Twelve
Davy Crockett froze as a huge shape loomed in front of him. The giant alligator had heard him strike the ground, but thanks to the thick, swirling smoke, the monster could not find him.
Davy could see part of the gator, though. At the bottom of the pit was a layer of clear air, a gap of five or six inches. The reptile’s enormous feet were plainly visible. So was part of its tail, which suddenly flicked toward Davy as the creature turned. Clattering over bones, the sinuous batting ram sent a skull tumbling, and came within spitting distance of Davy’s face. The Tennessean pressed against the side of the pit, coiled to leap should it swing any closer. As powerful as it was, it could easily crush his ribs or break an arm.
Above the pit, bedlam ruled. Men roared, screamed, died.
Suddenly there was a loud thump, so close that Davy jumped. Bile rose in his gorge. The warrior who had tried to push him into the pit was no longer a threat. The upper half of the man’s body flopped like a fish out of water, the mouth jerking in spasms. Below the waist only shredded flesh and crushed bone remained; the gator had bitten him in half.
Davy peered upward. He could not rely on Bowie or Flavius to save his bacon since neither had seen him fall in. It was doubtful anyone had, friend or foe alike. He was on his own. Whether he lived or died depended solely on how resourceful he was.
The pit rim was ten feet overhead. With a running start he might be able to jump and grab hold. But that wasn’t feasible. The gator would be in his way.
Davy rose onto his hands and knees, careful not to disturb any bones. It was highly unlikely the reptile would hear so slight a noise, what with the tumult in the lodge, but Davy had learned long ago never to take anything for granted.
Drifting smoke eddied like an ocean current. Bending, Davy noted the position of the alligator’s body, particularly the tail, then circled in the opposite direction, staying low. He placed each foot lightly. A rumbling grunt brought him to a stop. Crouching, he learned that the gator had moved and was now facing him.
Did it know? Davy’s mouth went dry. He would give anything to have his tomahawk, but all he had was his butcher knife, which he palmed. It would be like using a toothpick against Leviathan.
The creature’s legs slid nearer.
Suddenly the smoke parted for a span of mere seconds. Davy saw the huge beast’s scaly head in hideous profile, and a single darkly sinister eye fixed on him in baleful intensity. Move! his mind commanded. He did, throwing himself forward as the smoke wreathed the monster again and its tail came sweeping out of the gray gloom to smash against the wall at the exact spot where he had been.
Davy dropped flat. The tail pounded the wall again, then disappeared. He watched the gator’s belly slide back and forth and heard loud sniffing. The thing was trying its utmost to find him. And it would eventually. Rising with his stomach flush to the wall, he extended his arms as high as he could. A useless gesture, since the rim was well beyond his reach.
Meanwhile, the battle above raged on. Davy thought he heard Flavius yell. A child cried hysterically. A man groaned in anguish.
The Tennessean crouched again to keep track of the gator. An instant later a thud announced a new arrival. A warrior had fallen in, or been pushed. The man rolled onto his belly, realized where he was, and screeched in mortal panic. As well he should. The alligator had pivoted toward him, bones crunching under its massive bulk. Scrambling back against the side, the warrior grew rigid as the behemoth stalked closer.
Get out of there! Davy wanted to shout. But the Indian would not understand, and it would focus the gator’s attention on himself.
Only part of the man’s legs could be seen below the smoke. Davy could only imagine the warrior’s expression as the reptile drew nearer and nearer.
The alligator halted. The man’s legs shook, and it seemed as if he were about to bolt, when there was a pulpy ripping sound, like that of an orange being squished. The man swayed, his torso tilting outward. Onto the bones spilled a headless corpse, pumping blood.
The smoke was growing thicker; the air at the bottom was growing less. Soon there would be only smoke, and Davy would have no way of seeing the gator. He’d be completely at its mercy.
As if that were not danger enough, a rain of burning embers from on high warned the Tennessean the roof was now ablaze. It was only a matter of time before whole sections came crashing down—some into the pit. If the gator didn’t get him, the smoke would, and if both of those failed, he might very well be smashed to bits or burned to a crisp.
What to do? Another rain of debris added urgency when it provoked the alligator into a fierce upheaval. Bellowing and lashing its tail, the creature turned this way and that. Perhaps in the depths of its dim brain it recognized its life was threatened. A will to survive propelled it against the pit wall, where it clawed at the earth in a frenzy, dislodging big chunks and digging a furrow. Either it was smart enough to sense the futility of its actions, or it grew tired, but in any event it presently subsided and was still.
From the position of the belly and tail, Davy deduced the gator was bent upward, with half its body against the pit wall. An insane idea spurred him into slinking toward the center. Once there, he moved closer to the creature, avoiding bones prone to break and give him away.
The alligator did not move.
Davy was near enough to touch the tail if he were so inclined when the reptile growled and grumbled like a black bear fresh out of hibernation. The smoke was getting to it. Or the flames, which now shot downward from the inferno that had once been the roof. The heat was withering; the temperature had climbed twenty or thirty degrees, and it was blistery hot.
Davy was sweating something awful. He wiped a sleeve across his brow while inching closer. What he contemplated doing might get him killed, but he would rather die doing something than sit there and meekly wait for eternity to claim him. He slid the butcher knife into its sheath, wiped his palms on his pants, and was ready.
The alligator stirred. It began to slide to the ground. Davy had heartbeats in which to put his plan into effect, and he did so by hurtling himself at the gator, grabbing hold, and shimming up the monster’s back as he would scale a knotty pine. Bumps and thick scales gave him some purchase, but it was still slippery, still like trying to climb a grassy slope slick with moisture. He reached the hindquarters, and shimmied higher.
Belatedly, the creature exploded into motion. Its whole body canted to the left and its neck twisted as it sought to snap him in twain. But alligator necks were stout and short, too short to bend very far.
Davy dug his fingers in and levered higher. Another dozen inches or so and he would be high enough. Suddenly the alligator bucked like a wild mustang, almost throwing him off. At the same time, the animal started to slide back down the wall.
It was now or never I Davy launched himself at the rim. He could not see it. He had no idea how far he had to spring, or if he was high enough to reach it. But salvation was there, somewhere. His fingers splayed wide, he flailed at the smoke, seeking purchase.
A blow from below catapulted him head over heels. A blow so powerful, his chest felt as if he had been split wide. His senses swam. An impact equally devastating left him stunned and weak. He did not know where he was, whether still in the pit or outside of it.
Smoke seeped into his nostrils, into his mouth. His lungs were seared as if by twin swords. Gasping for air that was not there, he crawled toward he knew-not-what, praying it wasn’t toward the gator.
Davy bumped into something. Recoiling, he waited for the crunch of iron jaws. When he was not attacked, he probed through the smoke. The object was hard and round, like a tree trunk, only it was not a tree trunk. It was one of the posts to which sacrifices were tied. Leaning against it, he slowly rose.
The alligator was raising a ruckus. From the front of the building came shouts and cries in jumbled chorus.
Davy wondered whose post it was, Arlo’s or the woman’s? No one was bound to it, so he rea
soned it was the one the black woman had been tied to and she had been set free. Bowie had done it.
It was high time he got out of there as well. A halting step brought him to a sprawled body. His left foot snagged and he tripped. The body cushioned his fall, and his hand, out-flung, slid across a buckskin shirt dampened by blood and made contact with a hardwood hilt. The handle to his cherished tomahawk.
Davy yanked the weapon out, held it close to his chest a moment, then staggered on. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe. Covering his mouth, he breathed shallowly to avoid inhaling more smoke.
He knew where he was now, and what he had to do. When he bumped into the dais, he roved to the right until he located the stairs, and climbed. The higher he went, the worse the smoke became. Bent at the waist, he hastened another fifteen to twenty feet, and his outstretched fingers brushed the rear wall.
Roving his hand in wide arcs, Davy soon found the rectangular ventilation hole. Standing directly under it, he lit into the wall with vinegar and vim, chopping and hacking as if his very life depended on the outcome. Which it did.
The wall was thick, but the brush and limbs were brittle. The tomahawk made short shrift of them, biting deep with every stroke. The thunk-thank-thunk was loud enough to attract interest, but he doubted warriors would investigate. The Indians had their hands full with Bowie and the Africans, or with helping to save the women and children.
His eyes stung horribly. His lungs were on the verge of collapse. But Davy did not give up. Quitters were natural-born losers, his pa had always said, and he would be damned if anyone would ever include him in that category. He put his shoulders into it, chopping with a vengeance. More wood chips flew, but not nearly enough. He must open a large enough hole before he succumbed to the smoke.
It would be close.
Breathing grew even more difficult. Each breath he took was laced with more bitter smoke. His lungs were full of it. They burned terribly, as if filled with acid. Somewhere or other, he recollected being told that in most fires, smoke claimed more victims than flames. He inhaled and held it, thinking that would reduce the torment, but it didn’t. The pain grew worse.
Davy was weakening. Every muscle in his arms ached. His shoulders throbbed. His head pounded as if to the beat of a heavy hammer. Both legs trembled, his knees on the verge of buckling. Only through supreme force of will did he stay upright.
I must keep swinging! Davy railed at himself. I must keep chopping or I will die. I’ll never get to see my beloved wife again, to tell her how truly sorry I am for being as thick-skinned as an ox and as thickheaded as a mule. I should never have gone on this gallivant. Never have given in to my urge to always see what lay over the next horizon. Not for nothing was there an old saying that “curiosity killed the cat.”
His lungs were on fire. He could not breathe without being racked by exquisite agony. His arms were leaden; no, they were heavier than lead. Each blow was a strain.
Davy swung again. Thwack! His swings were losing their force. Once more he struck, but it was not enough. He did not need to see the opening he had made to know it wasn’t big enough. Tears streamed from his eyes, his nose was running, and his throat felt as if someone had poured scalding-hot oil down it. He had done his best, but it wasn’t good enough.
In despair, the Irishman drew back the tomahawk for a final try. His legs had other ideas, and he crumpled, throwing both hands out against the wall to brace himself. Instead of holding him up, the weakened wall crumpled.
Davy blacked out. He could not say how long he was unconscious, but when he revived he was dumfounded to find the firmament sprinkled by stars. He lay amid broken pieces of the collapsed rear wall. Ominous crackling alerted him to the proximity of flames devouring what was left of it.
Like a crab, Davy scuttled toward high grass, sinking gratefully onto his cheek. The earth felt so cool, so refreshing. He was happy to be alive. He would be happier yet when they were quit of the village, when Flavius and he were—Flavius! Sitting up, Davy listened. The noise of battle had died. Had Harris and Bowie died too?
Shaking his head to clear it, Davy stood. Two thirds of the long lodge was a smoldering ruin, charred debris all that remained. By some miracle small portions had not collapsed even though they were badly damaged. Thick coils of smoke wound skyward. Blackened limbs hissed like riled serpents.
Warily, Davy moved toward the pen. It too had caught fire, and was largely destroyed. Of his friends and the Africans, nary a trace. He padded forward. Then promptly flattened when the night resounded to the drumming of many feet.
Dozens of hairy warriors had jogged from among the conical dwellings. Stripped to their loincloths, armed with spiked clubs, they loped into the swamp.
Davy rose when the last of them was out of sight. Sneaking beyond the smoldering lodge, he spied the women and children in the heart of the village, tending to the wounded. Melancholy gripped one and all, and many wept over those who would rise no more.
Davy felt no remorse. They had brought it on themselves. Without delay he glided into the vegetation. The warriors were making no attempt to be stealthy, indicating that Flavius and the others must be a long way off already. Sprinting, he soon spotted the tail end of the war party. From then on, mile after mile, hour after hour, he always kept them in sight.
He marveled at their ability to track at night. Either they could see in the dark like cats and owls, or they were uncommonly skilled at reading sign by running their hands over the ground. It turned out to be the latter, as he discovered when they paused and several examined a grassy strip.
Fatigue gnawed at him like a beaver at a sapling, but Davy refused to give in to it. His friends would need him in the coming fight. What good he would be, armed only with a tomahawk and knife, was beside the point.
The chase taxed him to his limits. The Indians held to a pace that would tire Apaches, and Apache men could cover seventy miles a day on foot, in the godawful heat of the desert. Or so Texicans asserted.
It was about the middle of the night when Davy glimpsed a glimmer of light to the southeast that had to be the pale glow from a small fire. But who it could be eluded him. Bowie’s bunch were traveling due east. That the cannibals hadn’t noticed the fire showed how intently they were glued to Bowie’s trail.
Davy slowed, cogitating. The fire might belong to whites, but the odds were slim. More probably, it was the camp of Indians belonging to another tribe. And Davy could think of only one other tribe that might be in the area.
Inspiration brought him to a stop. The Irishman stared after the retreating cannibals a bit, then chuckled and sped like the wind toward the distant glow. He had an idea. If it worked, hallelujah! If not, his bleached bones would be proof he was a raving idiot.
Flavius Harris thought of Matilda. His wife, not his rifle. He was sorry he had ever been harsh with her. Sorry he had not been a better husband. And sorriest of all that he had left her to go on Davy’s silly gallivant.
The cannibals had fanned out into a crescent and were slowly advancing. Prior to that, for over half an hour, they had stood on the hill, glaring and jabbering.
Flavius had figured the Indians were waiting for the sun to rise, and he was proven right. As soon as a golden halo crowned the eastern sky, as soon as there was enough light to see clearly, they galvanized to the attack. He glanced at James Bowie. “Well, I reckon this is it.”
Bowie wagged that big knife of his, but did not say anything. He did not have to.
“If they were smart, they’d starve us out,” Flavius declared. “Let hunger and thirst do the job for them.”
“Sometimes an enemy is so fired with hate, they can’t wait,” Bowie commented. “All they want is blood.”
The Africans waited in stoic silence. Some still had poles. Others had found thick limbs to use as clubs. One man held two jagged rocks. They appeared resigned to what was going to occur, resigned and determined to give a good account of themselves. They would all die. It was inevitable
. But victory would cost the cannibals dearly.
Flavius tried to swallow, his mouth much too dry. He never thought that he would end his days like this. So far from home. With no kin or close friends to lend comfort. He sighted down Liz at an oncoming savage.
Bowie addressed the Africans in their own dialect. Then, to the Tennessean, he said, “We’ll fall back as soon as they rush us. Make them come into the trees after us.”
Flavius nodded. It was sound strategy that might gain them a few moments of life. How precious each moment now seemed! And how sad that he had always taken them for granted before.
The Indians were seventy yards out. At a yell from a husky warrior, they broke into a run. Not at full speed, not yet. They were pacing themselves, saving their energy for the final sprint.
Another yell, and the cannibals ran faster, in long, loping strides that ate the distance swiftly. They commenced waving their wicked war clubs and whooped in rising bloodlust.
“It was nice making your acquaintance, Harris,” James Bowie remarked.
“Same here,” Flavius absently responded. There would be no time to reload Liz once he fired. He must fall back, relying on the pistols the frontiersmen had lent him, and when they were empty, he would reverse his grip and club warriors until they brought him low.
The husky cannibal—their new leader—raised an arm and opened his mouth to bellow a third time. He glanced to the right and the left, then behind him at a few who were slower than the rest. Strangely, he broke stride and came to a lurching halt. The bellow was never voiced. His arm drooped, the signal never given.
Those nearest him likewise slowed and stopped. Confusion spread rapidly all along the line, blunting their charge. More and more of them stopped to look back. Within moments all of them were stock still, well shy of the tree line, riveted by the sight that had transfixed their leader.
“I’ll be damned!” Bowie exclaimed.
Flavius raised his cheek from Liz, as puzzled as the warriors. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, that he could not possibly be seeing what he imagined he was seeing. But it was real.
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