The sight was proof, if any were needed, that the Almighty existed. Davy knew there were some people who claimed that existence was an accident, that random chance had given birth to everything. But how could you get something out of nothing? No, they were wrong, and one day—
The sorrel raised its head and nickered. Instantly Davy was on his knees, Liz in hand. Both horses were peering in the direction Harris had gone.
“Flavius?” Davy called quietly. On not receiving a response, he stood and skirted the crackling fire. It had been a mistake to sit facing the flames. Now his eyes needed time to adjust.
“Flavius?” Davy called once again, but louder. Surely his friend would not go far. He took another step.
The patter of onrushing feet brought Davy around in a blur. But as fast as he was, he was not quite quick enough. He caught a glimpse of a tall Indian wearing some sort of turban headdress and tried to bring Liz to bear, but the warrior was on him in a long bound. A bony shoulder rammed into his chest, bowling him over.
Somehow Davy held on to his rifle. Rolling when he landed, he shoved up into a crouch and leveled Liz. A flashing war club slammed against the barrel, swatting the gun from his grasp. He ducked under a blow that would have flattened him like a board, and clawed for a pistol.
Suddenly, iron arms encircled Davy from behind. He was yanked to his feet, and the man holding him barked instructions in an unfamiliar tongue.
The warrior armed with the war club raised it to strike. Tensing, Davy coiled his legs. As the club arced forward, he wrenched sharply to one side, swinging the man behind him around. A thud and a cry of anguish rewarded his ploy.
The arms gripping him slackened. Exerting all his strength, Davy burst free. Whirling, he unlimbered his tomahawk. The first man was already renewing his assault, while the second was bent over, clutching his ribs.
War club and Creek tomahawk clashed. The tomahawk was considerably smaller, but backed by Davy’s powerful sinews, it deflected the club. Davy followed through with a backhand swipe that clipped the tall Indian on the temple. Unfortunately, only the flat of the tomahawk connected, or he would have opened the man’s head like a ripe melon.
A yip from the bent-over warrior brought two more barreling out of the night. One held a lance; the other’s hands were empty.
Davy pivoted to meet their attack. In doing so he had to take his eyes off the man with the club. He parried a thrust of the lance and drove his fist full into the warrior’s jaw. The Indian crumpled. Before Davy could capitalize, he was tackled across the shins.
His shoulder blades hit the ground hard. Davy kicked but the warrior clung on. He hoisted the tomahawk, only to have it batted from his grasp by the other Indian’s war club. Jerking to the left, he felt the club brush his shoulder.
Four against one were impossible odds. Unless Davy broke free, he would suffer Flavius’s fate. For he had no doubt that his friend had gone to meet their Maker. And it was all his fault. He had talked Flavius into coming. If not for him, the portly Tennessean would be safe and snug in his cabin right about then.
The man who was holding Davy’s legs grabbed for Davy’s knife. Blocking the lunge, Davy pummeled the warrior’s head and shoulders. All the while he evaded the war club, which hissed perilously near his ears.
In desperation, Davy gouged his fingers into the warrior’s eyes. Howling, the man let go, enabling Davy to surge up off the grass and resort to a flintlock. Without warning, a keg of black powder exploded in his skull. The world spun. The fire danced crazily.
The thump Davy felt was his body crashing to earth. Vaguely, he sensed that someone had seized his buckskin shirt and flipped him over. Dimly, he saw a knife lowering toward his exposed throat.
Davy’s last thoughts were of his wife and sprouts. Elizabeth was a strong woman. She would make do. But she would go to her grave questioning why he had always been traipsing off to parts unknown. “Someday,” she had once mentioned, “your gallivants will be the death of you.” Damned if she hadn’t been right!
Chapter Two
The sensation of being violently shaken was the first inkling Davy Crockett had that he was still alive. Dizzily, he swam up from the unplumbed depths of an inky, icy well.
Fingers were entwined in his shirt. Someone breathed heavily above him.
Thinking that it was one of the warriors about to finish him off, Davy shot out his right arm as his eyes snapped open. His hand closed around the fleshy throat of the man looming above him.
“Davy! It’s me!” Flavius Harris squawked, fearing that his neck would be crushed before his friend realized what he was doing.
“Flavius?” Davy said thickly. Relaxing his grip, he struggled to clear clinging cobwebs from his brain. His friend helped him to sit up.
“Land o’ Goshen! I thought you were a goner for sure!” Flavius declared. “I saw that heathen go to slit your throat, but there was nothing I could do.”
“What stopped him, then?” Davy asked, scanning their campsite for sign of the Indians. They were gone. So were the horses and blankets. His saddle was there, but Harris’s had disappeared.
“That tall feller with the club saved your bacon. He grabbed the arm of the one who was about to cut you. They spatted some, then the one with the knife got up and stomped off, as mad as a wet hen.”
Davy tried to stand, but it was too soon. His head spun. A nasty knot, bleeding slightly, would remind him of the clash for days to come. If not for his thick coonskin cap, he would have been much worse off.
Flavius was so relieved that his friend was alive, his eyes moistened. Coughing, he said, “They jumped me in the woods. I never stood a prayer. The one with the club bashed me on the noggin, and the next thing I knew, I was lying there all by my lonesome, with my rifle and my knife and my possibles gone.”
Davy looked down. His own weapons and powder horn and ammo pouch had been taken.
“I came as quick as I could. Saw them scoop up our blankets, tote my saddle off, and lead our horses that-a-way.” Flavius bobbed his head northward.
“How long ago?”
Flavius shrugged. “Five minutes, maybe. I had a heck of a time bringing you around.”
“Why did they steal the saddle?” Davy puzzled aloud. As a general rule, Indians disliked the white man’s version. Most tribes either had no use for saddles whatsoever, or relied on small leather versions stuffed with buffalo hair or grass.
Other aspects of the attack were equally strange. A war club was capable of crushing a man’s skull. Most frontiersmen would rather be shot than hit by one, because nine times out of ten a war club proved fatal.
Yet the tall warrior had struck Flavius and him, both, and they were still alive. Either the man was incredibly puny, or he had deliberately not slain them. Which was a ridiculous notion. Why would a member of a war party spare his mortal enemies?
Davy saw his cap and put it on, careful of the knot. Maybe the notion wasn’t as silly as he thought. Flavius had seen the tall warrior stop the other one from slitting his jugular. Again, why? It made no sense.
“What do we do now?” Flavius asked. Stranded on foot, without provisions and weapons, they would be lucky to get out of the wilderness alive.
“What else?” Davy said, attempting a second time to rise. Both temples throbbed, but this time he succeeded. “At first light we go after them.”
Flavius blinked. “That conk must have cracked your brainpan. How in hell can we catch them when they have our horses?”
“Think it through. Two horses, four men. They’ll have to ride double, or else take turns,” Davy explained. “Either way, it’ll slow them down. If we hustle, we can catch them.”
“Great!” Flavius said, although he was less than excited at the prospect of going up against the quartet unarmed.
Davy was not fooled. His friend had a habit of shying from danger. Not that Davy blamed him. After the horrible atrocities he had witnessed during the Creek War, atrocities committed by both sides, he’d
had his fill of bloodletting.
It wouldn’t bother Davy one bit to live the rest of his days and not take another human life, red or white. He was being unrealistic, though. Bloodshed was all too common on the frontier. The white man and the red just couldn’t get along no matter how hard they tried.
Davy’s grandfather and grandmother had been early casualties. The Creeks had wiped them out. He’d also lost cousins, friends, acquaintances.
That was enough to make almost anyone an inveterate Indian-hater. And for a while Davy had despised them as much as any white. Then he had gone on a hunt with some friends, and fallen sick. His so-called friends had left him to die.
Some Indians had found him. Indians who did not know him from Adam. Indians who could have easily killed him and never been caught. Yet they had looked after him, had taken him a long distance to the nearest settler.
Davy owed his life to those red men. He had no idea who they were. He’d never been able to thank them. But now, whenever he heard fellow whites insist that the red race be exterminated, he remembered those Indians.
The fire had burned low. Davy built it up and slid his saddle closer. Without blankets, they would be quite cold by morning. “We should get some rest,” he commented.
Flavius tried, but he was too nervous to sleep. He felt too vulnerable, too helpless. Just like when he had been a small boy, and had lain in his bed late at night trembling in fear, terrified that ogres and trolls and demons would leap out of the darkness to devour him.
Curling up as close to the flames as he dared, Flavius listened for the stealthy pad of approaching beasts. Or maybe the war party would return to finish what they had started.
It didn’t help matters that the night came alive with noise. Wolves howled. Bears grunted. Cougars snarled and shrieked. Flavius tried to ignore them. His heavy eyelids drooped, and he was on the verge of falling asleep when something huge crashed through the undergrowth east of the meadow. Leaping to his feet, he braced for the worst. But whatever it was ran off in the opposite direction, spooked by their fire.
Davy slept soundly the whole time. How he did it, Flavius would never know. Lying down, he grasped an unused piece of firewood. It wasn’t much, but he could defend himself with it. Gradually, he drifted off, only to be startled awake minutes later by a hand on his shoulder.
Minutes, did he think? Streaks of pink and yellow painted the eastern sky. Birds chirped gaily in the trees, greeting the new day with their morning ritual.
“Time to go,” Davy said. They must not waste any time. Indians were early risers. The war party would be under way by sunrise.
“What about your saddle?” Flavius inquired.
Davy was loath to leave it behind. Animals might damage it, or someone might steal it, and saddles were not cheap. Concealing it in the undergrowth was his only option. He stooped to grab the saddle horn—and stiffened.
The forest had become completely quiet. Every bird had hushed: every robin, every sparrow, every jay, every finch.
Flavius noticed, and pushed erect. Only two things could silence the avian chorus so abruptly: a roving predator or other humans in the vicinity. Which was it?
An answer came in the form of a harsh shout from the woodland. “Don’t move! Either of you! So much as lift a finger, and we’ll riddle you!”
Without thinking, elated at their good fortune, Flavius took a step, crying out, “They’re white men, Davy! We’re safe now!”
The crack of a shot proved otherwise. A puff of smoke blossomed, marking the shooter’s position, even as the earth in front of Flavius’s right toe erupted in a miniature geyser.
“We won’t warn you again!” bellowed the man in the woods. “The next ball goes right between your eyes.”
Davy had not budged. “Do as they say,” he cautioned. “If they’re cutthroats, we don’t have anything worth stealing. They might leave us alone.”
Cutthroats? Flavius paled. Several bands of brigands had been plaguing the frontier for years, preying on isolated farm families and unwary travelers. Could Fate be so cruel as to put their lives at risk again so soon after the Indian attack?
Figures materialized out of the shadows under the trees on both sides of the meadow. Davy counted: . . . seven, eight, nine. Most wore homespun clothes, a few buckskins. All held rifles and wore expressions that hinted they were eager to squeeze the trigger.
A man with the build of an ox was in the fore. The barrel of his Kentucky did not waver as he crossed to within five yards of the Tennesseans and scrutinized them intently. “The jig is up, bastards. I bet you didn’t think we’d be so close behind them, did you?”
The men formed a ring. An older frontiersman, his hair spiked with gray, lowered his rifle’s muzzle and said, “Hold on, Cyrus. These two aren’t ’breeds.”
“So?” Cyrus retorted. “They helped those filthy Injuns, didn’t they? If we had the time, I’d stake them out, peel their hides, and wait for the buzzards to show. But as it is, we ought to shoot them where they stand.”
Flavius had no idea what was going on. But the remark about the Indians spurred him into moving toward the stocky woodsman and saying, “Hold on a second, friend. You have us pegged all wrong. We—”
A growl tore from Cyrus’s throat. The stock of his rifle whipped around, driving into Flavius’s stomach with so much force, Flavius swore his spine was broken. Wheezing and sputtering, Flavius tottered, then sank to his knees. Cyrus raised the stock high.
“No!” the older man cried, leaping between them. “Damn it, Cy! I understand your grief. But we can’t punish these men without proof. We have to let them have their say.”
A third frontiersman, a weasel of a man whose thin mustache had been oiled and tweaked until it resembled a cat’s whiskers, motioned for the old man to move aside. “Out of the way, Norval. We ain’t got time to waste.”
Davy had been studying the newcomers. Their clothes were in reasonably fine shape, clean and mended in spots. That indicated a woman’s touch. Several sported neatly trimmed beards. The rest had stubble on their chins, but no more than two days’ worth, if that. These were ordinary settlers, not a band of scruffy cutthroats.
“If you’re after the Indians who jumped us last night,” Davy said, “we’d be obliged if you would return our horses and effects when you catch them.”
The man called Norval turned. “That’s a Southern accent, or I’m the Queen of England. Where are you boys from?”
“Tennessee,” Davy revealed.
A lanky frontiersmen with a pointed chin, who was reloading his rifle, glanced up. “You’re a long way from home, feller. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
Davy fibbed. “We’re looking to move our families up in this area. We came to explore the countryside.” They might not believe him if he admitted that a hankering to see new sights was to blame. No one in their right mind would travel clear from Tennessee to northern Illinois, and beyond, on a whim. No one but him, that was.
Cyrus snorted. “He’s lyin’, Kayne. As any fool can see.”
The lanky man’s gray eyes glittered. “I see no such thing. Does that make me a fool?”
An air of latent menace radiated from the woodsman known as Kayne, as obvious as the thinly veiled threat in his tone. Davy noted that Cyrus promptly pulled in his horns.
“No. Not at all. Don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth, damn it.”
Flavius slowly stood. The agony in his gut had almost subsided, and he could breathe again. He sorely wished he could give Cyrus a punch in the mouth for the outrage. “What’s wrong with you people?” he demanded. “Is this how folks in these parts greet strangers?” He sniffed. “First those redskins, now this! I can’t wait to be shed of here.”
Cyrus glowered spitefully. “What’s your name, fat man?”
It was a mistake. If there was one insult Flavius would not abide, it was that. He’d stand for being called plump, or portly, or even uncommonly stout. But never fat. For the truth was tha
t his ample girth packed more muscle than anything else. Pivoting, Flavius jabbed a finger at Cyrus and snapped, “Put down that rifle, mister, and I’ll show you how we teach jackasses like you proper manners back in Tennessee.”
“Why, you—!” Cyrus hefted his rifle and lunged, but Norval pushed against his chest.
“Enough! We’re on urgent business, remember?”
Cyrus sobered, but he did not look happy. “I’ll let it pass, for now. When this is over, though, fatty will answer to me.”
Davy picked that moment to smile and offer his hand to Kayne. When the lanky frontiersman stepped forward to shake, Davy introduced himself, adding, “I’d be grateful if you would tell me what this is all about.”
Kayne pushed his flat-brimmed black hat back on his head. “We’re from Peoria, mister. It’s a new settlement not far to the south. The day before last, Indians raided a cabin on the outskirts. They made off with a woman.”
“Dear Lord.” Being taken captive by Indians was what every female on the frontier dreaded more than anything else. Only a few were ever rescued. Some were eventually ransomed, but out of shame and grief found it hard to adapt to being back among their own kind. The majority were never heard of again. “How old is she? Is she in good health?”
“What difference does that make?” Cyrus testily cut in.
“All the difference in the world,” Davy calmly replied. “If she’s elderly or can’t hold her own for some reason, and you get too close, they’re liable to make wolf meat of her. They won’t let her slow them down.”
“Rebecca is twenty-two,” Norval said. “She’s my niece. They jumped my brother when he was out working in the fields, and knocked him out. His wife tried to fight them off, but they pushed her down and dragged off the screaming girl.”
“They didn’t kill anyone?” Davy asked.
Norval shook his head. “That’s the odd part. They went out of their way not to harm a soul.”
Flavius realized why Davy had asked the question. “Hey! They did the same thing with us. Those devils could have butchered us both, but they didn’t touch a hair on our heads.”
Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3) Page 2