White Feather claimed that the Kanzas were a peaceful tribe, that they had never harmed whites, that their enemies were the Pawnees, Arapahos, and Kiowa, powerful tribes made more so by possessing an advantage the Kanzas did not, namely horses.
About that time, Heather popped out again. Anxiety was eating at her. “He’s much worse, Mr. Crockett. Nothing I do seems to help.”
Davy went in. Jonathan Hamlin was bundled in blankets from chin to toe. A damp cloth rested on his brow. Sweat beaded on his face and dripped from his chin. Davy pressed a hand to the man’s forehead, which was hotter than a burning coal.
“What can we do?” Heather asked plaintively.
Davy was at a loss. Back in Tennessee grew a few herbs that might be of help, but none of the plants he was familiar with could be found on the plains.
A grunt drew Davy’s gaze to the rear. White Feather was peeking over the gate at Hamlin. “Question. Him sick?”
“Gun wound,” Davy signed, and tilted Hamlin’s head so the Kanza could see it. “Body hot.”
White Feather climbed in without being bidden. Heather gave a start and clutched at Davy’s arm. “Is it safe?” she anxiously inquired.
“I think so,” Davy said.
“You think!”
The Kanza gently examined Hamlin, then, by sign, asked how Hamlin had been hurt, and how long ago it had happened.
Davy answered as best he was able. To describe Benchley and company, he used the sign equivalent to say, “Men, bad hearts, shoot him.” He did not go into detail about Alexander Dugan. For one thing, it was too complicated to express with his limited store of sign symbols. For another, time was of the essence. Something needed to be done for Jonathan.
White Feather went to the gate and addressed his warriors. Two of them turned and trotted off into the night. The others assumed seats by the fire, sitting cross-legged, their bows across their legs.
To Davy, White Feather signed, “We may-be-so help. Make good medicine.”
Heather was growing restless. “What is all that gesturing he’s doing?”
Davy translated, while the Kanza leader prowled the wagon, inspecting everything. White Feather was mystified by the churn and the stove. The pillows delighted him, and he squeezed one again and again, marveling at how soft it was. A shovel interested him immensely, as did an ax. Completing his circuit, he squatted in front of Davy and signed, “White men many possessions.”
Taking that as a cue, Davy helped himself to a folded red blanket and offered it to the Kanza. “Yours,” he signed. “Brother give brother.”
White Feather was thrilled. Partially masking his emotions, he stroked the blanket repeatedly and rubbed it against his cheek.
“What are you doing? Giving that to him?” Heather demanded. “That’s ours, in case it’s slipped your mind.”
The Kanza looked at her, then at the blanket. Her words were foreign, but her tone was not. White Feather took his hands off the blanket.
“Now you’ve gone and upset him,” Davy said. To appease the warrior, he beamed and placed White Feather’s hands back on the gift.
“So?”
“So we need him as a friend, and the surest way to prove to an Indian that you’re friendly is to give him something.” Davy indicated the pile of blankets and used her own statement against her. “In case it’s slipped your mind, blankets are the one thing you have plenty of. You can spare one, easily.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt.”
White Feather unfolded the blanket, draped it over his shoulder, and left the wagon. Head high, shoulders squared, he paraded in front of the other men showing off his new prize.
“They’re simpletons, aren’t they?” Heather said.
A naive remark, by any standard. Once, Davy had been the same as most whites, and believed that the only good Indian was a dead one. He had despised them as vermin, as two-legged animals that deserved to be exterminated. A cruel outlook, yet a popular one, shared by no less a personage than Andrew Jackson, hero of the Creek War and prominent politician. Jackson rated the red race as grossly inferior, and advocated removing the Indians from all lands east of the Mississippi, whether the Indians wanted to go or not.
Experience had taught Davy that Indians were little different than whites. There were bad ones, sure, just as there were bad whites. But many were decent and peaceful, sharing many of the hopes and aspirations of the whites who loathed them. He would never forget those who saved his life in Tennessee, nor the kind couple who had befriended him in the Lakota village.
“They’re no more simple than we are,” Davy said testily. “I’ll bet you preen in front of a mirror when you try on a new dress. And spend half an hour every morning combing your hair.”
“What’s gotten into you? I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
Jonathan Hamlin nipped their dispute in the bud by groaning and opening his watery eyes. “Heather?” he croaked.
“Right here, dearest.” She clasped his hand to her chest and mopped his face with the damp cloth. “Be still. You need to rest.”
“I’m burning inside,” Jonathan said.
“You have a high fever. We’re doing the best we can.”
“I can’t think straight. Why can’t I see? Why is it so dark?”
Heather glanced at Davy in alarm. “Don’t you remember? My stepfather sent Benchley after us.”
“Benchley?” Jonathan said, and stuck a swollen tongue between parched lips. Brow knitting, he grimaced in torment. “Why do I hurt so? Oh, I feel so sickly.”
“Quiet, now,” Heather said, caressing his forehead. “We’ll have you fit as a fiddle in no time. But you must sleep, beloved. Sleep for as long as you like.”
Soothed by her caresses and her melodious voice, Jonathan closed his eyes, gave out a long sigh, and slipped into slumber. Heather bent her head, her hair concealing her face. “God in heaven. Why did this have to happen? Now, of all times?”
Davy went to comfort her, but someone beat him to it. Into the wagon rushed Becky, to embrace Heather and say over and over, “Everything will be all right, Ma. Everything will be all right.”
A daughter comforting her mother. The irony of the roles being reversed was not lost on Davy as he left the wagon.
Flavius had not budged. Someone had to keep an eye on the Indians, he felt, and since Davy was too trusting for their mutual good, the task fell to him. Since the chief emerged, the warriors had been jabbering among themselves. “All’s quiet,” he reported.
“They won’t hurt us,” Davy said.
“I wish I shared your confidence.” Flavius meant it. But he had lost kin and close friends during the clash with the Creeks, and he wasn’t about to trust a red man fully ever again.
“Hamlin’s in a bad way. He might not last the night.”
Flavius knew he should be upset, but for the life of him, he wasn’t. It was selfish of him, he knew, but Hamlin’s death would ensure their immediate departure for St. Louis. “They never should have come out here. Better if they’d gone east instead of west.”
“They did what they thought was best,” Davy said in their defense. Which, when all was said and done, was all anyone could do. Life was a series of decisions, one right after the other. Make the right one, and all was well. Make the wrong one, and pay the price. Everyone went through that.
“So did we when we went on this damned gallivant,” Flavius reminded him. “And look at where it’s gotten us.”
“We’re still alive and kicking,” Davy said trying to make light of their perilous escapades.
Ever the pessimist, Flavius responded, “For how much longer?” He gazed longingly to the southeast. “I tell you, after we get back, I’m going to get down on my knees and thank the Almighty for our deliverance.”
“Matilda will be happy. She’s always wanted you to be more religious.”
“Poke fun all you want. The truth is, most husbands get to heaven by way of their wives’ apron strings.” The grass nearby ru
stled. Davy and Flavius both spun. Out of the night jogged the two Kanzas, one bearing two plants that had been torn out of the earth by their roots. These were given to White Feather, who in turn brought them to the Tennesseans.
“Man have wound,” the leader signed. “Make—” and here he used a variety of signs that, in their proper sequence, were the symbols for plant, leaf, drink, and good.
Davy gathered that the chief was advising them to concoct a tea from the leaves. He thanked White Feather and set about filling a pot with water and setting it on a tripod over the fire. A young warrior who looked barely old enough to be out of his teens hovered over Davy like a shadow, adding grass to the flames and taking the dipper from his hand to fill the pot.
The Kanzas were astonished by the water barrel. Once they learned what it was, every few minutes one of them would get up and treat himself to a drink. It got to the point where Davy had to sign to White Feather that no more should be taken without his approval.
Toward midnight, the warriors turned in. They simply rolled up on the ground and fell asleep. Davy expected White Feather to cover himself with the blanket, but the leader neatly folded it and fashioned a small bed of grass for it to lie on.
Flavius covered his mouth and snickered. “Look at him. He must not want to get it dirty. Doesn’t he know it can keep him warm?”
From the scant information Davy had gleaned, he reckoned that the Kanzas were a poor tribe, not rich in horses and hides like the Sioux and others. That blanket might well be White Feather’s most prized possession, comparable to a white man’s poke of gold, or a favorite weapon. He said as much.
“You scare me sometimes, pard,” Flavius stated.
“In what way?”
“You have this silly habit of always putting yourself into other people’s heads.”
“To understand someone, you have to walk in their moccasins a spell.”
Flavius fluttered his lips. “That’s just it, pard. Sometimes people do things for reasons other than we think.” He lowered his voice. “Take Alexander Dugan, for instance. Hamlin and Heather claim that he’s in the wrong. But who’s to say that they’re not? We have no idea why Dugan’s really after them.”
“Are you saying they don’t deserve our help?”
“No. Not with the man blind as a bat. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t become too attached to them. Sooner or later we’ll be parting ways.” Secretly, Flavius was afraid that his friend’s fondness for being a Good Samaritan would result in a lot more hardship. Hardship he could do without.
Davy stepped to the back of the wagon. Heather had draped a blanket over the opening for privacy. Muted whispers told him they were still awake. “How is Jonathan?”he asked softly.
The blanket parted. “He’s sleeping soundly enough,” Heather reported. “His fever is still awful high, though.”
“It’s too soon for the medicine to take effect yet. By morning, we should see a change.”
Heather placed her hand on his. “I wish there were some way of properly expressing my gratitude for all you’ve done. Without you we’d be helpless.”
Davy wondered if she had overheard Flavius. “Don’t worry. We’re not about to desert you in your hour of need.”
A few yards away, Flavius frowned and muttered under his breath, “Damnation. He’s doing it again.”
“Where will you sleep?” Heather asked.
Flavius opened his mouth to say that he would prefer to sleep inside, but he was not quick enough.
“We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Davy said. “Under the wagon will do right fine.” As an afterthought, he added, “If you can spare a few blankets, we’d be obliged.”
The wind had picked up, as it usually did at night on the open prairie. Flavius knelt and eased under the wagon, careful not to put too such weight on his hurt side. Davy spread out the blankets, two for each of them.
Crawling under his, Flavius slid both pistols from under his belt and set one on either side. His rifle went next to the flintlock on his right, his knife beside the pistol on his left. All he had to do was move either hand a few inches and a weapon was in ready reach.
“I tell you,” Flavius whispered, “sleeping with those Kanza out there makes my skin crawl. What’s to stop them from slitting our throats in the middle of the night?”
“Nothing,” Davy admitted.
“Just what I wanted to hear.”
Davy removed his coonskin cap, adjusted his blanket, and propped his head on his hands. Until that moment he had not appreciated how bone-weary he was. The events of the day had drained him.
He had to be careful. Those strange bouts of illness to which he was susceptible always struck when he was run down. That first time, back in Tennessee, he had traveled fifty miles in twelve hours, chasing lost horses. The toll had nearly killed him.
Fatigue lulled him into dreamland within minutes. He slept soundly, the sleep of the weary, awakening shortly before sunrise. Crawling out into the open, he rose stiffly and stretched. Shades of pink and orange banded the eastern horizon, a prelude to dawn.
Davy stretched, then turned to collect fuel for a fire. He was nonplussed to see that the Kanzas already had a small fire going. Or, rather, three of them did, for the other three were missing.
White Feather sat wrapped in his new blanket. Grinning, he beckoned, then signed, “Sunrise, day, good.” To accent his point, he inhaled deeply.
“Yes,” Davy signed by holding his right hand at shoulder height with the index finger extended and his thumb on the second finger, then swinging the hand down and to the left while simultaneously pressing his index finger against his thumb.
Suddenly the three missing warriors reappeared, hurrying from the grass to confer with their leader. White Feather rose. “You come us village,” he signed brusquely.
Davy was taken aback. Go to their village? “Why?” he signed.
White Feather said words in his own tongue to the warriors, then answered, “No time talk. Arise woman. Arise fat man. Go now.”
Forgetting himself, Davy said in English, “Not so fast. What’s this all about?”
White Feather clapped his hands. In a blur, four of the Kanzas smoothly notched arrows to their sinew strings and swung the barbed tips toward Davy. “Now,” White Feather insisted.
Chapter Seven
The oxen plodded to the northwest as they had for the past three days. Tireless mountains of muscle that they were, they were unaffected by the blazing sun and swarms of insects. They could plod on forever, provided enough forage and water were available.
The former was easy to supply. The high grass, so abundant in the vicinity of the Mississippi, had given way to shorter sweet grass, on which the oxen thrived. Rich green, brightened by patches of enchanting windflowers, the prairie was more beautiful than the paintbrush of man could ever capture on canvas.
Not that Davy Crockett noticed it all that much. He had other matters on his mind—more important matters. Such as how to escape from the Kanzas, who had turned out to be as treacherous as the Comanches.
White Feather’s band had disarmed Davy and Flavius, confiscated all the weapons from the wagon, and bundled them into a blanket. It was so heavy that two warriors were required to carry it. They took turns, White Feather as well.
Oddly, the Indians had not appropriated the guns or knives for their own. Nor had any of them claimed the bay. Which mystified Davy. As did their behavior in general. The Kanzas were the friendliest captors anyone had ever been taken captive by. Not once had they abused him or any of the others. Not once had they spoken angrily or hit anyone or bothered to tie Flavius and him up, even at night. He did not know what to make of it.
Davy tried to learn where they were going. But to all the sign entreaties he made, White Feather would only respond, “Explain time-in-front.” Which meant that the chief would tell him at some point in the future.
One of the Kanzas was always gone, day and night. They rotated in this, too; w
hen each man came back, the next immediately took off, running at full speed. No explanation was offered.
Heather rarely left the wagon. She was furious at the betrayal, and railed whenever White Feather entered to check on Jonathan, as he did several times daily. The Kanzas kept her supplied with medicinal tea, brewing a new batch each night.
Becky was not as flustered by the development. Davy liked to think it was because she did not realize the gravity of the situation. But then, small children naturally took calamity more in stride than adults.
Flavius was in another sulk. Most of the time he rode on the ‘lazy seat,’ a board attached to the side of the wagon. As glum as a rainy day, he glared at the Kanzas a lot and muttered lusty oaths.
Now it was the morning of the fourth day. They had been underway for a couple of hours when Flavius griped, “How much longer are these heathens going to keep this up?”
His shoulder was feeling better but his mood was as sour as a lemon, and Flavius could not help it. Every yard took them further from their canoe—further from home. He was so frustrated, he wanted to scream. Or beat the Kanzas senseless.
Davy walked beside the rear oxen, holding the whip. To a degree, he shared his friend’s disappointment. But they were still alive, and so long as breath remained, there was hope. “White Feather won’t tell me,” he said. “They’re taking us to their village, so it depends on how far it is.”
“I’ll never trust a redskin for the rest of my born days,” Flavius said. “Not one of them is reliable. Every last one would as soon stab a white man in the back as look at him.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge.”
“Quick?” Flavius snorted. “We gave them the benefit of the doubt, and look at where it got us! We should have ordered them to light a shuck for somewhere else that first night they showed up. Or shot them dead.”
“In cold blood?”
“Indians massacre whites all the time for no other reason than they’re white.”
Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 7