“Then again—!” Davy said, lancing the dirk out from under his cap—straight into Blackjack Tar’s groin.
In total shock, the giant gawked down at himself. He was frozen in place, not moving even when Davy wrenched the dirk out and scrambled to the left to gain room to rise. Tar gurgled, his visage growing the hue of a bright beet. A low rumble started deep in his barrel chest and rose bit by bit in volume, finally erupting from his throat as a titanic roar. Eyes wide and wild, he launched himself at the Irishman in a berserk fit.
Davy hurled the dirk at Tar’s neck, but the giant swatted it with the cutlass. The next stroke nearly took Davy’s head off. Pivoting, Davy flourished his tomahawk and his butcher knife. When the cutlass arced toward his temple, he parried with the butcher while simultaneously angling the tomahawk at his adversary’s forearm. He connected.
Being wounded a second time had a sobering effect on Tar. Recoiling, he crouched and rasped, “So you do fight dirty, after all. I should have known. Your being American, and all.” A scarlet stain spread along his sleeve. “For every drop of blood, you’ll suffer a thousand agonies.”
Idle threats were a waste of energy. Davy had learned that lesson from earlier scrapes. So rather than respond, he circled, holding the tomahawk and the butcher down low so Tar couldn’t predict where he would strike next.
The freebooters had fallen silent. To a man they were riveted to the tableau, their futures hanging on the outcome. On the rim of the basin many of the Texicans had appeared, side by side with Barragan’s lancers. Neither faction brandished weapons. Both were willing to let the personal combat decide the outcome.
Blackjack Tar pounced, delivering a swipe that would have cleaved Davy in half had it landed. Skipping to the right, Davy saved himself, then retaliated by thrusting his knife into the renegade’s shoulder.
Tar jumped a full yard to the right. “You’re like a damn cat! I’ve never met anyone so fast.” For the first time since they met, doubt crept into his eyes. Doubt, and something else, something new to Tar. He tried to poke fun by jesting, “I guess I should have picked that fat friend of yours.” But he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all the Tennessean.
“You should have left when your men wanted you to. What would you say if I did it now? If we call it quits? I’ll just turn and walk off. You do the same. Me mates and I will ride off without another ounce of blood being shed. We’ll let bygones be bygones.”
“No.”
“Why not, Yank?”
“It’s gone too far.”
“Please, coon butt. As a personal favor. I have no real desire to kill you.”
Davy avoided a rut as he resumed circling. To stand still was to invite another attack. “That’s where we differ,” he said. “I want nothing more than to put an end to your reign of terror. And if the only way to do that is to put an end to you, so be it.”
Tar was quiet a minute, brooding. “I’ve seldom been so wrong about anyone as I have about you. Very well. As every old salt knows, you can only walk the plank once. So let’s end this. No holds barred.” His hands moved a little higher on the hilt of the cutlass. “Let’s go out like men.”
Davy halted. His weight was evenly distributed on both feet, his legs were bent at the knees. He had the knife at his waist, the tomahawk slanted crosswise in front of his chest. He was ready. As ready as he would ever be. “Do it.”
The Englishman did a strange thing. Abruptly straightening, he touched the cutlass to his brow in a formal salute. Then he crouched again, snarling like the beast some claimed he was. The cutlass flashed on high. In a blur it drove downward.
Davy was not there when the long blade split the space he had occupied. A bound took him in close. A flick of his left arm buried the butcher knife in Tar’s thigh. Staying in motion, spinning, he whipped the tomahawk in a backhand that caught Tar completely off guard. The blade sheared into the giant’s left wrist, through skin and flesh and deep into the bone.
Tar grunted. That was all. Retreating a few yards, he grimaced and pressed his ruptured limb to his chest. Copious amounts of red gushed over his shirt. “Damn!” Tearing at his cloak, he ripped it off and frantically wrapped it around his arm.
A horse nickered to the north. Some of the freebooters were departing. Others hung their heads.
“Well, isn’t this a fine kettle of fish?” Tar said gruffly. Swearing, he flung the cutlass down. “Ever wondered how I earned the nickname ‘Blackjack,’ Yank?” With his right hand he brandished the short club. “Once I was the best in the Royal Navy.”
Davy was prepared for a rush. Or so he thought. But the giant was on him in half a heartbeat. That club, or blackjack, or whatever it was, wove an intricate pattern that no man could defend against. Davy brought up the butcher knife, only to have his knuckles brutally pounded. His hand instantly went numb and the butcher fell.
That left Davy the tomahawk. He countered with a series of skillful feints and punishing smashes, but it was soon apparent Tar had made no idle boast. With a blackjack the Englishman was unbeatable. Severely wounded, slowly bleeding to death, still the giant was more than holding his own; he was winning.
Davy swung the tomahawk at the Englishman’s jugular. Midway, his hand was met by the blackjack. It felt as if he had just been stomped on by a buffalo. He started to lose his grip but grit his teeth and held tight. Tar hammered him on the shoulder, on the ribs, above the ear. Bells rang inside his skull.
The blackjack slammed into his temple. Blackness engulfed the world, and Davy tottered. He blinked, saw the giant about to deliver what might be the last blow of all. His head throbbing, he threw himself backward while pumping his right arm. The tomahawk flew from his fingers.
Scores of hours had been spent practicing that toss. Davy could hit the center of a man-size target from fifteen paces nine times out of ten. In this instance the tomahawk spun end over end and thunked into the center of Blackjack Tar’s forehead.
Jumbled confusion ensued. Fleeting vertigo brought Davy to his knees. Shots cracked from the vicinity of the basin. Footsteps rushed in his direction. Strong hands slid under his shoulders and hauled him upright.
“You did it, pard! You did it!”
A slap to his cheek cleared the fog from Davy’s mind. He saw the freebooters fleeing, saw mounted lancers and caballeros in pursuit. Someone clapped him on the back. He looked down into the empty eyes of the giant.
“Tar’s dead!” Flavius hollered. “The rest are running. It’s over! At long, long last it’s over and we can go home.”
“Home,” Davy Crockett said, and never in his life had a simple word sounded so sweet to the ear.
DAVY CROCKETT 7: TEXICAN TERROR
By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson
First Published by Leisure Books in 1997
Copyright © 1997, 2017 by David Robbins
First Smashwords Edition: September 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
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 colle
ge 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.
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