Bethany Cole threw back her head and screamed.
All hell broke loose. Over by the burning lodge and over by the burning post, Comanches heard, and turned. From out of nowhere charged three warriors, the foremost with a war club upraised. Venting war whoops, they bore down on the Tennesseans. Davy snapped off a shot that smashed into the lead warrior’s chest and felled him like a poled ox. Davy clawed at his pistol, but the other two warriors were too close. They would be on him before he could shoot.
A human panther sprang onto the scene. Farley Tanner drew his ivory-handled flintlocks in a blur. The twin pistols flashed up and out and boomed in unison. Both Comanches were cored in midstride.
Beth spun and bolted, blubbering in Comanche. But Marcy threw herself at her brother and wrapped her arms around his chest. “Farley! It’s you! Really you! After all this time! I’d given up hope!”
“Sis!” the Texian cried, embracing her.
The siblings were so choked by emotion that they were blind to the onrushing horde. Davy prodded Farley with his rifle and hollered, “Save the reunion for later! Have you forgot where you are?”
Farley tore his gaze from his sister. He glanced at the Comanches, then at the fleeing shape of Bethany Cole. What was going through his mind was not hard to figure out.
“Leave her,” Davy said. “If you don’t, you’ll die.”
“But I promised her pa!”
Flavius was backpedaling into the grass. They were insane, the whole lot of them, including Crockett. In another thirty seconds the Comanches would swarm over them like riled bees. They wouldn’t stand a prayer. “Move, damn you!” he bawled stridently, and suited action to words by rotating on a heel and fleeing. He was shocked nearly witless when two shadows heaved erect in front of him. Fearing they were Comanches, he drew back a fist.
“Hold on! We’re on your side, hoss,” said an older man.
The other one snapped a rifle to his shoulder and fired. Sixty yards off, a whooping warrior pitched to the ground.
Davy did not wait for Farley to reach a decision. He took a step and shoved brother and sister toward the open prairie. Marcy stumbled, but Farley caught her. Hand in hand, they hastened after Flavius and the others. Davy brought up the rear, unlimbering his pistol. Like a deranged mob of banshees, the Comanches flooded out of the village in fierce pursuit. Six or seven of the fleetest warriors were in the lead, moving so swiftly that the outcome was inevitable.
The Texians were moving as fast as they could, but it was not good enough. Davy slowed a bit, calculating. A desperate gambit might save them, but his own life would hang in the balance. Abruptly whirling, he pointed his flintlock at the first Comanche. Immediately, the man dived flat. Davy swept the gun in an arc and the half-dozen Comanches behind the first imitated their comrade’s example.
A few seconds was all it bought. But it permitted Flavius and the Texians to vanish to the north. Davy waited for one of the Comanches to rise, then pivoted and ran to the northwest, deliberately luring the warriors off. Yipping and yowling, they took the bait and came after him.
Davy bounded flat out, a jackrabbit chased by a pack of coyotes. The lead warriors were glued to him, and the main body of Comanches followed the leaders. He had saved his friends, but at what cost? Because for the life of him, he did not know how he was going to shake the pack.
~*~
To the north, Flavius Harris was demonstrating that his bulk was not all excess weight. He kept pace with the strangers, wondering who they were and how they had happened to hook up with Davy. He could think of fifty questions to ask, questions that had to wait until he and the strangers were safe.
He ran beside a big man, the slowest of the bunch. They were hundreds of yards from the village when he thought to check on Davy. To his amazement, the Irishman was nowhere to be seen. Nor were the Comanches. “What the hell!” he exclaimed, slowing. “Where’s my pard?”
“He ran a different direction,” huffed the big man.
“What?” Flavius nearly stopped, but the man wrapped a hand the size of a ham around his arm.
“I think he did it on purpose, to shake them off our scent.” The man had a thick drawl, like the other two. “We’d best keep a-going. Your pard is a canny one. I reckon he knows what he’s doing.”
Reluctantly, Flavius allowed himself to be pulled along. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. His place was at Davy’s side.
“We’ll go back for him if he doesn’t show,” vowed the other, and cracked a lopsided smile. “Ben Ormbach, by the way. I know who you are, Mr. Harris. Davy told us. Me and my friends are Texians.” He said that last proudly, making it sound as if being from Texas was the highest honor a man could have.
They ran and ran, cooled by a northerly wind that fanned their perspiring faces. A belt of vegetation marked the location of a stream.
Flavius grew more worried by the minute about Davy. He waded into the water, shivering as a cold sensation spread across his feet and up his legs. On the opposite bank he halted to scour the ground they had covered.
“Kick up your heels, friend,” prompted Ormbach. Flavius came close to plunging back into the water. Hoping that he wasn’t making a mistake he would regret forever after, he jogged deeper into the night. The Texians seemed to have a definite destination in mind. Presently, inky mounds reared skyward ahead. Flavius and the Texians threaded in among hills, climbing to the crest of the first “We’ve done it!” Farley declared. Hugging Marcy, he groaned and buried his face in her hair. “I can’t believe I’m holding you. I can’t believe you’re alive and well.”
For her part, the woman broke into racking sobs she muffled against his chest. “Oh, Farley. Oh, Farley,” she said over and over. “I’ve prayed and prayed, but I never expected my prayers to be answered.”
“Would someone mind telling me what this is all about?” Flavius requested
“Glad to oblige,” said the older man, offering a hand. “My handle is Taylor.”
Before they moved on, Flavius learned all he needed to. It warmed his heart to hear that Heather and Becky were alive. But it stunned him beyond measure once he fully realized how far south they had traveled, how far from the Mississippi River they had strayed. Would he ever set foot in Tennessee again? Or was he fated to aimlessly wander the earth, a victim of fickle happenstance?
The Texians stepped lively along a narrow trail. They were drunk with victory, Farley and his sister strolling arm in arm. Marcy repeatedly pinched him, as if to prove to herself that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
Ormbach was whistling softly as they descended to a flat space that bordered a spring. Flavius was as dry as sand inside. He brushed past the big Texian to get a drink, stopping when he saw Ormbach and the others turn every which way, acting confused. “What is it?” he inquired. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re gone,” Taylor bleated.
“Who?”
“Your friends. Kerr. The horses. Everything.” Taylor gestured. “This is where we left them.”
It was Flavius’s turn to groan. Just when he thought the worst was over, he was plunged anew into the unending nightmare.
Taylor voiced similar sentiments. “There’s no way we can escape the Comanches now. Come daylight, they’ll track us down and wipe us out.”
Flavius gazed over the hills at the benighted plain. If only Davy were there! Crockett had a flair for getting out of tight scrapes. But Flavius had to be honest with himself. Maybe, just maybe, their string of luck had played itself out.
~*~
Davy Crockett had held to a steady pace for more than five minutes, maintaining a fifteen-yard lead over the swiftest of the Comanches. But he was tiring. And he suspected that the warriors had been waiting for just this moment, that they had held back so they could overpower him easily once he flagged.
What they would do to him was best not thought about. Lodges had been damaged, a warrior burned, others shot. For that he must suffer, suffer as few human beings
ever had.
Davy scoured the grassland for the umpteenth time. Somewhere in that general area were stands of cottonwoods. He could lose himself among them if only he could find them. He angled to the north, to the south. Nothing. He leaped high into the air. No sign of them.
Gritting his teeth, Davy willed his tired legs to pump for all they were worth. He tapped into his reserve stamina, pouring all he had into a last effort to elude the human bloodhounds who dogged his steps. His sole consolation, should they overtake him, was that the others had gotten away. Flavius and the Texians would escort Heather and Becky to safety. His sacrifice would not be in vain.
Suddenly a murky tangle of vegetation hove into sight. Davy flew toward it. As the growth assumed definite shape, he spied a dense tangle of undergrowth and barreled on in. A shrill howl greeted his ploy. He heard one of the Comanches crash into the growth in his wake. Veering to the right, Davy fell prone and lay perfectly still except for the hammering of his heart.
Within seconds a burly silhouette barged past. Other Comanches called out and were answered by warriors circling to ensnare him. They assumed that he had gone on through. Splashing noises pegged the whereabouts of the stream.
Davy carefully shifted. Warriors were everywhere now, spreading out, poking into every nook and cranny. Some thrust lances into bushes. Other hacked at dark areas with long knives. He saw women among them, every bit as determined as the men to bring him to bay.
Someone snapped instructions. Peeking over a low thin branch, Davy spotted Two Claws. The leader was a study in frustration. When a warrior came up and said something that Two Claws did not like, the chief pushed him, earning bitter looks from many others.
Placing his chin on a wrist, Davy elected to wait the Comanches out. Eventually they would drift elsewhere and he could bend his steps northward.
The crunch of a twig sent a tingle down his spine. A warrior was six feet to the left, walking directly toward him. Davy put his thumb on the hammer of the pistol. The man covered another two feet. One more stride and Davy would be found.
Two Claws shouted. The nearest warrior and several others stopped what they were doing and hurried to him. Two Claws led them away at a brisk trot.
The night grew still. Comanches were well to the north, to the south, and to the west. Davy was content to stay where he was for the time being. He assumed it was a good sign that there had been no shots since Farley dropped those two warriors. Evidently the Texians and Flavius had escaped and would be waiting for him at the spring.
Gradually the sounds of the hunt faded. Davy let another ten minutes go by for good measure, then slowly rose. Wedging the pistol under his belt, he reloaded Liz, relying on his sense of touch to gauge exactly how much powder to use.
The ramrod scraped against its housing when he yanked it out. Freezing, he listened for an outcry, but there was none. As quietly as he could, he tamped the ball and patch down onto the powder.
Slipping from the thicket, Davy hiked northward. He bent at the waist, sinking lower whenever faint sounds reached him. The Comanches were concentrating their search on the far side of the stream, which meandered northward before curving due east to the south of the hills. Every so often a roving figure was briefly visible.
A feral growl heralded a new threat. Dogs had been brought in.
Davy glanced back. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or were several shadows moving at the limits of his vision? Discarding caution, he ran, and promptly heard a warrior to his rear holler. Answers came from the west and the north.
None, though, from the east. To the east, a mile or so, lay the village. Not all the Comanches had given chase, and they were bound to spot him if he attempted to slip by. They would never expect him to go in that direction. So he did.
The snarl of a dog inspired Davy to pour on the speed, but the animal gained rapidly. He heard the rustle of its body through the high grass, heard the pad of its feet and its wolfish pants. Rather than resort to the rifle and let every Comanche within a thousand yards know where he was, Davy gripped his tomahawk. When the panting was at his heels, he stopped and spun.
The dog was a big shaggy brute. Teeth glinting in the pale starlight, it had already launched itself. Davy swung, the tomahawk slicing into the animal’s thick shoulder. He tried to skip aside, but the dog slammed into him and they both toppled. Davy tore the tomahawk out of the animal’s hide.
The frontiersman let go of his rifle as he landed and heaved upward. The dog had recovered much more quickly. Crouched low, the beast snarled and pounced, rearing on its hind legs. Claws ripped into Davy’s forearm, dug furrows over his ribs. He sank the tomahawk into its side, but the creature was not fazed. It snapped at his wrist, narrowly missing.
Off in the dark a warrior shouted.
Dropping onto all fours, the dog feinted to the right and streaked in on the left, its jaws wide to clamp onto Davy’s ankle. Only a frantic leap saved him.
Another shout from the warrior caused the dog to stop and lift its head. Maybe to bark. Davy was off balance, but with a desperate wrench he arced his tomahawk down and in. The razor-sharp edge sliced into the animal’s throat.
Davy stood over the twitching animal, breathing heavily. Retrieving Liz, he wiped the tomahawk on his leggings as he ran southward. He had gone more than a hundred yards when an anguished cry let him know the dog had been found.
Would they guess where he was headed? Davy adopted a steady rhythm, pacing himself, conserving his energy.
The village was abuzz with activity, Comanches flitting from spot to spot. Most were women and children, but enough warriors were on hand to pose a problem. Plenty of dogs were conspicuous, most near the burnt lodge.
Well shy of the site, Davy bore to the south. The wind was at his back now, and it brought with it the thud of swift footsteps. Swiveling, he dropped onto a knee. A stocky avenger was after him. He suspected it was the owner of the dog. Either the man had deduced which way he had gone, or the warrior was endowed with exceptional eyesight and could track at night. In confirmation of the latter notion, the Comanche had his head bent to the ground, as if he could see where the stems had been bent.
It would have been child’s play to shoot the man dead, or to bury the tomahawk in his torso. But Davy did not want to kill unless he was given no choice. Girding himself, he held Liz firmly, and when the warrior was almost upon him, he thrust himself upward, driving the stock at the man’s head.
The Comanche was as quick on his feet as his dog had been. Evading the blow, he produced a knife and speared the tip at the Tennessean’s heart.
Davy blocked the blade with Liz. Steel scraped on steel. Reversing himself, he rammed the stock into the warrior’s gut. The Comanche doubled over, sputtering, and a swipe of Liz’s barrel to his temple took the fight out of him.
To the west voices were raised. Davy adjusted his coon-skin cap and jogged on around the village, bearing to the east. He had a plan. As he skirted the last of the lodges, piercing wails fluttered on the breeze. A woman was hunched over the body of the warrior who had been set ablaze.
Davy slowed and scanned the waving grass. At first he mistook the dark mass he sought for part of the plain. It was the unmistakable odor that gave them away. That, and the nickers and whinnies he presently heard. He had found the horse herd.
There were so many he could not decide which one suited him. A mare seemed promising. She stood her ground when he approached, displaying no fear. “Ready for a ride, gal?” he asked, reaching for her mane.
That was when an arm looped around his throat.
Eleven
Davy Crockett reacted automatically. Gripping the sinewy arm with his free hand, he bent at the waist and heaved. His attacker sailed up and over his shoulder, landing with a grunt a few feet away. Taking a bound, Davy hiked Liz. An upturned, frightened face gave him momentary pause.
It was a boy. Barely fifteen, if he was a day. Desperately, he clawed at a knife on his hip, but it was as if the hilt we
re smeared with grease. In his panic, he could not seem to grab it.
Liz swished down. The stock caught the youth across the head and left him as senseless as a tree stump.
Where there was one, there were bound to be more. Davy entwined his fingers in the mare’s mane and vaulted astride her back. She pranced nervously, calming when he patted her neck and spoke softly. By tugging on the mane and slapping her sides with his legs, Davy prodded her into a trot.
Off in the night, someone hollered. Another, closer, took up the refrain, and soon half a dozen voices were raised in alarm. Davy heard but did not see an arrow buzz past his head. Pointing Liz at the sky, he thumbed back the hammer and fired, uttering a Comanche war whoop for good measure. His aim was to give the herd a case of the jitters, to cause them to mill about and keep the guards from getting a bead on him. But that single shot had a much greater effect, one he did not foresee.
The herd stampeded. He sensed a swell of motion, listened to the drum of countless hooves growing louder by the second. Harsh whinnies, unending nickers, blended in a rising tide as the enormous herd gathered momentum.
Davy was on the north edge of the herd. By rights, the animals should have stampeded to the south, away from the sound of the shot. That was the logical thing for them to do. But there is no logic to blind fear. Fear cripples the mind. When under its sway, even the most rational of creatures becomes like a terrified rabbit, running wildly wherever whim dictates. In this instance, the herd surged toward Davy.
The mare flew along with her head low. Davy saw dark shapes dart in front of her, heard others pass to the rear. To the right a dark wave was cresting, sweeping across the plain. It churned and seethed like a living thing. Unless he got in the clear, he would be trampled under that flood of horseflesh.
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