Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3)

by David Robbins

  Davy got back to the issue at hand. “Can you convince Cyrus to let me talk to the Indians before anyone shoots? Maybe they’ll turn over your niece without a fuss.”

  Norval spat out the grass. “I’d only be wasting my breath. I know that boy. He’s snake-mean through and through.”

  “Yet your brother wants him for a son-in-law?”

  “My brother worships money. He always wanted to be rich but never had more than a hundred dollars to his name at any one time.” Norval glanced toward the fire. “Well, now he’s found a way.”

  “He’s selling his daughter to the highest bidder. And you’re letting it happen.”

  “What choice do I have? I can’t rightly meddle in his business, now can I?” Norval bowed his head. “Festus and I never have seen eye to eye. He was the youngest, and my ma babied him so much that he grew up thinking the world should treat him the same way.”

  Davy had known people like that. They were so wrapped up in themselves, they never seemed to notice the misery they caused everyone else. “I feel sorry for your niece, and I don’t even know her.”

  “She’s the prettiest filly in these parts,” Norval bragged fondly. “The sweetest woman you’d ever want to meet. Never has a cruel word for anyone.” His body gave a slight shudder. “Pairing her with Cy is the same as consigning her to a living hell for the rest of her days.”

  “Why doesn’t Festus’s wife do something about it?”

  “He’d beat her silly. She’s had more black eyes than you could count.”

  They fell silent. Davy found himself longing for his family, for the comfort of his wife’s embrace and the joy of bouncing their youngest on his knee.

  Polly, his first wife, had been the gentlest, daintiest female ever born. And the most patient. Without complaint, she had always looked after their three children when he went off exploring or on hunting trips and later to war against the Creeks.

  Losing her had nearly broken him. To sit by her bedside, holding a hand so weak she could not close her fingers, and see her suffering for hours on end, had been too much to bear. Her passing left him with three children to care for, the youngest an infant daughter.

  He had not stayed a widower long. In the neighborhood lived a widow whose husband had been killed by the Creeks. They found solace in each other’s company, and in time love had blossomed.

  Now, sitting under a windblown oak on the hilltop deep in the wilderness, Davy missed Elizabeth so much that he almost vowed never to leave her again. Almost, but at the last moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it. As much as he adored her—and he truly did—he could never give up his gallivants, never stop going off to see new country, to learn what lay over the next horizon.

  Such thoughts occupied him for a while after he curled up close to the fire to keep warm. None of the settlers had a blanket to share; they didn’t even have blankets for themselves. They had lit out after Rebecca’s abductors thinking they would overtake the Sauks quickly.

  Exhaustion enabled Davy to sleep soundly once he drifted off. He was awakened by the squawk of a jay shortly before sunrise.

  Half the men were up already, a few stamping their feet and clapping their arms against the morning chill. Davy saw Cyrus over by a bush and went up to him. “Morning.”

  “Go away.”

  “We need to talk.”

  The stocky settler scratched the stubble on his chin. “There’s nothin’ I have to say to you, mister. You’re an outsider here.”

  “It’s about the Big Bellies—” Davy began.

  Cy held up a hand. “Don’t your ears work?” His upper lip curled in contempt. “I know what you’ve been up to. How you tried to get my uncle to stop us from doing what we’re fixin’ to do.”

  “It’s wrong.”

  Anger blazed in Cy’s eyes. “When did you become the Almighty, red-cheeks? Who are you to tell us what’s right and what ain’t? Go back to Tennessee where you belong and let us deal with our problems as we see fit.”

  Davy tried one last time. “If Rebecca hasn’t been harmed, if we can get her back without a fight, why kill them?”

  Cyrus gazed over Davy’s shoulder. “Ever hear such a dumb question in all your born days, Dilbert?”

  The weasel had approached unheard. Snickering in disdain, he said, “Sure haven’t. Makes a body wonder how the folks down to Tennessee ever licked those Creeks.”

  It was hopeless. Davy turned to go, but Cy had more to say.

  “Don’t think of sneakin’ off to warn those vermin, Crockett. You’re to stay here until they come. And to make sure you do, Dilbert is goin’ to keep you company.” Cy bared his teeth. “Whether you like it or not.

  The Irish in Davy flared into immediate fury. He took a step, intending to grab the settler by the shirt and shake him until his teeth rattled. Suddenly he became aware that several others had converged.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Dilbert taunted.

  Cyrus cockily put his hands on his hips. “Maybe we should truss him up, boys, until this is done. No tellin’ what he might do otherwise.”

  There was a commotion. More of the rescue party had drifted over, including Norval, who draped a hand on the Tennessean’s shoulder, declaring, “There’s no call to bind him, Cy. That wouldn’t be fitting.”

  “I don’t trust him,” countered Cyrus.

  “Me neither,” Dilbert piped up.

  “What should we use?” asked another. “Since we don’t have any rope, how about if we cut his hunting shirt into strips?” He drew his knife.

  The settlers edged forward. Davy surreptitiously wrapped a hand around his tomahawk. Under no circumstances was he going to let them tie him up.

  Tension crackled in the air. Cy, Dilbert, and a few others were on the verge of pouncing when John Kayne shoved to the forefront. “Enough,” he told them. “Go about your business.”

  To Davy’s surprise, they did just that. No one objected. No one even grumbled. Cy cast a hateful look at him but dutifully filed off with the rest. When all of them except Norval were gone, Kayne walked away without another word.

  Davy did not know what to make of Kayne’s intervention. Last night the man had made it clear he was going to help the others wipe out the Indians. Yet on his behalf, Kayne had bucked his own friends. “Why are they so scared of him?” he mused aloud.

  “Kayne is one feller you don’t want to cross,” Norval said. “He’s a quiet, peaceable man, until he’s riled.” He lowered his voice. “About two years ago, four ’breeds got rowdy in the settlement. They drank too much, and one of them slapped a girl who wouldn’t let him kiss her. Kayne happened by and told them to leave.”

  Dilbert, Davy noticed, had not gone very far, and was watching him on the sly.

  “Well, one thing led to another,” Norval detailed. “The ’breed who had slapped the girl made the mistake of slapping Kayne, and Kayne knocked him down. So the four went for their knives.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “I wish to God I did. They say it was the grand-pappy of all knife fights. Those ’breeds were like berserk wolves, hacking and stabbing.” Norval stopped. “Kayne killed all four without hardly working up a sweat. Ever since, ain’t a man among us who will go up against him.”

  Over by the fire, Cyrus was beckoning. “Everyone! Gather around! The sun is rising! We have to get set for our visitors.”

  Davy moved to join them, but Dilbert barred his path. “Not you, Tennessee,” he said. “This is just for us locals.”

  Only by a monumental effort of willpower did Davy keep himself from punching the weasel in the mouth. To remove the temptation, he turned on his heel and walked to the brink of the south slope.

  Damn them to hell! Davy fumed, feeling his rosy cheeks flush redder. He had done what he could. Whatever befell them was on their shoulders, not his.

  Besides, he had Flavius to think of. It had struck him as odd yesterday that the Sauk trail had paralleled the trail of the war party from Ca
nada. What were the Sauks after? Revenge? Then why hadn’t they gone to their village and brought reinforcements? The three of them could hardly expect to do much against a war party that size.

  It was also peculiar that the Sauks had not harmed Flavius. He was glad, mind, but he was also suspicious. What motive did they have? If they were going to kill Flavius, why hadn’t they done it when they jumped him?

  Davy’s reflection was brought to an end by the arrival of the sentry, a man named Wilkins, who rushed from the north, yelling, “They’re here! They’re here!”

  Davy ran to the fire. Wilkins had been surrounded by his excited companions and was being besieged by questions. A roar from Cyrus quieted them.

  “Hush, you jackasses! Let the man talk!”

  “They’re about half a mile off,” Wilkins reported. “I saw them as clear as day, crossing a clearing. They have Rebecca with them, too.”

  “Are you sure?” Norval asked anxiously.

  “I couldn’t mistake that blond hair of hers,” Wilkins said. “They’ve brung her, just like Crockett said they would.”

  “So what?” Cyrus snapped. “That doesn’t change anything. All of you know what to do. Get into position, and we’ll give these heathens the shock of their stinkin’ lives.”

  Four of the five settlers dashed to different oaks and commenced to shimmy up them with the agility of young black bears. Cyrus stood east of the dwindling fire, while Norval, Kayne, Dilbert, and Hillman fanned out in a horseshoe shape on either side of him.

  The trap was cunningly laid. Since the north slope was too sheer to climb and the west slope too open, the Big Bellies would probably swing to the east, where the bushy slope afforded cover, or else come up the gully.

  Once on top, the Indians would cautiously approach the camp. When they saw the whites out in the open, they would be reassured and expose themselves. They would enter the horseshoe, and at Cy’s signal, the settlers would open fire. The men in the trees guaranteed that not one member of the war party would get away.

  Davy was off to one side. He had the bow, his tomahawk, a knife, and the pistol Kayne had lent him, so he could defend himself if set upon. But he was not going to take part in the massacre. Not if he could help it, anyway.

  The sun was perched on the eastern horizon, bathing the virgin wilderness in a golden glow. A hawk soared high overhead. Down in the valley a herd of deer browsed. The tranquil scene belied the volcanic carnage soon to be wrought.

  For the longest while the rescuers waited, Cyrus and Dilbert impatiently fidgeting. The men in the trees had climbed high enough to be completely hidden by branches. Davy looked but did not detect them. Neither would the Big Bellies.

  Rustling grass heralded the arrival of the war party. Into view stepped a brawny warrior, painted face inscrutable, armed with a bow. After studying the whites and the western portion of the hill, he tilted his head and yipped in perfect imitation of a coyote.

  Three more Indians appeared as if up out of the very ground. One was an exceptionally big man whose face bore a scar. At a nod from him, the quartet slowly advanced, walking shoulder to shoulder.

  Cyrus glanced at John Kayne. “I just had a thought. How the devil are we supposed to communicate with these stupid savages? Do you know any of that hand talk some tribes use?”

  Davy was about to volunteer his services when the big Indian with the scar stopped shy of the horseshoe and announced in a booming voice, “I speak white tongue.”

  “You do?” Cy said, taken aback. “Well, that’ll make it easier, I reckon. Not too many heathens are smart enough to savvy our language.”

  The big warrior did not like being insulted. “Only one white know ours,” he countered.

  Cy bristled. “Are you sayin’ white men are dumber than your kind, Injun?”

  “What you think?” the warrior rejoined, and straightened. “I be He-Bear.”

  Incensed, Cyrus gripped his rifle with both hands and took several steps. “I wouldn’t care if you were Pocahontas. Mind what you say, or else!”

  Norval clasped Cy by the wrist to restrain him. “Calm down, boy. Remember why we’re here. First things first.”

  “What?” Cy said, so mad that he made as if to tear loose, then caught himself. “Oh. That’s right. Sorry.” Inhaling deeply, he stated, “All right, Injun. Where’s Rebecca Worthington?”

  He-Bear made a show of surveying the top of the hill from end to end. “Where guns? Where horses? I told you want trade. But nothing trade with.”

  “You didn’t think we’d have it with us, did you? How do we know that we can trust you?” Cyrus craftily responded. “It’s close by, though. All I have to do is give a signal and the stuff will be brought up from the valley. First, show me the woman is safe.”

  “How I know we trust you?” He-Bear said.

  Cyrus blatantly smirked. “That’s just the chance you’ll have to take. Now quit stallin’, Injun. Produce Rebecca so we can get this over with.”

  Davy expected He-Bear to be upset by the state of affairs. But the warrior grinned, more amused than anything else.

  “You want woman? I show woman. And surprise.”

  “What kind of surprise?” Cyrus demanded.

  The Big Belly leader raised an arm. Forty feet away a fifth Indian rose, wagging a pistol. Three more figures uncoiled. Rebecca Worthington was on the left. The tall Sauk Davy had tangled with was on the right. And in the middle, bound and gagged like the other two, was Flavius Harris.

  As Davy looked on, the warrior placed the pistols muzzle against the back of his friend’s head.

  “Try trick us,” He-Bear warned, “and white man die.”

  Chapter Seven

  Impulsively, Davy Crockett took a few steps, stopping only when a warrior next to He-Bear shifted and swung the glittering tip of a lance in his direction.

  The Big Bellies’ leader wore the look of a card player who held a winning hand. But unknown to He-Bear, Cyrus didn’t give a damn what happened to Flavius or the Sauk. The only one Cy cared about was Rebecca Worthington.

  “Bring guns plenty quick,” He-Bear commanded. “We give white man. We give white woman. And Pashipaho, Sauk who take her.”

  Cyrus glanced at the tall Sauk. “So that’s the bastard who caused us all this grief?” he commented, more to himself than for the benefit of anyone else. “You’ve done us a favor, He-Bear.”

  “I know,” the Big Belly responded. “So fetch guns, eh? Horses, eh?”

  “Sure, sure,” Cy said. Turning, he moved to the edge of the slope, cupped a hand to his mouth, and shouted, “Bring up the pack animals, boys! We’ve struck a bargain!” Strolling back, he told He-Bear, “See, Big Belly? The rifles and stuff will be here directly.”

  It was a ploy, Davy knew, to gain a little extra time and put the Indians more off their guard.

  “Good,” the big warrior grunted, then tapped his chest. “But we Atsinas. Not Big Bellies. That name French give.”

  “Whatever,” Cyrus said, shrugging. He glanced meaningfully at Dilbert and Hillman. They began to slowly sidle to the right so they could shoot without running the risk of hitting Norval and Kayne, who were directly across from them.

  Davy looked at Flavius. His friend was scared, but who wouldn’t be?

  In truth, Flavius Harris was more than scared. He was terrified. When he saw the Irishman stare at him, he arched his eyebrows and gave a barely perceptible jerk of his head to one side, striving to warn his friend about what was to come.

  The movement puzzled Davy. He gathered that Flavius was trying to tell him something, but what? He motioned to show that he did not understand.

  Flavius pushed against the gag with his tongue, but it had been wedged tight. Again he bobbed his head. He had to make Davy comprehend or they were all dead! Suddenly the warrior behind him snarled in the Atsina tongue and rapped him lightly with the pistol.

  Davy wondered if perhaps his friend had spotted one of the men in the trees. Maybe Flavius thought he did
not know about them.

  He-Bear was talking in a relaxed manner, as if his suspicions were allayed now that the rifles and horses were being brought. “You smart, white man,” he complimented Cyrus. “Not like most. Not shoot first, talk later. Soon you have woman. Have man. Do what want with Sauk.”

  Cyrus did not reply. His right hand strayed closer to the hammer of his rifle, which was cradled loosely in his left arm.

  “Atsinas good Indians,” He-Bear went on blithely. “Atsinas not kill woman. Not kill white man. We friends all whites. We do what right.”

  It occurred to Davy that He-Bear was rambling on for no apparent purpose. Almost as if the Atsina were stalling. He scrutinized the other warriors, who seemed a trifle too smug under the circumstances.

  The next moment, with the force of a thunderclap, insight ripped through Dave, jangling every nerve in his body. Where were the rest of the Atsinas? He had counted eleven sets of prints at the stream. Later he had slain one. That left ten. But only five were there now. Where were the other five?

  Davy looked at Flavius. Was that what his friend had been trying to tell him? Were the Atsinas going to spring a nasty surprise of their own? The settlers had to be warned. Taking a casual step, he whispered, “Cy!”

  “Not now, Crockett,” the hothead declared. “We’re seein’ this through. Interfere, and so help me God, I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “But—” Davy began.

  Cyrus was not listening. Plastering a fake smile on his face, he extended his right hand and asked He-Bear, “Can you snap your fingers, Injun?”

  The Atsina leader was as perplexed as Davy. What did that have to do with anything? Then he knew. It was the signal. When Cyrus snapped his fingers, the settlers would attack. “Cy! Please listen!”

  Cyrus ignored him. “Can you or not, heathen?” he baited his enemy.

  “What ‘snap fingers’?” He-Bear said.

  “Here. I’ll show you,” Cyrus grandly offered, and elevating his arm, he snapped his.