“Damn.” Farley moved swiftly eastward. “If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers.” He smacked one of his fancy pistols, informing Marcy, “I won’t let them get their filthy hands on you again, sis. I’d rather we both died.”
Ormbach hustled after them, as did Flavius, but Taylor dragged his heels. “Maybe we should stick close to the spring. Without water we won’t last long.”
“And give them the advantage of the high ground?” Farley responded. “Why not slit your wrists and save them the trouble?” He shook his head. “Me, I’m not anxious to take the big jump yet. When I go down, it’ll be under a heap of red devils.”
Ormbach was checking his rifle. “That goes double for me. Harp lessons don’t interest me nohow.”
“What are we standing around for, then?” Marcy demanded.
They ran. For a while Flavius forgot about his empty stomach and his sore muscles and the shave he needed. It was amazing how a little thing like being in mortal jeopardy helped a person’s perspective.
Taylor passed him as they wound along the bottom of the last hill. Flavius did not like being at the rear and hurried to overtake the Texian, but a sharp pain in his right sole thwarted him. A small stone had somehow slid into his boot.
Stopping, Flavius sat and tugged at the offending footwear. Running had made him sweaty. He had made a mistake by not helping himself to a final drink from the spring before they left. It might be days before he enjoyed another.
The dam boot refused to cooperate. It fought him every inch, the damp leather clinging to him like a second skin. Matilda had made it, as she did all his clothes, and she had a habit of fashioning everything a mite too tight. Wishful thinking on her part, he reckoned.
Flavius had to yank and twist to get it off. Upending it, he watched the stone tumble. His toes were sore, so he briefly massaged them, relishing the sensation. As he slid them back in, he glanced toward the plain and saw the Texians a good distance off. No one had realized he had fallen behind. He was all set to yell when the clatter of another stone whipped him around.
Something—or someone—was back there.
Twelve
It was a ruse as old as the emerald hills of Tennessee. A trick no one would use except as a last resort. And it was the only ploy Davy Crockett could think of. Glancing past Kerr, he pretended to be startled by what he saw and exclaimed, “Don’t shoot, Taylor! We can still talk this out!”
Most men would have recognized the bluff for what it was. But Kerr was in the grip of blind blood lust. In his high-strung state he was not thinking straight. Flinging Heather from him, he whirled, bringing the rifle to his shoulder.
Davy pounced. Hooking a foot around the Texian’s legs, he hurtled forward, tripping Kerr. They both went down, Davy on top. He grabbed for the rifle but missed. Kerr was as slippery as an eel. Twisting, he backhanded Davy across the face, then sought to shove the rifle against Davy’s chest and squeeze the trigger.
Swatting the barrel aside, Davy lunged and wrapped both hands around the gun. They fought to gain sole possession, rolling back and forth as they heaved and pulled and twisted.
Davy won, but when he elevated the stock to bash Kerr over the head, agony exploded in his groin. The Texian had kneed him.
A muffled scream rang out. Steel flashed in the sunlight. Davy threw himself backward, felt burning in his shoulder. Scrambling upright, he saw a tear in his hunting shirt where the blade had nicked him.
Kerr was a skilled knife fighter. He came in swiftly, in a crouch, the weapon held low down, the knife positioned to slash or thrust.
Davy backpedaled to gain room. He evaded a cut, leaped clear of a blow aimed at his throat. Suddenly Kerr rushed him, delivering a flurry that drove Davy to the rear. A crafty smirk lit the Texian’s face. The reason became apparent when Davy backed into the dirt wall.
“You’ve got no place to go now, Tennessee,” Ken gloated. “When I’m through with you, you’ll be in tiny pieces.”
It gave Davy a moment to set himself. When the Texian lanced the blade at his heart, he pivoted, caught hold of Ken’s wrist, and levered Ken forward, simultaneously thrusting out a foot. Ken smashed into the wall, but recovered instantly. Bellowing like an irate bear, he tried to tear his wrist free. Failing at that, he kicked at Davy’s groin again.
The Irishman learned from his mistakes. He was ready, and by shifting his hip, he took the brunt of the kick on his thigh instead of where it would hurt the most.
To give Ken a taste of his own medicine, Davy pumped his knee high up between the Texian’s legs. Ken grunted, then gurgled and turned scarlet. His grip weakened. Davy took advantage and reached for the knife to disarm his enemy, but the man had plenty of fight left in him. Ken drove his forehead forward into Davy’s face.
Stars exploded before Davy’s eyes. Jolted, dazed, he staggered, half afraid his nose had been broken. He had lost his hold on Kerr, and he groped wildly for another. A second muted scream warned him that the Texian was closing in again.
Blinking and shaking his head, Davy cleared it just as cold steel swept at his jugular. He threw himself to the left, rolled, and rose on one knee. Groping for dirt to throw in Kerr’s face, he found something better. His fingers closed on the handle of his tomahawk.
The Texian charged. Davy met him head-on. Metal rasped against metal. He parried a rapier thrust, countered, but did not score. Circling one another, they each sought an opening. Kerr thought he saw one and stabbed the knife at Davy’s midsection. Countering, Davy cleaved the tomahawk at the Texian’s cheek. The blow was blocked.
They joined in earnest, weaving a tapestry of flashing steel. Circling and striking and blocking, they were a whirlwind of motion. Evenly matched, they traded blows until both of them were breathing heavily.
Kerr unexpectedly jumped to one side, out of range. “You’re tougher than I figured, coonskin,” he said begrudgingly. “Tell you what. We’ll end it. Let me take my horse and go. No blood spilled. No hard feelings. What do you say?”
Davy lowered the tomahawk a fraction, pondering. In that moment of vulnerability, the Texian struck. Kerr’s arm was invisible, the knife flying from his fingers like a bolt out of the blue. Davy had no time to duck or dodge. He had been caught flat-footed. In sheer reflex he brought the tomahawk up, and quite by accident the blade clanged against its head instead of sinking into his flesh. Deflected, the knife clattered to the ground.
“Damn your bones!”
Kerr barreled forward, batting the tomahawk to the left. He wrapped both brawny hands around Davy’s neck. Thick fingers gouged in deep. Davy couldn’t breathe. He was bowled over, the Texian landing astride his chest.
“I’ve got you now!”
Davy, sputtering, tried to bury the tomahawk in Kerr’s side. But Kerr was too canny for him. Clamping a knee onto Davy’s right arm, the Texian pinned it. And all the while those iron fingers dug in deeper, ever deeper. Davy tore at them with his left hand, but it was like trying to peel metal bars apart.
“Die!” Kerr raged. “Die!”
Davy just might. Already his lungs ached and a gray veil fogged his vision. He bucked upward, but Kerr outweighed him by a good sixty pounds. He wrenched sideways, but the Texian stayed on. And those fingers gouged in farther.
I’m being strangled, Davy thought. It was strange, but his mind was in a detached state, almost as if he were another person watching the struggle from a little ways off. He saw himself weaken, saw Kerr’s gleam of triumph.
Then a new figure tumbled into the scene. It was Heather curled into a ball, rolling like a giant tumbleweed. She slammed into the Texian, throwing him off balance, and although trussed up, she rammed her feet into his spine. Kerr was sent sprawling.
Suddenly Davy was no longer detached from his own body. Aflame with pain, gasping for air, he pushed to his feet. Dimly, he was aware that he still held the tomahawk. He saw Kerr rush him like an enraged bull, and he brought the tomahawk crashing down. In his befuddled frame of mind, he landed
a glancing blow, not a fatal one.
Struck on the temple, Kerr tottered to one side, clutching himself. Blood smeared his fingers when he lowered his hand, exposing a nasty gash. “You son of a bitch!” he roared. Then he did what neither of them had, oddly enough, considered doing until that moment. He stabbed a hand at one of the flintlocks tucked under his belt.
Davy let go of the tomahawk and did the same. He was a shade too slow. Kerr’s pistol cleared first. The muzzle belched lead and smoke. Not feeling an impact, Davy answered in kind.
The Texian was thrown backward. A red stain marked his shoulder. Swaying on his feet, he grabbed for his second flintlock.
This time Davy was faster. His pistol cracked, spitting flame. A heavy mallet seemed to slam into Kerr, catapulting him to the dirt in a disjointed heap. He struggled to rise, gasped once, and keeled over, limp.
Sore and bruised and bleeding from the knife wound, Davy slowly lowered both flintlocks. Every muscle hurt. His head throbbed. Turning, he confirmed that Heather and Becky were all right. Neither had caught a stray ball.
Somehow, Heather had worked her gag loose. “You did it!” she breathed. “I was so worried there for a minute.”
“Makes two of us,” Davy quipped. Sinking to his knees beside her, he set down the pistols and bent over the knots on her wrists. “Give me a bit. I’m a little shaky yet.”
“Lookout!”
Her cry came too late. Hands clamped onto Davy’s neck from behind. He was pushed forward, almost onto his face. Only by throwing both hands flat was he able to save himself. It felt as if his neck was being crushed. A knee connected with his backbone, spiking exquisite torment the length of his body.
Davy surged upward and threw all his weight into a turn, even as he swung his arm up and around. It worked. Free of the Texian’s grasp, he raised his fists to defend himself, marveling at the apparition that confronted him.
Kerr was pale and caked with perspiration. A wide red stain covered the front of his buckskins, from shoulder to waist. Yet there he stood, grimly glaring, like a vicious alley cat about to spring.
What does it take to kill a Texian? Davy wondered. He’d heard tales, saloon gossip, that Texians were a notoriously hardy bunch. They were supposed to eat nails for breakfast, anvils for supper.
A fist rocked Davy on his heels, another sent him tottering. Planting both legs, he braced for another onslaught. Kerr waded in, throwing punches right and left, seeking by sheer force of will to batter Davy down. Davy gave as good as he got. One of Kerr’s blows crunched his teeth together. One of his set Kerr’s eyelids to fluttering.
Growling like a mad dog, the Texian lowered his head and hurtled forward. Davy’s breath whooshed from his lungs as the human battering ram folded him at the waist. Locked in combat, they pitched onto the ground.
Once again Kerr wrapped his hands around Davy’s throat. His features contorted in savage exultation, Kerr squeezed harder than ever, spittle frothing his lips. “This time!” he hissed. “This time you’re mine!”
Davy raked an open palm across the Texian’s face. The nose broke with a sharp snap, the upper lip was pulped. But Kerr did not relent. The pressure on Davy’s neck was beyond belief. In desperation he boxed Kerr’s ears. When that produced no result, he dug his thumbs into the Texian’s eyes.
Howling, Kerr scuttled backward, tears gushing over his cheeks. As luck would have it, his hand brushed his rifle. Blinking to clear his vision, he snatched the gun up and brought it to bear.
Davy was halfway to his feet. Taking an awkward leap, he tackled the Texian. The barrel smacked his head, and he flung out an elbow to brush it away. Without warning, the rifle discharged in his ear. He heard Heather call Becky’s name. Fearing the girl had been hit, he risked a glance, and paid for his mistake by suffering a blow to the jaw that left him flat on his back, his senses spinning.
A vengeful fury in human form heaved above him. Kerr posed with the stock ready to crash down. With no conscious thought on his part, Davy lashed out with both legs, bashing the Texian’s shins. Kerr swore luridly as he was brought down in a tangle of limbs and rifle.
Davy was winded, an ache in his side hurting abominably. Sluggishly, he rose, his only consolation the fact that Kerr was hurt worse and took longer to get up. Across a span of three feet they faced each other, seething hatred evident in the Texian’s dark eyes. It was that inferno of hatred, Davy mused, that gave Kerr the inhuman strength to keep going.
Kerr had dropped the rifle, lost his knife. His shirt was soaked red, his face in ruins. Yet he straightened and clenched his fists to continue their clash.
In all his born days, Davy had never seen the like. If all Texians were as indestructible as Kerr, they would be unbeatable in battle. A small band of them could hold off an entire army. An army of Texians would be invincible.
Kerr stepped to the right, wary, tense, teeth bared. He flicked a jab, delivered an uppercut that missed, and followed through with a looping left. Davy warded them off. Throwing up an arm when Kerr threw a cross, Davy was taken aback when the Texian dived past him. The cross had been a feint. Kerr had seen something lying on the grass.
It was Davy’s tomahawk. Venting a feral growl, the Texian arced it around, intending to sink it into Davy’s chest. Only a mishap saved him. For as Davy skipped backward, his foot slipped and he fell. The tomahawk swept overhead, clipping his coonskin cap.
Kerr’s breath husked raggedly. Setting himself, he brought the tomahawk down at Davy’s skull. Davy jerked to the left. The blade thunked into the earth next to his ear, leaving Kerr bent low over him. For an instant their eyes locked and sparked.
Davy whipped his right foot into the Texian’s sternum. Kerr staggered backward, grasping for support where there was none. Brought up short by colliding with the wall, he paused, marshaling his strength.
Anxious to see about Becky, Davy rolled and rose. As he did, he saw Kerr’s knife within reach. Palming it, he reversed his grip, holding it by the tip of the blade. As a boy he had practiced throwing knives to where he could hit a knothole the size of a walnut nine times out of ten at a distance of ten paces. As an adult he rarely practiced, but some skills stayed with a man, becoming second nature. He put it to the test the very next second.
Kerr raised the tomahawk and charged one more time, his face as red as his shirt, his chest heaving from the monumental exertion. He was on his last legs, and they both knew it. Every iota of energy he had left, every bit of strength and stamina, he put into this final effort.
The knife met the Texian midway. Steel and flesh joined. Kerr grunted and stopped dead, as if he had run into a brick wall. He glared at the hilt jutting from his body, then glared at Davy, his hatred undiminished even in this, his last few moments of life. His mouth opened, but whatever he wanted to say was left unspoken. Gagging, he folded at the knees. Wheezing, he pitched forward. His body went into convulsions. His tongue protruded. True to his nature, he twisted his neck to gaze balefully at Davy. He died radiating spite.
Davy could not say exactly why he shuddered. Turning, he saw Heather next to Becky, and ran over. Mother and daughter were propped against each other. In the ground next to the child’s leg was a furrow that ended in a hole.
“I thought she had been hit,” Heather said weakly.
Freeing them wasn’t easy, even using the knife. Kerr had tied the ropes so tightly that Davy had to exercise extreme care not to cut them. As he finished with Becky, she flung her arms around him and sobbed.
“What about the body?” Heather asked at length.
“Buzzards and coyotes have to eat” was Davy’s response. After gathering all the weapons, he reloaded the guns. The horses were already saddled. So once the fire had been stamped out, they mounted and rode north. Davy remembered to claim the mare.
The Dugans were uncommonly quiet. Given their ordeal, Davy did not blame them. In light of the shape they were in, he was reluctant to push very hard. By nightfall they had covered half as many miles
as he could have done alone.
Camp was made in a gully. An obliging rabbit was the main ingredient in a hot stew. Stars speckled the firmament when Davy spread out blankets for each of them and took a seat on his. Becky, who had not uttered a word in hours, gave him a probing stare and cleared her throat.
“Can you tell me why, Mr. Crockett?”
“Why what?”
“Why are there wicked people like Mr. Kerr? Why does God let bad men do bad things to us? Why do we have to suffer?”
Davy chuckled. “Lordy, girl. If I could answer that, I’d be the wisest person who ever lived. Truth is, no two people can agree on the reason. Some say the Devil is to blame, and give him credit for all the things that go wrong. Some think the evil men do takes root in their own hearts. Others believe bad things just happen.”
“It’s not right. No one should ever have to hurt.”
What could Davy say? How could he get it across that pain and suffering were part and parcel of life? That from the cradle to the grave most folks engaged in one long effort to ward it off, to make their lives as bearable, as pleasant, as possible? His grandma once told him that without pain there could be no pleasure, for the only way to appreciate the latter was to have tasted the former. A bizarre notion, yet it made warped sense.
He stayed awake until midnight, dozed fitfully for a bit, and slumbered heavily once he stopped resisting. Breakfast consisted of leftover stew and—wonder of wonders—coffee found in Kerr’s saddlebags.
Davy felt like a new man when they started out. Heather chattered about the rich social life of St. Louis, while Becky hummed or sang. No one would guess that they were hundreds of miles from the nearest outpost of civilization, three pieces of driftwood afloat in an endless green sea.
By the middle of the afternoon Davy spied the hills. Reining up, he rose in the stirrups to scour the plain to the west of them. No Comanches were evident, but he had a powerful feeling Two Claws and company were still in the vicinity.
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