gradual degrees he gained a little more freedom of movement as time went on. But it was nowhere near enough. By sunrise he would be no better off.

  Priscilla Tanner was resting, her eyes closed. Farley and Heather lay still, glued to each other, salvaging happiness from the dregs of despair. Davy hated to intr
ude, but he sat up and said, “We should give these ropes a try. Who wants to go first?”

  Farley shook himself. “I will. Turn around.”

  Back to back, the Tennessean and the Texan pried and picked and clawed at the thick knots. They might as well have attempted to unravel strands of steel. The freebooters knew their business too well.

  Davy did not give up until an hour later. His fingertips were badly bruised and one of his nails had broken off, but all he had to show for it was a partially untangled knot. One lousy knot. “It’s useless,” he conceded.

  Farley persisted a while longer. The frequent longing looks he cast at Heather Dugan explained why. Yet in due course he sagged, dejected, beaten. “I can’t believe it will end like this. Trussed up like a calf for the slaughter.”

  Davy shared those sentiments. In his younger days, before the Creek War, when, like many a young man, he had dreamed of earning distinction in bloody battle. He’d sometimes entertained the idea he would go down in a blaze of glory, dying amid a heap of fallen foes. Now he would much rather die peaceably in his sleep. But both were to be denied him unless his ruse worked.

  Dawn was not far off. A few chirping birds signaled its advent, and before long a commotion outside indicated some of the freebooters were up and about. Pots and pans clanged. The fire crackled noisily.

  Farley lay beside Heather, their cheeks touching. “I’m so sorry, dearest,” he said softly.

  “The only thing I regret,” she responded, “is having our love nipped in the bud.”

  From the large tent across the way issued a rumbling bellow. “Quint? Mr. Quint? Where the hell is my coffee?”

  It wouldn’t be long, Davy mused. Sliding to the cut canvas, he poked his head out. To the east the sky had acquired a pink tinge. Cutthroats were engaged in a variety of task: making breakfast, loading guns, sharpening cutlasses and swords and knives, and dressing. Most were suffering from lingering aftereffects of their debauch the evening before, testified to by the empty bottles and kegs strewn everywhere.

  Davy was more interested in the reeds lining the creek. At a certain spot adjacent to a lightning-scarred tree they parted and Flavius briefly showed himself. Davy nodded, then drew back before any of the freebooters caught on.

  “What in blazes do you have to smile about?” Farley inquired.

  “We’re still alive, aren’t we?” Davy replied.

  “Small comfort. We’ll never see another morning.”

  As if to accent the point, eight members of the brigand fraternity arrived. Two seized each captive and dragged them outdoors, over to where a log had been positioned close to the fire. They were rudely dumped and left to their own devices for the next twenty minutes, until in the growing light of the new day came Blackjack Tar, dressed as usual in his flowing cloak and holding a cup of steaming coffee.

  “Morning to you, ladies,” the Britisher said. “I do hope you were able to get some rest despite the deplorable accommodations.”

  Heather faced him squarely. “Go to hell.”

  Sighing, Blackjack Tar nodded at his right-hand man. “See, Mr. Quint? You try to do the right thing and you’re treated with scorn. I’d be grateful for an extra few hours of life, were it me.” Taking a loud sip, he licked his lips, then soberly surveyed his prisoners. “Were we on the high seas I’d have each of you walk the plank. As it is, I’ll have to make do with a bullet in the brain.”

  Priscilla stirred. “Do your worst, you beast. The people of Texas will hunt you down one of these days and make you pay for your filthy crimes.”

  “I doubt it, granny. The Royal Navy couldn’t make me toe the line. Neither could Jean Laffite. And the pathetic rabble who call this godforsaken country home can’t hold a candle to either.” Tar swallowed more coffee. “Besides, another week and I’ll be shut of Texas for good.”

  “You’re giving up your piratical ways?” Priscilla said. The giant snorted. “Not in this life. I’ll be leaving for greener pastures, as the old saw goes. Have to. There won’t be much of anything left here worth my bother.”

  Davy grew interested. He scanned the dozens of unkempt figures milling about the meadow and put two and two together. “You’re planning one last big raid. All or nothing. Is that it?”

  “Give the lad sixpence,” Tar cracked. “In another six months Nacogdoches will be an empty shell. La Bahia has little to offer. That leaves San Antonio and the surrounding ranchos. Plum enough pickings, in one fell swoop. Then I can move on to bigger and better bounty.”

  Farley Tanner sat up. “My ears can’t be working properly. I’d swear you’re about to attack San Antonio.”

  Blackjack Tar smirked at Quint. “And you told me Texicans are dumber than buffalo. This one is catching on.”

  “I hope you try, you bastard,” Farley said, squirming onto his knees. “I honestly do. It will be the last plundering you ever do. Over eight hundred people live in and around the town. They’ll rise up and crush these no-account scum. Think so, do you?” the giant responded sarcastically. “But there are a few flaws in your logic, Yank. In the first place, only about six hundred actually live in the town. Of those, over half are women and children. Another third are older men who spend their days sitting in the sun dreaming of their youth.” Tar paused. “When all is said and done, there are only about a hundred and fifty able-bodied fighters. And by this time tomorrow I’ll have one hundred and twenty freebooters at my disposal.”

  “You’ll never pull it off,” Farley insisted, but he sounded less confident than he had previously.

  “Strategy, Yank, is everything. What do you reckon will happen if we hit San Antonio at daybreak, when most everyone is either asleep or too groggy to see straight? I’ll tell you. We’ll sow panic that will spread like wildfire. Most everyone who can, will flee to the south. What little resistance we encounter will be easily crushed. Leaving us to take what we want, do what we want.”

  Farley grasped at straws. “The Spanish army will send troops.”

  “Oh, please. Barragan’s pitiful handful pose no threat. As for reinforcement, they won’t arrive for weeks. By then my mates and me will be long gone, to a ship waiting for us on the coast. Then it’s off to the Caribbean and doing what I do best.”

  “Being a pirate.” Priscilla reeked contempt.

  “Exactly, old crock. And damn proud of it.” Tar rested his elbows on his sturdy thighs and fingered the rim of his dented tin cup. “You’re quick to judge, lady. But tell me where I’m different from any politician or rich landowner you know.”

  Priscilla was so mad, she quivered like an agitated leaf. “They don’t steal or kill or destroy what isn’t theirs!”

  “No? And what do you call taxes, if not a legal means of stealing from the poor to give to the rich?”

  “Utter nonsense.”

  “Is it? And I suppose it’s nonsense the Spanish crown destroys anyone who dares oppose their rule? Or that in my own country, merry old England, the royals have used their subjects as cannon fodder to wipe out their enemies?” Tar shook his great head. “No, granny. If you were honest, you’d admit I am no different from those who have set themselves up as our lords and masters. Except I don’t hide behind laws and regulations and the like.”

  Farley would not let his mother get the worst of it. “Sugarcoat your actions all you want. It won’t change the facts. You’ve butchered innocents. You deserve the same fate.”

  “No argument there, Yank,” the giant admitted. “But you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t stick my head into the noose anytime soon.” Guffawing, Tar placed the cup on the log, then rose. “Enough chat. Any last words before we get to it?”

  “There’s one thing I’d like to know. Why did you kidnap my mother and Heather?” Farley asked.

  Blackjack Tar shrugged. “It seemed the smart thing to do. You have over three dozen tough Mexicans at your beck and call. Enough to cause me headaches if you weren’t kept from interfering.” He grinned. “I was going to send a rider advising
you to stay put at your ranch until I was through in San Antonio. But you’ve saved me the trouble. Without you to lead them, your men aren’t half the threat they’d be otherwise.”

  “You’re wrong,” Farley declared, but everyone there knew the freebooter had the situation pegged.

  “So. Anyone else have any last words?” Tar wondered.

  “I do,” Davy said.

  “Let’s hear them, raccoon-head.”

  “I’d like you to surrender.”

  Blackjack Tar blinked. The hilarity that ensued shook his titanic frame from top to bottom. Slapping his sides, he tried to reply but couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Whatever else might be said about the man, there was no denying he had a marvelous sense of humor. Some of the freebooters joined in. Others, Quint among them, eyed the Tennessean with bloodthirsty interest.

  “Surrender, is it?” Tar said, controlling himself. “Lord, I like you, lad. It’s too bad we didn’t meet under different circumstances. A few drinks under our belts, and I’d wager you could keep me in stitches for hours. Now, any last words? Seriously.”

  “I was serious.”

  “Is that so? And if I don’t?”

  Davy slowly rose into a squat. “In that case, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.”

  No one laughed. No one grinned. Blackjack Tar chewed on his mustache, his beetling forehead furrowed. “Damned if part of me doesn’t believe you. But the other part says you’re bluffing, mate. So I’m calling your bluff.” Sliding the cutlass from its scabbard, Tar elevated it for a lethal stroke.

  Eight

  Davy Crockett never so much as flinched. Bound and helpless, partially hemmed in by coldhearted butchers who wouldn’t think twice about making worm food of him, he showed no fear. As the giant called Blackjack Tar elevated the cutlass to cleave Davy’s skull in half, Davy calmly looked up, straight into Tar’s dark eyes, and said in an even tone, “I wouldn’t, were I you, hoss. Not unless you’re bulletproof.”