Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3)

by David Robbins

  “We can take you to the settlement,” Davy proposed while surveying the vegetation that fringed the willow. Three of the Atsinas had been accounted for, leaving He-Bear and two others to wreak havoc.

  Whining, Cyrus closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “I’ll fetch a blanket to cover you.”

  “A gun.”

  “What?”

  “Find my pistol. One of the savages took it.”

  Davy balked at the request. His parents had instilled into him the belief that where there was life, there was hope. No one should ever give up, no matter how terrible their affliction.

  “For the love of God, my pistol!” Cyrus repeated. “Please! I hurt so bad!”

  Ever after, Davy would ponder what he would have done if Flavius had not taken the matter out of his hands by going to where the pistol lay and bringing it back.

  Wordlessly, Flavius gave the flintlock to Cyrus. He did not care to stay and witness the outcome, but he paused when Cyrus blinked up at them.

  “I’m obliged, fellers. You’re decent, after all. Sorry for the aggravation we caused.”

  “Is there a doctor in the settlement?” Davy asked. It wasn’t too late, he told himself. They could staunch the flow of blood and rig up a travois.

  Cyrus did not seem to hear. “Tell that fool girl she got her wish. Should tickle her.” A low chuckle gurgled from his red-flecked lips. “You want to hear the funny part? I never was partial to Rebecca. Marrying her was my pa’s idea. How he carried on! You’d think he wanted her for himself.” Resting the pistol on his bloody chest, he gazed thoughtfully into the willow branches.

  Flavius thought that possibly the man had changed his mind. “Rest easy. We’ll do what we can.”

  “The rotten bitch!” Cyrus declared out of the blue. Then he cocked the flintlock, shoved the muzzle into his mouth, and squeezed the trigger.

  Davy jumped as the ball burst out the top of the fiancé’s head. Davy experienced no remorse, no regrets. Ripping out a handful of grass, he wiped his pants. “Get the horses before they wander off.”

  Grateful to be doing anything other than staring at the bloody corpse, Flavius collected both animals. The prospect of heading home at long last thrilled him. “Let’s light a shuck while we can,” he urged.

  “You’re forgetting something,” Davy said.

  No, Flavius was not. “Let them get by on their own,” he responded. “We don’t owe any of them.”

  “We owe ourselves.” To forestall debate, Davy swung onto the sorrel. “You go east, after Rebecca and Pashipaho. I’ll go southwest after Kayne. I think the rest of the Atsinas went after him.”

  “You think?”

  “Keep your eyes skinned.” Not waiting to see if Flavius complied, Davy applied his heels. Being on top of the horse, he could see a lot farther. So long as he avoided heavy growth, the Big Bellies would be hard-pressed to take him by surprise.

  Looping wide, Davy soon found tracks. Since John Kayne wore moccasins he made himself, distinguishing them from the three sets of Atsina prints was easy. Kayne’s lengthy stride showed he had been running flat out. In contrast, the warriors had been pacing themselves, counting on their quarry to tire before they did.

  Davy brought his mount to a trot. The four men did not have much of a lead, so he should catch them soon.

  After the stillness brought on by the gunshot, the pounding of the sorrel’s hooves seemed unusually loud. The forest tapered, the leafy carpet replaced by grass. A wide gully barred his path, flanked on the right by a hill. At the brink he reined up to determine how steep the walls were.

  Up out of the shadowy bottom rushed a trio of bronzed demons, shrieking like banshees. Foremost was He-Bear, bearing Davy’s rifle. The Atsina chief brought it to his shoulder to shoot.

  Davy was a shade faster. Extending the pistol in his right hand, he cocked it and squeezed. Nothing happened. The hammer clicked dry. For a second he thought that it had been a misfire.

  But it was worse than that. He had committed the cardinal mistake any frontiersman could make. What with Cyrus’s suicide, and his urgent ride to help Kayne, he had forgotten to reload the pistol after he had shot the Atsina under the willow. Dropping it, Davy clawed at the other flintlock under his belt. He never got it out.

  He-Bear had been on the verge of firing when the pistol clicked. Realizing in a twinkling what it meant, he barked commands in his own tongue as a sadistic grin spread over his cruel visage.

  The other two warriors leaped. One caught hold of Davy’s right arm, the other his left leg. Davy hauled on the reins for the sorrel to back up. The horse tried, nickering and kicking.

  Davy worked to free his leg. Suddenly the world turned upside down. Crashing down, he had the breath knocked out of him. Although stunned, he fumbled for the pistol. It was gone.

  His arms were viciously wrenched outward. Feet slammed onto his wrists. Pinned, Davy looked up at the two smirking Atsinas.

  He-Bear walked into view. To emphasize his intention, he slowly drew his knife and held it so the polished blade mirrored the sunlight. “Other one get away. Now we have you. Good trade, eh, white dog?”

  Davy read his doom in the Atsina’s merciless eyes. He-Bear leaned toward him, waving the knife in small circles. At any moment Davy expected the blade to plunge into his body. Then a strange thing occurred.

  One of the warriors said something. He-Bear and the other Atsina looked up, toward the hill. Utter consternation struck them like a thunderclap. All three stiffened and brought their rifles to bear. The warrior on the right whispered excitedly. The man on the left took his foot off of Davy’s arm and began to back off.

  Davy made a break for it. Sitting up, he pushed the warrior still standing on his right wrist and raised both arms to ward off the blows sure to descend. Only, none did. The Big Bellies had not taken their eyes off the hill.

  Curiosity got the better of him. Davy twisted, and was as dumbstruck as the warriors. From the high grass covering the slope had sprouted dark four-legged forms, more wolves than he had ever beheld in any one place at any one time.

  Near the bottom stood an enormous male with a silver-tipped coat. The tip of its left ear was missing.

  “It can’t be!” Davy blurted.

  The sound of his voice broke He-Bear’s spell. Scowling, the scarred Atsina brought the rifle muzzle down. Davy lunged, grabbing it and shoving it away from him with one hand as his other swung the tomahawk out and around and sheered it into He-Bear’s stomach.

  Roaring, the Big Belly lumbered backward. In his left hand was his knife, which he swiped at Davy’s face.

  Davy ducked. The blade snatched at his coonskin hat; he propelled himself upward. His tomahawk crossed in front of the knife as the knife reversed direction. He-Bears left eyebrow and forehead folded in on themselves, a geyser spurted, and the Atsina collapsed like a broken toy.

  Davy turned to confront the other two, brandishing his tomahawk, but neither was even looking at him. They were in full flight, making for the sanctuary of the forest. Looking behind him, he was tempted to follow their example.

  The wolf pack had come down the hill and was moving toward him. In the lead trotted the enormous male. It padded to within a yard, lingered to sniff and whine, then went on past. The rest of the wolves spread out and filed on by.

  Few deigned to notice him. Davy could have reached out and touched some of them, but he refrained. When the last creature melted into the trees, he shook his head and heard his sentiments echoed.

  “If I hadn’t’ve seen that with my own eyes, Crockett, I would never believe it. You must live a charmed life.”

  Across the gully stood John Kayne. He glanced at He-Bear. “I saw the Indians jump you and came as quick as I could.”

  “I reckon we don’t need to worry about the Atsinas anymore,” Davy commented.

  Kayne scratched his chin. “I ain’t never seen the like. I thought that big silver wolf looked a lot like a cub saved from a trap by a h
unter named Old Jake, years ago. But it couldn’t be. It’s been too long.”

  North of them a rider appeared. Flavius, leading the sorrel, approached at a gallop. “I caught your horse heading for Canada. What happened?”

  Davy had a more important question. “Where are Rebecca and Pashipaho?”

  “I couldn’t find any sign of them. The Sauk covered their tracks real well,” Flavius said. He didn’t add that he had not searched very hard. “Do we keep hunting?”

  “No, we don’t,” Davy said, and nodded at John Kayne. “How about you?”

  The tall frontiersman cradled his rifle in the crook of an arm. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s over. Those two can roam free with the wolves, for all I care.”

  For the first time in a long time, Davy Crockett smiled.

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