Davy twisted to bring Liz to bear. The thick grass should shield him, he reckoned, but once again fate intervened. Somehow or other, Sontag spotted him. A pistol cracked, the ball biting into the soil at his elbow.
Davy lunged to his knees, elevating Liz. He was about to take a bead when Sontag crashed out of the grass and rammed into him like a two-legged battering ram.
Bowled over, Davy held onto Liz. Once more he heaved onto one knee. Once more he slapped her to his shoulder. Too late, he saw a rifle stock arcing toward him. He brought up Liz to ward off the blow but instead Liz was knocked out of his hands.
Sontag closed in. He was a broad man with a barrel chest and a saw tooth scar on his left cheek. His dark eyes glittered with sadistic relish. Here was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. Here was a killer, plain and simple.
Again the stock swept at Davy. He dropped under it and rolled, deliberately churning toward Sontag’s legs. He made contact, and down Sontag toppled. Davy whipped a punch that glanced off the river rat’s temple.
Sontag had lost his rifle, so he resorted to grappling. A rough and tumble customer who had learned to fight in the no-holds-barred arena of the wharves, he fought as dirty as a politician. He kicked, he gouged, he even bit.
A fist caught Davy on the jaw and pinpoints of light pin wheeled in front of him. A boot slammed into his midsection with enough force to drive his stomach out through his spine. Dazed, in torment, Davy blocked several roundhouse punches, then threw a right cross that rocked Sontag.
“Bastard!” the riverman hissed. His fists were flesh-and-blood hammers, his knuckles the size of walnuts. The punishment he rained down on Davy would have crippled a lesser man. As it was, Davy was hard pressed to hold his own.
They traded a flurry, neither doing much damage. Davy was jarred by an uppercut. In retaliation, he landed a left cross. Sontag took him unawares by smashing into him and wrapping fingers as thick as knife hilts around his throat.
“You’re mine, you son of a bitch!”
Davy leaped backward and swung at Sontag’s wrists, but it was the same as pummeling iron. Sontag’s thick fingernails dug in deeper, and Davy felt blood moisten his flesh. Davy jerked to either side, hitting Sontag’s arms again and again.
“Puny feller, ain’t you?” Sontag taunted.
No one had ever accused Davy of being a weakling before. Among the backwoodsmen of his home state, he had earned a reputation for strength and stamina that most men marveled at. Now he applied that strength, exerting every ounce of power in his steely sinews as he thrust his hands at Sontag, wrapped his own fingers around Sontag’s bull neck, and squeezed.
The sneer on Sontag’s craggy countenance became a frown as Davy’s fingers sank deeper and deeper. Veins bulged on Sontag’s face, and Davy imagined the same was true of his. Sontag began to puff and sputter. Davy squeezed harder. Sontag wrenched to either side. Davy squeezed harder.
Just when Davy thought the man would pass out, a knee slammed into his groin. Davy’s strength evaporated like dew under a hot sun. He was shoved onto his back. A boot sank into his gut.
“For that, you suffer, boy.”
Sontag reared over him, kicking in a frenzy. Davy absorbed several punishing blows, then found the energy to fling himself to the left and roll.
“No, you don’t.”
Sontag came after him, drawing a butcher knife. The blade glinted as Sontag raised it.
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
Davy clawed at a flintlock, freed it as the knife streaked at his chest. He fired, the slug striking Sontag’s sternum and lifting the man clean off his feet. Sontag flailed his arms like a windmill as he toppled. He struggled onto his elbows, sought to hike his arm to throw the knife, and expired with a wolfish snarl of defiance on his lips.
Off in the grass, footsteps thudded.
Davy pushed into a crouch, saw his rifle, and reclaimed it. The footsteps had stopped. Benchley was too smart to rush in blindly.
“Sontag?”
The whisper seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Davy crept a step to one side. Where was he? A hint of motion riveted his interest, but it was only grass swaying in the wind. Taking a gamble, Davy circled, placing each foot with exquisite care. He had gone a dozen yards when a holler arose across the way.
“Benchley? Sontag? Consarn it. What in blazes is goin’ on over there?”
To Davy’s disappointment, Benchley did not answer. It occurred to him that the riverman was probably doing the same thing he was. A ruse was called for.
Davy searched the ground, but found only grass. Sliding his knife out, he pried at the topsoil, removing a chunk the size of his palm.
Yet another yell broke the stillness. It came from the wagon, and it was Becky. “Mr. Crockett! Mr. Crockett! We need you!”
Davy tossed the chunk a score of feet to the north. The racket it made when it came down should have drawn Benchley’s fire, but once again the wily cutthroat had proven too savvy. Davy glanced toward the wagon, worried by the anxiety in Becky’s voice. What could have happened? He dared not show himself, not with Benchley and the other river rat ready to cut him down.
Nothing happened for the longest while. Davy had resigned himself to a battle of wills when hoof beats drummed east of him. Leaping erect, he saw Benchley and the other killer galloping off, Benchley leading Sontag’s mount. They reached the slope and clattered to the crest. On the rim, Benchley reined up and looked back. The gesture he flung at Davy was not Indian sign language.
Davy sped to the wagon. He was surprised to see Flavius Harris peering out, a rifle in hand. “They let you loose?”
“They needed someone who could shoot.”
“What?” Davy said, hoisting himself as high as the loading gate. No explanation was needed once he saw inside. Sprawled on his back was Jonathan Hamlin, the left side of his head caked with fresh blood. Hovering over him was Heather, dabbing a cloth at a gash above his ear. In the background was Becky, trembling uncontrollably.
“He was hit during that last volley,” Flavius said. “Another inch deeper and he’d be playing a harp right about now.” He paused. “Or, more likely, shoveling coal.”
Davy climbed in. “Fetch water,” he told Becky, to take her mind off Hamlin’s condition. Bending, he verified the wound was every bit as serious as Flavius claimed.
“It won’t stop bleeding,” Heather said anxiously.
“We need a fire,” Davy said, and took it on himself to gather the necessary dry grass. He made a small pile. Too much smoke might advertise their presence to wandering bands of Indians. From his possibles bag he took a flint and steel.
Flavius covered his friend from the wagon. By rights, he should be miserable, what with being shot and everything else that had taken place. But he was happier than he had been all day. Now that Hamlin would be laid up for a spell, Heather Dugan had to face facts and head back to civilization. She could not possibly make a go of it on her own.
Igniting the kindling was child’s play. Davy fanned the tiny flames with his breath until they licked steadily at the grass. As he turned to the wagon, he almost bumped into Becky. “Sorry, little one. I didn’t hear you sneak up on me.”
“Will Jon live?” the girl asked bluntly.
“I reckon so,” Davy said. “Once I’m through doctoring him.” Davy nodded at the bay. “Does your ma have a butter knife somewhere in that mountain of belongings?”
“Sure. We have a dozen good ones that she only likes to use when we have company. And there are half a dozen old ones that she makes me use.”
Davy smiled. “One of the old ones is just what I need. Would you bring it to me?”
She was gone in a swirl of hair and back again faster than a jackrabbit. “Here you go.”
Davy pulled his left hand up into his sleeve and grasped the handle; the other end he extended into the flames. Gradually the metal changed colors, and when it was glowing good and red, he stood and strode to the wagon.
&nbs
p; “What are you aiming to do?” Becky asked, dogging his heels.
“What has to be done,” was all Davy would say. “Stay out here until we call you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No matter what you hear,” Davy stressed. Patting her head, he rejoined the mother, who glanced at the red tip of the butter knife and blanched.
“Must you?”
“It’ll cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding.” Davy positioned himself, his left hand flat against the unconscious man’s temple. “Better hold his shoulders down. This will sting some.”
That was the understatement of the century. Davy gently applied the knife. Flesh sizzled. An acrid stench filled the wagon.
Jonathan Hamlin stirred. Muttering, he tossed about, or tried to. Davy held his head in place, while Heather bore down with all her weight. Groaning, Hamlin opened his eyes. They were unfocused for a few seconds, until the pain registered. Then they widened and he feebly heaved upward, a scream tearing from his throat.
“How much longer?” Heather said.
Davy leaned lower. The odor of roasting flesh and singed hair reeked to high heaven. Little blood was visible. Slowly running the knife the full length of the gash, he did not relent until satisfied he had done a thorough job.
Hamlin gasped and wheezed, too weak to sit up.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” Heather said, cradling his head in her lap. “Please forgive us.”
Jonathan tried to say something, but could not. She gripped his hand and stroked his fingers, aglow with joy that he would live.
“Rest now. We’ll take care of everything.”
“Heather?” Hamlin croaked.
“Be still. Rufus is gone. Mr. Crockett drove them off. Everything is fine.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Jonathan’s wide eyes roved the empty air overhead in blatant panic. “I can’t see.”
Chapter Five
Flavius Harris was as glum as a goat kept cooped up in a pen all day. Only, in his case, he had spent the last four hours cooped up in a bouncing wagon.
It was not bad enough that his wound acted up something terrible every time the bed was jarred by a deep rut. No, what made him especially miserable was the fact that the wagon was moving away from the Mississippi River instead of toward it.
For the umpteenth time Flavius vented his spleen by growling, “You’ve done gone and been out in the wilds too long, pard. Too much sun has fried your brain.”
Davy Crockett was walking beside the left rear ox, whip in hand. It was the customary position for wagoners back East. That way, when oncoming traffic came along, the wagoner would guide his team to the right and be in an ideal position to keep an eye on the approaching vehicle.
Now, flicking the whip at one of the oxen that had a habit of dragging its hoofs, Davy said, “It’s on our shoulders to help these folks out. They won’t last long if we don’t.”
“I have no argument with that,” Flavius said. “What I object to is heading in the opposite direction of the one we should be going.” Flavius stared ahead at the limitless expanse of rippling grass. “We’re just asking for trouble.”
Davy had about had his fill of his friend’s complaints. “My ears for a heeltap if you aren’t the grousingest gent alive.” He cracked the whip again. “How many times do I have to explain the same thing?”
“You can explain it until you’re blue in the face, and it still won’t make no sense.”
“Flavius, you beat all. You know that? Would you rather we’d headed straight on back and maybe ran into Benchley and his partner, lying in wait for us? Or maybe into Dugan and a dozen others, if Jonathan is right about there being a whole pack of coyotes scouring the countryside?”
“At least we’d be closer to the river,” Flavius said, holding his ground. “If we had to, we could pile everyone in the canoe. Dugan would never catch us then.”
“It’s a mighty big ‘if,’ ” Davy noted, and shook his head. “No, I reckon it’s better this way. We’ll make them think Jonathan and Heather are bound and determined to cross the prairie. Then we’ll swing around and head for the Mississippi on a southerly track.”
Flavius was cheered by the news. “No fooling? Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
The fragrance of perfume and the swish of a dress announced Heather’s presence. She leaned out, brushing against Flavius.
“Davy, Jon is asleep. I’ve done all I can for him, but it isn’t much.”
Flavius could not help noticing how the woman had taken to reporting to Davy every little thing that happened, and asking his opinion on the most trivial of matters. She treated him as if he were her brother. But then, that happened a lot. Folks naturally cottoned to the Irishman. Crockett had a knack for earning people’s trust.
“Good,” Davy said. “Let him rest as long as he can. We’ll examine his eyes again after we stop for the night.”
Heather rested a hand on Flavius’s shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing. And I can’t apologize enough for how we mistreated you.”
Flavius inwardly squirmed, bothered by the warm feel of Heather’s hand and the heady scent of the perfume. He had always been awkward around the fairer sex. Even as a kid, whenever his female cousins came for a visit, he had fought shy of them except at meals and the like.
It wasn’t that Flavius disliked women. Quite the contrary. His unease stemmed from an observation he had made when he was about twelve, an observation that subsequent experience had taught him was as right as rain.
Females were strange. Any man who thought they were normal either had no notion of what normal was, or had spent too much time attached to his mother’s apron strings as a sprout.
All a man had to do was look at the facts. For starters, women weren’t partial to logic, like men were. Their hearts ruled them, not their heads. They let their feelings guide how they acted. What made it worse was that their feelings seemed to change from day to day. Or minute to minute.
Take Matilda, for instance. One time she had gotten a hair to change around the furniture in their cabin. There wasn’t that much of it, but what there was, Flavius had moved, at her command. They’d gotten done, and about an hour later she had come up to him and said they were going to change it around again. When he had asked why, she had said. “I just feel like it.”
The table, the chairs, the butter churn, everything had been moved six or seven times over the course of the next week. He’d spend an hour arranging it just the way she wanted, only to be informed later that she ‘felt’ it wasn’t quite right yet.
Was that normal?
Women were peculiar, and mysterious, and fascinating, all rolled into one. Some men couldn’t get enough of them. Not Flavius. He’d rather deal with things he could understand.
Heather’s voice brought an end to Flavius’s reverie. “—don’t know what we’ll do if his blindness is permanent. We’d never reach Oregon Country.”
“Don’t fret about spilled milk until you’ve tipped the glass over,” Davy said. “Doctors can do wonders nowadays. And a big city like St. Louis is bound to have one who knows a lot about eyes.”
“We could never go back there,” Heather said. “My stepfather would find out. He wouldn’t permit me to leave again.”
“You’re a grown woman. What he wants doesn’t count.”
Heather grew wistful. “If only it were that simple. But you don’t know my stepfather. What Alexander Dugan wants, Alexander Dugan gets.”
“Can’t you go to the law for protection?”
“What law? St. Louis doesn’t have a police force yet, like New York or Philadelphia. Dugan is a law unto himself. Most of the politicians have their hands in his back pockets. And the few who don’t are not about to make the mistake of antagonizing him.”
Davy had known men like Dugan before. Rich, powerful, willful. They did as they damn well wanted, with no regard for the little people they trod on. To Dug
an’s ilk, common folk were so many sheep, to be fleeced at whim.
It was said that more and more of Dugan’s kind were migrating to Washington, D.C. every year. That the hallowed halls of Congress were being taken over by the wealthy and their lawyers, by those who craved power for power’s sake. If true, it spelled the death knell for the fledgling American republic. As the framers of the Constitution had warned, freedom thrived only when everyone had an equal say in government.
Davy had toyed with the notion of maybe one day running for Congress himself. He’d act as the voice of the common man, as a spokesman for those too timid to speak up for themselves. The backwoodsmen, the settlers, the farmers, they had a right to have their voices heard, and he had a set of lungs second to none.
Such idle musings occupied Crockett for a while. The afternoon was waning when he cast about for a place to stop for the night. Somewhere sheltered. Somewhere the wind would not chill them. Somewhere they could build a fire in safety.
There was only one problem. The unending plain was as flat and unbroken as a bed. No basins broke the monotony of grass, grass, grass. No welcome knolls or ridges offered a friendly haven.
“We’ll have to make camp in the open,” Davy announced.
Flavius didn’t care where they stopped, just so long as they did, soon. His wound was throbbing, and he was hungry enough to eat one of the oxen raw.
Davy unhitched the team and tethered the slow-moving brutes and the bay close to the wagon in case Indians should try to steal off with them during the night. Aided by Becky, he had a small fire crackling in short order.
While they were gathering grass, he was reminded of something he had nearly forgotten. Becky’s limp. Without letting on, he studied her and spied a long, twisted scar on the back of her left leg.
In the wagon, her limp had not been apparent. Oddly enough, when she moved quickly, as when she had been running earlier, it was less pronounced than when she moved slowly. Why that should be, he could not rightly say. He would have thought it would be the other way around.
Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 5