Davy Crockett 7

by David Robbins

  Marcy and Becky watched from a rear corner of the house, hand in hand. Both waved. Both smiled. But Marcy’s eyes misted over, and Becky could not stop shaking.

  “If something goes wrong,” Farley said quietly, “I won’t be able to live with myself.”

  “We’ll do right fine,” Flavius said “I’m just glad I can be of some help.” Actually, he would rather swallow burning embers than tangle with the freebooters again. He had been petrified speechless when Crockett imparted the scheme. They were taking an awful chance, not only with the lives of the captives, but with their own.

  As Davy had foreseen, the trail was easy enough to follow for the first five or six miles. Thereafter, the freebooters had tried a clever ruse that might have fooled less experienced hunters.

  Ripping brush and a few saplings from the ground, the brigands had erased their trail, wiping out every last vestige. But in so doing they left scrapes and gouge marks where the branches and leaves had brushed the ground. Davy was not fooled one tiny bit.

  The trail bent to the northeast, into rolling wooded hills, well watered, green and lush. Parts of Texas, Davy observed, were as close to Paradise on earth as anywhere else on the planet. Some rivaled the emerald Eden of Tennessee, which took some powerful doing. Game was plentiful, but they couldn’t risk a shot even though Tar’s band was a goodly distance ahead. Some of the freebooters might have been ordered to lag behind, specifically to see if they were being shadowed.

  Farley was impatient. He carped about their slow pace so often that finally Davy shifted in the saddle to say, “Enough is enough. Does a prairie dog go bounding into a den of rattlers? Does a doe run in among a pack of wolves? I’m sorry, friend, but Mrs. Crockett didn’t raise no stupid children. We do this right or we don’t do it at all.”

  Nightfall found them deep in the hills. From the crest of one of the highest in their vicinity Davy probed the darkness for a telltale pinpoint of light. There was none. Resigned to a cold camp, they munched on jerky, drank some water, and turned in.

  Flavius tossed and turned. Not from worry over the women. Or from concern about the impending clash with the cutthroats. He couldn’t sleep because his stomach growled like a ravenous bear every few minutes. The jerky had hardly whetted his appetite. It was past midnight when he drifted off and dreamed of being the guest of honor at a sumptuous feast given by the grateful Texicans.

  Dawn came much too soon, in Flavius’s opinion. Davy shook him awake and he sat up, every joint protesting the hours he had spent on the hard, chill ground. His knees popped when he stood. He longed for a cup of piping-hot coffee. Just one small cup. But Davy refused to make a fire.

  “We go without until the womenfolk are safe. No matter how long it takes.”

  Flavius rubbed his abdomen, which he swore had to be twenty pounds thinner than when their gallivant began. At the rate they were going, within a couple of months he’d be skin and bones.

  They pushed on. Farley had brought an item Davy relied on again and again, a copper-hued spyglass with a magnification factor of ten. They paused regularly to scan to the front and the rear. Once Davy spied slender tendrils of dust marking the progress of Taylor and the caballeros. Nearly five miles back, by his reckoning. Exactly as agreed on.

  Midday came and went. The temperature climbed. Insects droned in the woods, hawks soared on outstretched wings overhead, sparrows frolicked merrily.

  Flavius dozed. He tried to stay awake and alert, but his body turned traitor. As a result, he did not realize Davy had unexpectedly reined up until his brown stallion shied to keep from colliding with Davy’s bay.

  A couple of miles to the north, smoke wafted skyward.

  “A campfire,” Farley said.

  “Mighty peculiar for the freebooters to pitch camp in the middle of the day,” Davy remarked. Not to mention advertising their presence in so obvious a fashion.

  “Maybe it’s not them,” Flavius said. “Maybe it’s some hunters or farmers.”

  “Not likely. There aren’t any farms or ranches in this area,” Farley responded. “The Comanches are partial to these hills, and no one in their right mind courts running into those red devils.”

  “Then what in tarnation are we doing here?” Flavius almost asked, but refrained.

  “Comanches wouldn’t make a fire that big,” Davy mentioned. Indians always built small ones, as much out of self- preservation as anything else.

  Farley hiked his reins. “We all know damn well who it is. What are we jawing for? Every minute we delay, Heather and my mother suffer more.”

  “Just a moment.” Davy drew his tomahawk and nudged his horse to a convenient tree. As he had done a score of times already, he blazed a mark, chopping a crude arrow in the bark to point the way for Taylor.

  Hugging the base of the hills, the three men wound to within a quarter-mile of the smoke. In a stand of willows they tied their mounts, then the Tennesseans and the Texican warily advanced on foot.

  Rowdy laughter mixed with the hubbub of loud voices caused Davy to question whether they had indeed located the renegades, but there was no denying the evidence of his own eyes. Concealed in rank reeds bordering a creek, he gazed out over a lush meadow carpeted with various flowers.

  In the center Blackjack Tar and company had pitched camp. But where Davy figured to find a couple of dozen at most, fully sixty cutthroats had gathered. Their horses were in a long string to the north. Three large canvas tents had been set up, and in front of one a skinned buck roasted over the large fire.

  “Who’d have thought they’d be so careless?” Farley whispered.

  Certainly not Davy. It made him suspicious. Six sentries roved the perimeter, another three hovered close to the horses, so the freebooters weren’t as foolhardy as it seemed.

  Farley rose higher than he should. “Where are the women?”

  As if in answer, from out of a tent walked Priscilla and Heather, Heather supporting the matriarch. A skinny ruffian who wore a blue bandanna wrapped around his head spread out a blanket for them to sit on. No sooner did they ease onto it than another tent flap parted and out ambled the lord of the freebooters, Blackjack Tar himself. Even from that distance he was gigantic in comparison to everyone else, his flowing black hair and billowing cloak adding to the impression of massive size.

  Farley lifted his rifle to take a bead. “There he is! The son of a bitch! I could end his career right here.”

  “And ours as well,” Davy chided, snagging the barrel and pushing it down. “Don’t do something we’ll all regret. We can’t do your mother a lick of good dead.”

  A whoop at the south end of the meadow heralded the arrival of an additional fifteen freebooters, who were welcomed with boisterous cheers.

  “Appears to me Tar is gathering an army,” Flavius said morosely. What prayer did the three of them have against so many? For that matter, what use would Taylor and the twenty caballeros be?

  “They must be up to something,” Davy guessed. But what?

  Farley hunched forward as if about to burst from hiding. “Look at that son of a bitch! Pawing her like that!”

  Blackjack Tar was idly running a brawny hand over Heather’s golden hair. She swatted him, eliciting a belly laugh. The words they traded were too far off to be understood, but her meaning was clear.

  “I swear,” Farley growled. “I’m going to gut that pig and strangle him with his own innards.”

  The afternoon dragged, every minute weighted by millstones. More freebooters showed up. By sunset Davy estimated over ninety were present—or close to half of the total number of freebooters. Something big was in the air. But what it could be eluded him.

  Flavius was a bundle of nerves. Whenever a cutthroat strayed anywhere near the reeds, he tensed in dread.

  Farley grew uncommonly quiet, which Davy construed as an omen. The Texican never once tore his eyes from Heather the whole time she was outside the tent. Toward sundown the women were prodded back inside and a pair of guards were posted.r />
  Davy relied on Taylor having enough savvy not to stray too close to the meadow. But along about four o’clock a crackling broke out in the trees to their rear, and he figured the Texican had proven him wrong. Then several wild horses appeared. Apparently the meadow was a favorite grazing site, but they melted into the vegetation on seeing the camp.

  More fires were lit once darkness descended. Four does were butchered and skewered on makeshift spits. Kegs of ale and bottles of whiskey were passed around freely. The cutthroats were having a fine old time, secure in their numbers.

  “I wish Captain Barragan would wander by right about now,” Farley said, breaking his silence. “He might hate Americans, but he’s a scrapper. He’d help us lick these coyotes.”

  Flavius reckoned it would take half the Spanish army and a sizable contingent of Texicans to do the job. The pirates, smugglers, and assorted killers were liable to put up a terrific fight.

  “I say we sneak on in while they’re enjoying themselves,” Farley proposed. “No one will pay much attention.”

  “You’re fooling yourself,” Davy said. Hardly any of the freebooters wore buckskins. Fewer than ten had sombreros. “We’d stick out like sore thumbs. We’ll wait until most of them have gone to sleep.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  In the back of Davy’s mind it struck him that Farley gave in much too easily, but he gave it no more thought. Much to his regret. For it wasn’t an hour later that Flavius tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Where did that ornery Texican get to?”

  Farley Tanner was gone. Davy had been so intent on the goings-on at the camp that he hadn’t noticed. Pushing onto his knees, he surveyed the creek in both directions, then the opposite bank. Between the horse string and the tents a lone figure was rising up out of high grass. “The hothead.”

  “He’ll spoil everything,” Flavius said, and scouted the woods for the heaviest growth to retreat into.

  The bold Texican pulled his hat brim low and sauntered toward the tent containing the captives. Brashly, he nodded and smiled at some of the freebooters he passed. Most were too busy eating or drinking or joking to pay him much mind.

  Flavius held his breath. “I don’t believe it. He just might pull it off.”

  That remained to be seen. Farley was a stone’s throw from his goal when a pair of renegades barred his path. One said something. Farley shrugged and started to go around them. The other spoke, and Davy braced for an outcry. Instead, Farley calmly inspected his pockets, then shook his head. Satisfied, the pair drifted elsewhere.

  Flavius was gripping his rifle so hard, his knuckles were white. More than anything, he wanted the Texican to succeed. It would spare Davy and him from having to sneak in among the two-legged wolves later.

  Farley circled to the side of the tent nearest the creek. It was also the side in shadow. Suddenly ducking, he drew his knife and slashed the canvas from the cross brace to the ground. The two guards, busy talking, never heard. Farley ducked into the interior. Seconds later he reappeared, holding his mother’s hand. Priscilla, in turn, held Heather’s.

  Davy tucked Liz to his shoulder. He would provide what cover he could if they reached the creek.

  Farley paused. None of the freebooters were looking toward the tent, but that would change the instant the women appeared. He edged to the corner, and just as he stepped into the open the flap of Blackjack Tar’s tent was thrown back and into the firelight waltzed the massive giant.

  A bellow was the catalyst for Farley’s undoing. The guards whirled and sprang. Priscilla screamed. Farley’s rifle spat lead and one of the guards fell, his cranium cored. Letting the long gun drop, Farley palmed his prized fancy pistols. His next shot spun the other guard completely around.

  From all directions swarmed freebooters. A thunderous command from Tar to take Farley alive was all that saved the Texican from being riddled or ripped to shreds. They piled on him in droves, overwhelming him by sheer force of numbers. Heather leaped to his defense, but she was seized. It was all over within seconds.

  The freebooters parted, revealing Farley in the unyielding grasp of a swarthy quartet. He glared in defiance as Blackjack Tar walked up to him and made a remark that spurred Farley into trying to kick Tar in the groin. Tar, laughing, backhanded the Texican, who slumped with blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. At another gruff command, Farley Tanner was bound and dragged over by the fire.

  “Damn,” Davy said. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Flavius had a more pertinent comment. “What do we do now?”

  Seven

  The muted hoot of an owl in the distance. The lonesome wail of a coyote to the south. The low nicker of one of the horses. They were the only sounds to break the stillness that gripped the woodland and the meadow in the middle of the night.

  It was close to three a.m. when Davy Crockett waded into the creek and glided along the bank until he was directly opposite the tents. He was well aware of the risk he was taking. Blackjack Tar was no fool.

  The camp resembled the aftermath of a battle. Scores of prone forms were scattered at random in slumber. The chorus of snores rose and fell in irregular cadence.

  Davy had to contend with eight sentries. Four protected the horses, two roamed the perimeter, and two more were posted at the tent where the captives were being held. It would not have been unusual for some to have dozed off, but none had. All were alert, vastly compounding the danger.

  Davy wondered if their vigilance had anything to do with their leader. Tar had been an officer in the British navy, and the Royal Navy was a stickler for exacting discipline. Maybe Tar ran the same tight ship here, so to speak. Freebooters who neglected their duty might face harsh punishment.

  Davy brought his idle musing to an end and concentrated on what he was doing. Now was not the time to let his mind drift. Bending low over the surface, he crossed and carefully climbed onto solid ground.

  He was soaked from the waist down. For more than five minutes he crouched in the dark, allowing the excess water to drip off. He also rubbed the soles of his moccasins back and forth to dry them as best he was able.

  The sentries near the horses did not pose much of a threat; they were too far off. But the roving perimeter guards were a definite peril. One was coming in his general direction and would pass within twenty yards of the creek. Davy flattened, every nerve tingling.

  The burly guard whistled to himself, a bawdy tune popular in taverns from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. Unaccountably, he halted when he was abreast of the Irishman, then turned toward him.

  Davy could not believe he had been detected. As dark as it was, the freebooter would need eyes equal to an eagle’s to spot him. Still, he tensed, his right hand sliding to the tomahawk at his hip.

  The man yawned and stretched. He started to go on, but stopped again to gaze at the creek and smack his lips. Uttering a grunt, he walked forward to slake his thirst.

  Davy wished he could melt into the ground. Snaking the tomahawk loose, he removed his coonskin cap with his left hand and held it close to his side, ready to throw.

  The guard came blithely on, still whistling, his rifle propped on his shoulder instead of at the ready.

  When the man was six feet away, Davy flipped his cap to the left in a high looping arc. Instantly the freebooter stopped, blurting, “What in the hell?” and pivoted toward the cap. It put him broadside to Davy, just as Davy had planned.

  Heaving erect, the Tennessean took a long leap and brought the tomahawk sweeping down onto the crown of the freebooter’s head. The keen edge sheared through hair, flesh, and bone as if they were made of wax.

  In the process of leveling his weapon, the burly renegade was transformed into marble for a span of seconds, then broke out in violent convulsions. Eyes blank, mouth agape, he sank earthward.

  The guards at the tent had not heard. The other roving sentry was across the meadow. Davy wiped his tomahawk clean on the dead man’s shirt, then slid it under his belt and reclaimed
Liz. He helped himself to the pair of pistols the freebooter had, wedging them close to his own. It made him a walking armory, but he might need an extra gun or two before the night’s work was done.

  Rising, Davy padded closer to the tents, flitting past sleeper after sleeper. Several times he froze when one of the freebooters stirred or mumbled.

  The fire had burned low but not yet out. Davy veered to the right, never taking his eyes off the pair of ruffians who might spoil everything if he made a single mistake. When the tent in which his friends had been placed was between him and the guards, he crept to the canvas.

  No effort had been made to sew up the rent made by Farley Tanner. Davy parted the edge with Liz’s muzzle and peered inside. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.

  The tall Texican was on his side, facing away from the tear. The women were at either end, also on their sides, also facing away. Davy was surprised they were sleeping but blamed it on exhaustion. Moving quickly to Farley, he dropped onto a knee and leaned down to cut the ropes that bound Farley’s wrists. Only then did he see the gag. A gag that had not been there when Farley was carted in earlier.

  Straightening, Davy peered at Heather, then Priscilla. Both had been tied and gagged. The implication hit him a heartbeat before the interior flooded with light. The front flap and the rent were parted wide, exposing a slew of wickedly gleeful faces.

  Prominent among them was Blackjack Tar’s. Entering, he held his torch out and scrutinized the Tennessean. “Well, well, well. What have we here, mates? Didn’t I tell you we could expect more company to come calling?”

  Guttural laughter greeted the jest. Davy made no attempt to use his rifle, not when he was covered by six or seven others and a few pistols besides.

  Tar chuckled. “I remember you, Yank. You’re the fellow who wears a raccoon butt on his head. Why any grown man would do such a thing is a mystery. But then, you Americans are a crazy lot. At least it’s not a skunk butt.” The giant cackled at his own wit.