The rifle shot had sent a tingle down his spine. So far as he knew, the only guns in the whole village were his own, confiscated by the Illini. He had not seen any of the warriors carrying them, so the shot must mean someone else was there! And the only one he could think of was Davy!
Now the bird was gone, and the Illini, in their rabid fury at having their ceremony spoiled, were racing pell-mell down the mound, not bothering to leave a guard.
A hand fell on his shoulder. Startled, Flavius shifted. Waneetoka was next to him, sadness mirrored in her lovely eyes. She said something and nodded at the sky.
Flavius had to wet his lips before he could speak. “Will that monster come back? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” He strained, trying to rise higher. “Help me, please,” he pleaded. “You’re not like the rest. I can tell. Don’t let me die like this.”
Waneetoka looked at the rim. The last of her people were going down the steps. Reaching into the long sleeve of her feathered dress, she pulled out a slender knife and placed the carved hilt in his right hand.
“I can’t move my arms,” Flavius said. “You’ll need to cut the rope for me.”
Tenderly touching his cheek, Waneetoka rose and hastened toward the steps.
“Wait!” Flavius called. “Don’t leave me like this! I can’t do it myself!”
At the crest, Waneetoka paused. Smiling, she gave a little wave, then dipped from sight.
“No!” Flavius shouted. “For the love of God! Come back! Come back!”
All alone now, Flavius blinked away tears of frustration. He could barely feel the knife, his hand was so numb. Grunting with the exertion, he twisted so he could see the stake. As carefully as he could, he applied the sharp edge of the blade to the rope and began to saw back and forth.
His frustration mounted. He was so weak, the knife only sliced through a single strand of hemp.
“No, no, no,” Flavius said in desperation. Unless he could restore his circulation, the gift was useless.
Flavius began to wrench his body from side to side as far as the ropes allowed. At first he felt little except a slight tingling in his shoulders. But the more he did it, the more sensation returned. The tingling became a dull ache. The dull ache became stabbing pain. The stabbing pain became acute agony that flared up both arms and down both legs.
The torment was nigh unendurable. Flavius clamped his jaws to keep from screaming. Deathly afraid that the Illini would return at any moment, he threw his whole weight into each twist, regardless of the result.
Much too slowly, feeling returned to his wrists and fingers. He wriggled his hands, clutching the knife as firmly as he could, fearful of dropping it.
At last Flavius applied the blade to the rope with renewed vigor. This time he sliced through a quarter of it with no problem. But the angle was such that cutting through the rest would take considerable effort.
Muscles lanced by searing pain, Flavius hacked repeatedly. Perspiration drenched him. His hand grew unbearably sore. His fingers began to lose their newfound strength. He was on the verge of collapsing when the last strand parted.
His right arm was free! His body demanded rest, but Flavius turned to his left wrist. He made short shrift of the rope, then propped himself up off the ground. A gust of cool wind invigorated him. Tucking at the waist, he slashed the hemp that bound both ankles.
Flavius rose unsteadily and took halting steps. Dizziness afflicted him, threatening to suck him down into a whirlpool of darkness. Resisting, he steeled his mind and made it to the top of the steps.
The body of a warrior lay sprawled in the open. To the west, the Illini were clustered, sweeping across the valley like a herd of buffalo gone amok. They were probably after Davy, Flavius mused.
The village appeared to be deserted. He descended, using his hands as well as his feet. At the bottom he leaned against the earthwork to catch his breath.
A distant cry galvanized Flavius into running to the great lodge. Whether the cry had been human or not was hard to judge. Either way, he had to get out of there while he still could.
His clothes were right where Waneetoka had placed them. After unwrapping the bundle, Flavius dressed and slipped his possibles bag over his shoulder. It was too bad he didn’t have his pistols and Matilda!
Outdoors, Flavius breathed deeply. He started westward, halting when he recalled seeing one of the Illini carrying his guns toward the east end of the lodge.
Should he or shouldn’t he? Flavius looked back, then sped east. At the base, he groped along the wall, seeking dyed hides. Finding one, he shoved it wide.
Bathed in the faint glow from the roaring fire was a spacious chamber filled with furnishings: mats, blankets, pottery vessels, baskets, a cradleboard, a long pestle, spoons, a bow and quiver, a pair of rackets like those the Seminoles used in ball games, and more. Nowhere did he see his belongings.
Flavius went on. His probing fingers roved over a depression as wide as a typical doorway, but it was solid earth. Had one of the chambers been filled in? The mystery would remain unsolved. He was running out of time.
At the next hanging, Flavius yanked, almost ripping it off. The chamber was similar to the other, only more lavishly adorned. Someone of importance lived here, perhaps Matotonga. Flavius scoured the interior and was about to back out when objects propped in a far corner caught his eye. They had a dull metallic sheen and poked above a blanket that had been draped over them.
His heart hammering, Flavius flung the blanket off. Underneath were Matilda, both of his flintlocks, his powder horn, and his ammo pouch. In addition, there were two other rifles, another set of pistols, as well as two more powder horns and ammunition pouches. Evidently, he was not the first white man the Illini had taken captive.
Flavius crammed all four pistols under his belt, slung his powder horn and ammo pouch across his chest, then grabbed Matilda and another Kentucky rifle. With renewed confidence, he bustled out and sprinted across the village.
Rather than go westward and maybe run into returning Illini, Flavius bore to the south, planning to turn west later.
Words could not describe how wonderful it felt to be alive! The air seemed fresher. The night seemed more filled with stars than ever before. His only regret now was that Davy was in the frying pan instead.
~*~
Davy Crockett shared those sentiments.
Loping along the narrow trail to the top of the hill, Davy stopped so Hoodoo Tom Fitzgerald could catch up. A hundred feet from the bottom, a tide of maddened Old Ones stormed in their wake, venting savage whoops. Farther back were several white-haired figures, elders whose stamina was not equal to the chase. Even farther away was a solitary runner, a woman, Davy thought.
Puffing like a steam engine, Hoodoo Tom clasped his ribs. “Whooee, boy! Them fellers sure can run! They must be part antelope.”
“Hurry,” Davy coaxed, moving toward the forest.
“Don’t get your britches in an uproar,” Hoodoo Tom said, and darted to the bushes they had hid behind all day. “I’m not leavin’ without my treasures.”
The Old Ones were almost to the bottom of the hill. In the lead were five or six of the fleetest warriors, who sensed their quarry was close and had pulled ahead.
“We don’t have the time!” Davy warned.
Hoodoo Tom pushed through the weeds, hunting, hunting. “I know we left ’em here, somewhere. Where can they be?”
Davy drew a pistol. The warriors would soon be in range. “I’m leaving,” he announced, “whether you come or not.”
The trapper glanced sharply at him. “I thought we’d partnered up, boy. You ain’t one those back- stabbers, are you?”
“Come on!”
“Damn, but you’re testy.” Hoodoo Tom parted a patch of weeds. “Ah! Here are my little darlin’s! George would never forgive me if I left ’em for the heathens to find.” Leaning over, he shrugged into the pack, but it snagged on his left shoulder and would go no lower. “Tarnation. You’d think a man my age would know
how to put on a backpack.”
Three of the warriors were halfway up. Davy darted to the mountaineer, gripped the snagged strap, and pulled, nearly knocking the trapper off his feet.
“Careful, Tennessee! George don’t like to be jostled.”
Dave shoved, propelling the oldster toward the tree line. “Just run!” he said, and plunged into the benighted woods himself, dodging tree trunks and random obstacles, sacrificing stealth for speed.
Hoodoo Tom was breathing hard. “Damn, Irish!” he complained. “A man could bust his neck this way!”
“Would you rather the Old Ones got their hands on you?”
That shut Hoodoo Tom up. On through an inky realm of stygian growth they fled, weaving around thickets and ducking low limbs and vaulting logs. Blackness cloaked them. It was their salvation and their bane. For no matter how agile they were, they could not avoid everything. Branches tore at them, thorns lashed them. They were jabbed and pricked.
A branch gashed Davy’s face, nearly spearing an eye. He never broke stride. To their rear the undergrowth crashed and crunched. The Old Ones were not about to give up anytime soon. Whether he survived depended on his endurance. He simply had to outlast them. Him, and Hoodoo Tom.
Hoodoo Tom! Davy glanced both ways. The trapper was gone! Shocked, he slowed, checking behind him.
Forty feet away a brawny shape barreled toward him, a war club uplifted.
“Tom!” Davy bellowed. Receiving no answer, he resumed his flight. Whatever had happened, the trapper was on his own until Davy could shake the Old Ones. Which might prove to be more of a challenge than he had counted on. The warrior behind him was narrowing the distance at a rate that would put a Creek to shame.
Davy knuckled down, running flat out. It soon became apparent that he could not elude his bronzed pursuer. His only recourse was to turn at bay. But where?
A clearing mushroomed ahead. Davy reached the center and pivoted, discarding his spent rifle. Automatically, he grasped a pistol. A shot, though, would bring the others right to him. His hand switched to the tomahawk.
Out of the brush burst the Old One, war club sweeping down in a blow that would have caved in the thick skull of a grizzly bear. Davy countered with his tomahawk, the impact jolting his shoulder. Separating, they circled, taking each other’s measure. Off in the woods, dry leaves crackled. Other Old Ones would soon show up.
The warrior feinted, rotated, and drove his war club at Davy’s temple. Parrying, Davy skipped to the right and swung, down low.
The tomahawk sheared into the man’s leg below the knee, clear to the bone. Blood spurted in a geyser. It had to hurt abominably, yet the warrior made no outcry. Nor did he slacken his attack. Shifting onto his good leg, he drove the war club at Davy’s face, the spike lancing at Davy’s left eye.
Davy barely evaded the blow. He felt the spike brush his coonskin cap as he brought the tomahawk around and in, burying it in the Old One’s stomach.
A low grunt was the only sound the warrior uttered. Jerking backward, he pressed a hand over the wound, set himself, and waded in again with his war club flailing.
Davy backpedaled, countering, blocking, dodging; amazed his adversary could go on fighting. What manner of men and women were these Old Ones? How could they absorb so much punishment without complaint?
Thinking distracted him, and he paid for it. His heel caught on a clump of weeds. Before he could regain his balance, he fell, landing hard on his back.
Instantly, the warrior seized the advantage. He pounced and brought the war club down with both hands, seeking to prevail by sheer brute strength.
Davy did not even attempt to ward off the club. He rolled and heard it thud into the soil beside him. Kicking out, he sent the Old One flying. It bought him enough time to scramble erect.
Among the trees, dry brush crackled. More Old Ones were closing in, fast.
His foe hobbled toward him, warily, wagging the club. It dawned on Davy that maybe the warrior was deliberately stalling, holding him there until the others arrived.
Davy took the fight to the Old One, raining the tomahawk down again and again. The warrior retreated under the onslaught, favoring his hurt leg. Davy slid to the left, and when the warrior swung to confront him, he reversed direction, chopping into the wounded leg again, but this time into the thigh.
The leg gave way. The warrior pitched forward, flinging an arm out to grab Davy’s shoulder. Davy swatted it off and sprang to his rifle. As he uncoiled, the Old One finally found his voice and yelled at the top of his lungs to bring the rest.
Davy ran past. It would have been child’s play to finish the warrior off, but the man was down, helpless, and it had never been in Davy’s nature to kill someone who could not defend himself.
The vegetation closed around him. Across the clearing, three warriors materialized. Even though the wounded man pointed, showing them which way to go, Davy did not regret his decision. A man had to draw the line somewhere, or he wasn’t much of a man.
Davy ran and ran, his legs tired, his lungs strained. If he pushed himself to his limit, and they caught him, he would be overpowered in no time. Time to rethink his strategy. Where stamina had failed him, his wits had better not.
A large log loomed out of the night, too large to leap over in a single bound. Davy had to jump on top, swing himself over, and drop beyond.
The Old Ones were uncomfortably close, twenty yards off at the most.
Davy took a step, then stopped. The tree had been uprooted, most likely by a storm. As it fell, it had torn out a massive chunk of earth on which it was propped a foot or so off the ground. Diving flat, Davy crawled under. It was a snug fit, but no one would spot him. He hoped.
Moccasin-shod feet pattered lightly. Davy saw one pair approach the log. Another pair bore wide to the south. A third warrior went to the north. They were moving briskly, but the one coming toward him unaccountably slowed. Whispers were exchanged, and all three halted.
Davy knew what they were doing. They had lost track of him, so they were listening.
This was bad. When they did not hear anything, they would realize he had gone to ground and scour the area. As competent as they had proven to be, they were bound to find him.
More whispers. They fanned out, searching behind bushes and trees. The one nearest the log walked right up to it. His feet were so close, Davy could see the stitching along the edge of the sole.
The toes pointed toward the tree, then to the north, then to the south, proof the warrior was confused, that he had no idea where his prey had gotten to. Suddenly the feet vanished. The Old One had leaped onto the log.
Davy did not move, not even when an insect crawled onto his neck and up over his cheek, not even when tiny antenna or pincers brushed his eye.
A soft thud signaled that the warrior had dropped to the opposite side of the log. His heels were inches from Davy’s face. They rotated from right to left and back again. A whisper elicited a reply from the north.
The insect crawled onto the bridge of Davy’s nose, then down over the end of his nose and into his right nostril. An irresistible urge to sneeze came over him, and he pinched his nose to stifle it. In doing so, he crushed the bug.
The movement, although slight, brought the warrior to a stop. The man’s moccasins swung toward the log.
Had the warrior heard? Davy gripped a pistol, every nerve on edge as the Old One retraced his steps.
Off in the trees, a man called out softly. The warrior close to the log hesitated, but not for long. The crack of a twig catapulted him toward the source.
Davy exhaled, then disposed of the bits of bug. For the time being he was safe, which was small consolation. Flavius was still unaccounted for and might well be dead. Hoodoo Tom had disappeared and might be a captive. They were no better off than when he snuck into the village. All that effort for nothing. With the Old Ones aroused, it would be daylight before he dared poke his head out of his hiding place.
As if all that weren’t enough
to give a body gray hairs, he had to keep his eyes skinned for a creature more powerful and savage than any he had ever gone up against.
The Thunderbird.
Chapter Eight
It was dawn before Davy Crockett could leave his hiding place. The Old Ones roamed the forest until shortly before sunrise. Half a dozen times, searchers came within yards of the fallen tree.
No shots resounded the entire night long. No shouts shattered the quiet. Davy took that as a good omen, a sign that the Old Ones had not gotten their hands on Hoodoo Tom Fitzgerald.
As for Flavius, Davy didn’t know what to think. Recalling the events of the previous afternoon, he recollected seeing a heavyset man that might have been Flavius climb to the top of the bird mound, along with two warriors. But since the man had worn a blanket, not buckskins, and since the distance had been too great for Davy to note more details, he’d assumed it was another Old One.
Where was Flavius now? That was the critical question. The ceremony had been spoiled. The piasa had flown off. So Flavius must still be in the tribe’s clutches.
Davy’s course, then, was clear. But the Old Ones were stirred up. Sneaking close to the village without being caught would be like trying to get close to a hive of riled hornets without being stung.
Still, he had to do it. If there was one trait his father had most impressed on him when he was knee- high to a calf, it was that “a Crockett never shirks his duty.” Crocketts saw what had to be done, and they went out and did it.
John Crockett had certainly set a sterling example. As a frontier ranger during the war for independence, Davy’s pa had risked life and limb more than once against British regulars, turncoat Americans, and bands of Indians partial to the English.
Was it any wonder freedom meant so much to the backwoods folk of Tennessee? And those of every other state, for that matter? Many of the heroes who had fought in the war were still alive, their sacrifice as fresh as the day they took up arms on behalf of the colonies.
But now, as Davy crawled out from under the tree and crept off through the forest, thoughts of freedom and the revolution were supplanted by the most basic of human instincts: self-preservation. His whole attention was focused on the thick vegetation, on shadows where warriors might lurk, on furtive movements and faint sounds.
Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 8