Davy Crockett was almost to the bottom of the hill. His buckskins clung to him like a second skin, his hair was plastered to his head. He was more exhausted than he could ever recall being, but he did not slow down. He raced straight toward the cannibals. The shock on their faces was priceless. Shock not at his arrival, but at the advent of those who were chasing him.
Davy had fretted he would not arrive in time. Sooner or later the cannibals had been bound to bring his friends to bay, and he had hoped—no, he had prayed—that he would arrive before they were massacred.
Few of the cannibals were paying him any mind. His tomahawk was in one hand, his butcher knife in the other, and he was ready to resist them tooth and nail if they jumped him. But they only had eyes for the newcomers.
Davy shot through a break in their line without mishap. His shoulder blades itched in anticipation of a hurled club, but they let him go. They had a bigger worry. Then he was at the stand, exhausted but elated. He bent over, striving to catch his breath, as Flavius clapped him on the shoulder and James Bowie cackled.
“You’re alive, pard! You’re alive!”
“Where did you find the Karankawas, Tennessee?”
Davy looked toward the hill. Snake Strangler and thirty painted warriors were arraying themselves to give battle. Between breaths, he gasped, “Oh, I paid them a social visit last night, and they’ve been chasing me ever since.”
Bowie was thunderstruck. “You led them here? On purpose?” He cackled louder. “Dog my cats! If that don’t beat bobtail!”
The cannibals were thrusting their clubs at the Karankawas and howling like so many wolves, working themselves into a killing frenzy. Snake Strangler and his war party were almost as noisy, some notching arrows, some drawing knives.
Davy straightened despite his body’s protest. “We need to light a shuck now. We’ll fetch Sam and head for New Orleans.”
“Look!” Flavius said.
The cannibals had charged. Their crescent raged to the hill and started up. War clubs uplifted, yowling at the top of their lungs, they were a human wave no enemy could stop. But the Karankawas tried their utmost. A rain of arrows slashed into the hairy tide, dropping many. A deluge of lances was next, yet still the cannibals surged higher. Snake Strangler and his warriors descended to meet them, the Karankawas holding themselves in regular order. And then ensued a scene few whites had ever been privileged to witness. Indian against Indian, all of them screaming and shrieking as they sought one another’s lives with clubs or knives.
At the outset the cannibals had outnumbered the Karankawas, but their ranks had been greatly depleted by the arrows and lances. Now the two sides were about evenly matched. It was man against man, warrior against warrior, brute ferocity and corded sinews pitted against agile frames and keen cunning.
Davy would have sorely liked to see the outcome. Any delay, though, might prove costly. Beckoning, he called out, “Don’t stand around gawking!” For Flavius and most of the Africans were doing just that.
All of them were tired. All of them were grimy and sweaty, and some were hurt. Almost all of them had been on their last legs when they reached the trees. Yet now they hurried briskly to the southwest, newfound energy coursing through their veins.
James Bowie glided to Davy’s side. “I’m beginning to think your friend is right.”
“About what?”
“You really can pull miracles out of that coonskin cap of yours.”
Davy chuckled, and remembered his last visit to a local tavern before leaving home. He’d downed more than a few horns of liquor and was feeling no pain. As was the custom, his drinking companions had been boasting of their prowess when he’d climbed onto a table to get their attention. His exact words came back to him. “I’m half horse, half alligator, and part snapping turtle. I can ride lightning, tame the whirlwind. I wrestle bears for a frolic and fight panthers with my bare hands for exercise.”
Bowie arched an eyebrow. “If you ask me, you’re just plain lucky.”
“Thank the Almighty! But one of these days my luck is bound to run out. Until then, I reckon I’ll go on doing what I do best. Raising Cain.”
“Think you ever will go into politics?”
“I might. I’m as lazy as the next coon. And who wouldn’t like to get paid for sitting around on their backside doing nothing?” Davy paused to listen. The din of conflict had risen to a feverish pitch. By the sounds of things, the Karankawas and cannibals were slaughtering one another with crazed abandon. Pursuit was unlikely.
“My days of dealing in Black Ivory are over,” Bowie said. “I plan to dabble in land speculation next. Maybe visit Texas, as you suggested.”
“You won’t regret it if you do. Count on me showing up eventually. We’ll get together and reminisce about the good old days.”
“You call what we’ve been through ‘good old days’?”
“Any day I’m not pushing up clover is just dandy in my book.”
Flavius Harris was startled when loud laughter rang out. He glanced in amazement from the Irishman to Bowie and back again. What a pair! he reflected. Fearless as could be. Between the two of them, they could probably lick an army! On into the swamp they hastened, two legends in the making.
DAVY CROCKETT 8: CANNIBAL COUNTRY
By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson
First Published by Leisure Books in 1997
Copyright © 1997, 2017 by David Robbins
First Smashwords Edition: December 2017
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover © 2017 by Ed Martin
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
About the Author
David L. Robbins was born on Independence Day 1950. He has written more than three hundred books under his own name and many pen names, among them: David Thompson, Jake McMasters, Jon Sharpe, Don Pendleton, Franklin W. Dixon, Ralph Compton, Dean L. McElwain, J.D. Cameron and John Killdeer.
Robbins was raised in Pennsylvania. When he was seventeen he enlisted in the United States Air Force and eventually rose to the rank of sergeant. After his honorable discharge he attended college and went into broadcasting, working as an announcer and engineer (and later as a program director) at various radio stations. Later still he entered law enforcement and then took to writing full-time.
At one time or another Robbins has lived in Pennsylvania, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Montana, Colorado and the Pacific Northwest. He spent a year and a half in Europe, traveling through France, Italy, Greece and Germany. He lived for more than a year in Turkey.
Today he is best known for two current long-running series - Wilderness, the generational saga of a Mountain Man and his Shoshone wife - and Endworld, a science fiction series under his own name started in 1986. Among his many other books, Piccadilly Publishing is pleased to be reissuing ebook editions of Wilderness, Davy Crockett and, of course, White Apache.
More on David Robbins
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