Davy Crockett 8 Page 9

  Nothing happened. There was a click, and that was it. The rifle had misfired, justifiably so, since he had forgotten to dry it and reload. The same with his pistols. It scared him to think he had been traipsing through the swamp with no means to protect himself other than his knife.

  Now he was in a quandary. To reload, he must stop, and if he stopped, the slavers would gain ground. Yet it had to be done. Halting, he watched the line of figures fade into the vegetation; then he yanked out the ramrod and went to work.

  The task took much longer than Flavius anticipated. The useless wet powder had to be removed, a painstaking process since much of it clung to the insides of the barrels. He persevered, though, and was rewarded with three primed weapons and restored confidence.

  Shouldering Liz, Flavius hastened after the slavers. The sun sat balanced on the western rim of the world. Shadows were long and ominous.

  At any moment Flavius would spot them. All he need do was wait until the river rats let down their guard, then end it. Sam would be avenged. The blacks would be rescued.

  Or would they? Flavius frowned. Saving the slaves from Sedge and Arlo would accomplish little. James would still sell them in New Orleans. They would still spend the rest of their earthly days toiling on a plantation somewhere.

  What else then? Should he free them? Unfasten their shackles and let them go? Flavius pondered heavily. Where could they go if he did? It wasn’t as if they could waltz onto a ship and book return passage to Africa. Nor could they make a go of it on their own. They had no money, no clothing to speak of. Hell, they didn’t even know English. They would be branded as runaways wherever they went, and put on the auction block.

  Flavius wondered if they could live in the wild. Not in the swamp, like the Karankawas, but off on the prairie somewhere, like the Pawnees and the Osage. Davy might even help relocate them.

  Flavius was getting ahead of himself. His grand plan overlooked a crucial element. James would hardly be willing to give them up without a fight. Not when they were worth twelve thousand dollars.

  Deep in thought, Flavius forged on. The undergrowth grew murky and somber, the trees taking on the aspect of inky sentinels. An owl hooted, a harbinger of night. He rose onto his toes to try and spot the slavers’ fire.

  Where could they have gotten to? Flavius stopped to scour the ground, and was treated to a shock. There were no footprints. He had drifted off the trail! He spun and ran back, anxious to find it again.

  The sun was gone. With it, the last vestige of light faded. Twilight swooped in, blanketing everything in deepening shades of gray.

  Flavius thought to climb a tree. The slavers were bound to have a camp nearby. It would serve as a beacon, guiding him through the night. But when he clambered into a fork, mocking darkness taunted him. Either they had not built their fire yet—or he was so far behind, he couldn’t see it.

  “Oh, God. I’m lost.”

  Flavius began to climb down, then changed his mind. Night was falling. Blundering about in pitch darkness did not appeal to him. Predators would be on the prowl. Snakes and gators would be out in greater numbers. The safest place to be was exactly where he was, up a tree.

  The fork was uncomfortably small, but he could make do. To insure he wouldn’t fall out, he tucked his pistols and knife under his pants and removed his wide belt, which he looped around a narrow limb and secured around his midriff.

  Sleep was a long time coming. Flavius was hungry enough to eat a moose raw, and his stomach reminded him of it by snarling noisily often.

  A spectacular starry spectacle blossomed overhead, but he was too depressed to give it more than a brief survey.

  During daylight hours the swamp was rife with the songs of birds and the droning of insects, punctuated by the occasional bellow of a gator or the bleat of deer. A man got accustomed to it after a while.

  But the daylight sounds were nothing in comparison to those at night. Early on, frogs croaked in a throaty chorus that swelled in volume as time went by. Crickets joined in. Gators bellowed without cease. Birds added to the din, but not by warbling. The new birdcalls were strident screeches, the death throes of those pounced on by bobcats and sundry other meat-eaters. Other, less identifiable sounds were mixed in screams, groans, and grunts galore, enough to set a grown man’s teeth to chattering if he wasn’t careful.

  Flavius wrapped his arms tight across his chest and thanked his Maker it wasn’t worse. That was when the heavy thud of enormous feet rose from below. Looking down, he saw a vague shape, a four-legged creature that walked in a circle and sniffed the air. A bear was his initial guess. But no bear alive had such short rear legs in relation to the front. The thing had detected his scent, but couldn’t pinpoint where he was, and it was peeved.

  Flavius did not like to dwell on the outcome if it did. He was glad when another animal passed by, creating a racket in the brush. Growling hideously, the thing under the tree lumbered off after it.

  Allowing himself the luxury of breathing again, Flavius hooked a leg over a limb as added insurance he wouldn’t fall. He didn’t anticipate failing asleep for quite some time, so he was surprised when he woke with a start and saw by the stars that he had slumbered for a couple of hours.

  Flavius figured he had awakened of his own accord, but a nauseating stench proved him wrong. He sniffed, and almost gagged. A skunk! he thought, scouring the area. No white stripes were in his vicinity. But he did see a man-shaped form crouched beside a thicket—unless his imagination was playing tricks on him. As he watched, the figure rose, shuffled in an unnatural gait to the base of the tree, and looked up.

  It knew he was there. Flavius set eyes on a hairy face that would do justice to a monkey. Which was preposterous. Apes were not found in North America. Or were they? So this was what the Texicans meant by a three-toed skunk ape, he reflected. Covering his nose and mouth, he waited for the abomination to drift elsewhere.

  Eventually, the creature did. Flavius could not relax for hours afterward, and it was during the second hour, when his eyelids were growing leaden, that guttural voices announced he had new visitors. Only these were human.

  The first one strode by within a dozen feet of the tree, a tall, lean Indian in a short loincloth. The man paused, studied the benighted landscape to the east, then gestured with a war club. One by one, eight others tramped past.

  Flavius supposed they were Karankawas, but the more he saw, the more he doubted it. They were much taller, nowhere near as brawny, with spindly arms and legs, in contrast to the muscular limbs of Snake Strangler’s people. They walked with a peculiar shuffling gait reminiscent of the skunk ape. And unkempt black manes hung past their shoulders.

  Flavius had been afeared of tangling with the Karankawas, but no more so than he would be of Comanches or the Sioux. The warriors below, though, filled him with unspeakable dread. With an unreasoning fear that chilled him to the marrow and made him want to leap down and race off into the night.

  Resisting, Flavius stayed where he was, his every nerve jangling. The last time he had felt like this was when a pack of famished wolves surrounded Davy and him out on the prairie. He had the same conviction now, that a single wrong move on his part would prove fatal.

  The last warrior was gone. Flavius relaxed muscles he had not realized were taut, and leaned back. This was what it would be like every night thereafter, he mused, unless he met up with Davy again. He gazed westward, praying to spot a fire. But it was the same old story.

  The rest of the night was uneventful. Flavius dozed in fitful spurts.

  Shrieking jays trumpeted the dawn. The Tennessean snapped his head up, befuddled, forgetting where he was, and cried out when he started to pitch forward. The belt held, and the fright restored his senses. He unfastened himself, wrapped the belt around his waist where it belonged, replaced the pistols, and started down.

  A thin scream wavered in the distance. Flavius froze, perplexed. When it was repeated, he pegged the direction it came from as northwest. The same dire
ction the slavers had taken. Sedge or Arlo, he supposed, tormenting one of the blacks. He willed his stiff joints to function, and dashed into the undergrowth.

  A rifle cracked, crisp and clear. The screaming did not stop. Seconds more and a second rifle boomed.

  A slave wasn’t being beaten. The slavers were under attack. Half a mile away, Flavius estimated. He ran flat out, doing his best to avoid briars and branches. What he would do when he got there remained to be seen.

  The swamp had fallen totally silent. Flavius could hear his labored breathing, could hear the thump-thump-thump of his soles striking the ground. And soon he heard a new element, the crash of brush as something plowed through it, coming right toward him.

  Halting, Flavius crouched and trained Matilda on a small clearing. Whatever was approaching must cross it to reach him. If it was an Indian, he would shoot on sight. If it was a black, he would demonstrate he was peaceable. Those were the two best possibilities. It never occurred to him that it might be one of the river rats. Yet that was exactly what it turned out to be.

  Arlo Kastner barreled through a thicket into the clearing, and stopped to glance over a shoulder. He had no rifle, no pistol. His shirt was ripped, his pants leg torn from the knee to the hip, and his face battered and bruised. Mewing like a kitten, he resumed his flight.

  Flavius was dumfounded. The hardened cutthroat’s features reflected pure panic. Flavius couldn’t recollect ever seeing anyone so scared. Pale as a sheet, eyes as wide as saucers, mouth agape, Kastner took several more steps, then spied him.

  “You!”

  “Put your hands in the air and don’t move,” Flavius directed.

  The river rat kept coming. “No! No! We have to get out of here! Now!”

  Flavius held Matilda steady. “I won’t say it again,” he warned. “Raise your arms and stand still.”

  Arlo stopped, but he was none too pleased. “Listen to me!” he pleaded. “I’m the only one who got away! But they must be on my trail! We can’t dally. They’ll track me down, I’m sure.”

  “Who?”

  “Indians,” Arlo answered, his panic increasing. “Savages the likes of which I’ve never set eyes on before! Unholy devils!”

  “Not Karankawas?”

  The slaver wrung his hands. “I wish to hell they had been! You should have seen them! Hairy as buffalo! And the way they moved!” Licking his lips, he pleaded, “Please! I’m beg-gin’ you! Take me wherever you want, just so we leave while we can!”

  This was a switch, Flavius noted. Yet Kastner acted completely sincere. “Where’s your friend?” Flavius demanded. “And the rest of the blacks? Don’t tell me you ran out on them?”

  “I had no choice!” Arlo lamented. “They were on us before Sedge or me could do a thing. Four of ’em grabbed me and stripped me of my guns. But Sedge had his rifles handy. He shot two of them. That was when I made my escape.”

  “You deserted your own friend?”

  The river rat did not seem to hear. “Their eyes! You should have seen their eyes! All red-rimmed! And dark. So dark, like an animal’s.” Choking his words off, he quaked. “Please! “Please! I don’t want to die! We must go!”

  Flavius hesitated. Helping the slaves was the important thing, but the cutthroat’s raw fear was contagious. What kind of Indians were these that they could inspire such terror in an iron-hearted killer?

  A piercing howl confirmed they were indeed after Kastner, who whined. Another howl, to the south, answered the first.

  “Stick with me,” Flavius said, beckoning.

  The river rat ran to him, and together they thrust into a dense thicket and crouched. Arlo’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. Flavius turned to tell him to be still, and saw the slaver’s eyes bulge.

  One of the Indians had appeared. Across the clearing, framed by a backdrop of vines and leaves, he studied the clearing before venturing into the open.

  Flavius’s skin crawled. The previous night he had been struck by how eerily unnerving the warriors were. In the pale glow of a new dawn, the eerie aspect was magnified. Shaggy hair framed a brutish face dominated by darkling eyes and a leonine nose. Thick lips framed a cruel mouth. The man was practically skin and bones, yet bones packed with sinew. Short, curly hair covered his chest and legs, and had even sprouted on his cheeks and chin. From the top of his only weapon, a curved war club, jutted a thick spike, rendering it twice as deadly.

  The warrior was definitely not a Karankawa.

  Texicans had told Flavius and Davy the swamp was home to other tribes, including some who’d had little or no contact with whites. Rumor had it that deep in the festering interior dwelled Indians more fierce than the notorious Apaches. Cut off from the rest of the world, the lost tribes had one trait in common. They shared a fondness for human flesh.

  Arlo Kastner was rigid with fear. Flavius was worried the river rat would bolt and give them away, but Arlo stayed as still as a statue as the warrior advanced to the middle of the clearing and hunkered down to run his fingers over the ground. Throwing back his head, the man voiced a wolfish howl. A signal that elicited a reply.

  Presently, a second warrior glided out of the greenery. The pair barked at one another in a tongue as unlike human speech as any Flavius ever heard. They moved toward the thicket, and Flavius gripped a pistol.

  Arlo’s eyes were on the verge of rolling up into his head. He was close to fainting.

  Discovery was imminent. Then, to the east, a series of howls had a helpful effect. The pair of hulking brute-men turned and slogged back the way they had come, making no more noise than did the wind.

  Kastner collapsed with a groan. Lying on his left side, he shook from head to toe, his teeth chattering, broken in soul and mind if not in body. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” he said softly.

  Flavius would rather shoot the river rat than help him, but he gave Arlo’s shoulder a squeeze. “Get a hold of yourself. You’re safe now.”

  “No, no, no. No one is ever safe from them.”

  “What tribe do they belong to?” Flavius whispered. “Who knows? Who cares?” Arlo covered his face and curled into a fetal position. “Leave me, Tennessee. I’m in no shape to go anywhere for a spell. We have a better chance if we split up anyhow.”

  Suspicion flared. Flavius shook Kastner roughly. “You’re not getting shed of me that easily, mister. We’re going to do what we can for those black folks, and after that I’ll decide what to do with you.”

  Arlo’s dilated eyes swiveled. “You’re not thinkin’ of going back there? Not after you’ve seen them?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re crazy, mister! They’ll do to us what they did to Sedge! I ain’t going.” Forgetting himself, Arlo cried shrilly. “You hear me? I ain’t!”

  “Hush, dang it!” Flavius said, clamping a hand over the man’s mouth. “They can hear you in New Orleans!” He swung toward the clearing, afraid the warriors would return. Butterflies flitted wildly in his stomach as minutes crawled by. When he felt it was safe, he seized Kastner and dragged him from the thicket, saying, “On your feet. You’re coming whether you like it or not.”

  “Please!” Arlo begged. “Tie me up. Leave me here. Anything—just don’t make me go with you.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  The river rat sat up and clasped his knees. He coughed twice, clenched his fists until the knuckles were white, and said, “They attacked at first light. Had us surrounded. Must have snuck up during the night.” Arlo coughed again. “I was on guard from midnight till dawn, and I guess I dozed off. First I knew, one of the darkies hollered. I jumped up, but those Injuns were already in camp. Some of ’em grabbed me while others took my guns.”

  “They know what guns are then?”

  Arlo’s pursed his lips. “I reckon they must. Anyhow, the darkies were all whoopin’ and try in’ to run, but they couldn’t go anywhere chained like they were. One of the women was screamin’ like a banshee. That was when Sedge cut loose. He shot one of the hairy de
vils. Those holdin’ me let me go to go after him, and I ran.”

  “You’re not so brave when you don’t have the upper hand.”

  “Go to Hell!” Kastner jabbed a finger upward. “I’d like to have seen you do any different.”

  “Go on.”

  The river rat blanched. “I was almost to the trees, and I looked back just as Sedge shot another one. Then seven of them were on him, tearin’ the rifle from his hands, and his hand from his arm.”

  “What?”

  “Honest to God. One of those things tore Sedge’s right hand from his arm. Another tore off the arm itself. Then—” Arlo gagged, recovered, and finished. “Then a third one took hold of Sedge’s throat and ripped the throat right out. I stopped, I was so stunned. And I saw that same Injun take a bite of Sedge’s throat and chew it like it was jerky.”

  Flavius felt his knees go weak. “They ate him? Right then and there?”

  “Started to. Another was suckin’ on Sedge’s wrist when I lit a shuck.” Arlo began trembling again. “Do you savvy now, bumpkin? If we go back, those bastards might catch us. And I, for one, don’t relish the notion of ending my days in a stew pot.”

  Neither did Flavius. They were courting a grisly death. And for what? To try and save twenty blacks whom they didn’t owe a thing?

  No, that wasn’t quite right. Twenty people. Skin color didn’t matter. The blacks were human beings, and humans owed it to one another to help out when someone was in need.

  What was it his wife was always quoting? “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” A grand idea, but awful hard to live by. Especially at moments like this.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Arlo demanded. “Do we head for the coast? Or for New Orleans? Texas is too far.” Flavius shook his head.

  “You can’t mean ...?”

  The Tennessean seized the river rat by the wrist and hauled him toward the clearing. “You can walk. Or I can truss you up and carry you. Which will it be?”

  “May you rot in Hell!” Arlo rasped, rising. “We’re dead. Do you hear me? Dead!”