Coffee would have been preferable, but Davy saw no evidence of any in the lodge. He had not noticed previously, but some of the hides that composed the lodge wall were in need of repair. Several of the parfleches had also seen better days. A blanket on which the child played was faded and frayed.
The couple were just starting out in their married life. Many of the items scattered about the lodge must be from relatives. Hand-me-downs, whites would call them.
By anyone’s standards, the pair were hardly well to do. Yet they were willing to share what little they had with a perfect stranger. Their generosity and kindness deeply impressed Davy.
It made him think of some of the contrary settlers Flavius and he had met during their journey, people who refused to allow them so much as a sip from a well or a tiny piece of bread.
The young couple were prime examples of the truth that it wasn’t the color of a person’s skin that determined whether they were good or bad. Every basket, as the saying went, had a few rotten apples.
Through a gap at the entrance Davy saw that it would soon be dark. He also glimpsed other lodges and a wide stream or river. As near as he could tell, all the dwellings faced east. There must be significance to that, but he did not know what it might be.
Suddenly the beat of a drum sounded. A man shouted at some length, apparently making an announcement. Seconds later the drumbeat came again, only farther away. The same announcement was repeated.
The warrior and his wife looked at each other. Their expressions revealed that they were nervous, and in silence they listened as the crier went about the whole village.
Davy was mystified. What did they have to be nervous about? He was the captive, the one who might not live to see the light of a new day. He lay back down to rest and think, but no sooner did he do so than a different voice called out, just past the entrance. The woman instantly picked up her child and scooted to the rear. The warrior took a seat on the other side of the fire, facing the flap, then responded.
Into the lodge came three warriors. One was the surly polecat Davy owed for the gash and the welt. The other two were new to him. One was broad-shouldered and wore an elaborate headdress; the other was short and gray-haired. The latter gave him a kindly smile, but the surly warrior rubbed the hilt of the knife he had struck Davy with.
A short talk ensued. The young warrior acted displeased by what was said and twice glanced unhappily at Davy. Not once was the woman consulted.
None of the words made a lick of sense to Davy, except one. Toward the end, the short man used the word Nadowessioux. It was French, used in connection with a tribe more commonly known as the Sioux or Dakotas. Little was known about them, other than that they were heavily dependent on the buffalo for their livelihood and they were reputed to be highly warlike.
Shortly, the three men departed. The husband and wife huddled together, casting frequent glances at their guest.
Davy gathered that he had been the subject of the meeting, and that something was about to happen that would decide his fate. He was confronted with the choice of letting circumstances take their course, or of somehow giving his captors the slip.
An added problem was that Davy would not think of laying a finger on the couple who had befriended him, even though it would be relatively easy to knock both of them out and light a shuck before the rest of the tribe realized what had happened.
The warrior moved to a parfleche and took out a folded set of superb buckskins. They were probably the best clothes he owned. He stripped, then donned them, and traded in his old moccasins for a pair that seemed to have been recently made.
Davy gauged the distance to the entrance. He could be out it in three bounds. But the sound of muffled voices outside convinced him that many people were still abroad. He would be lucky if he got ten feet before they brought him down.
The issue was made moot when the young warrior stood, strode to the entrance, and motioned.
“Any chance of more pudding first?” Davy quipped. “I hate to be put to death on an empty stomach.” As he rose, the woman came over bearing his coonskin cap, freshly cleaned. Delighted, he squeezed her hand to show his thanks since he did not yet know the proper sign for that. He made a mental note to learn.
The scent of wood smoke hung heavy over the village. Although the sun was gone and by rights most of the inhabitants should be in their lodges relaxing after their evening meal, the majority were outdoors, gathered close to their dwellings, as if awaiting a signal.
All eyes swiveled toward Davy as the young warrior led him toward a lodge much larger than the rest. Only then did it occur to Davy that the Sioux had been waiting for him. He was the sole focus of attention from the moment he appeared until he reached the entrance to the big lodge.
Feigning a casual air, Davy beamed and nodded at everyone he passed. It was a calculated ruse on his part. Just in case the people had a say in what their leaders did with him, he wanted them to think that he was the friendliest white man they’d ever run across.
At the buffalo-hide flap, the young warrior hesitated and seemed loath to enter.
Davy took that as a sign that whatever was in store for them in there would not be to his liking. Davy glanced at a little girl who gaped at him as if he had two heads; then he spotted a horse fifteen feet away at the side of the large lodge. It was a magnificent stallion and it wore a rope bridle. Best of all, no other horses were anywhere near it. Someone had been mighty careless.
Davy had to time it just right. Some of the Indians were converging on the lodge; he dared not let them get too close. The young warrior tapped his arm, stooped, and went in. Davy bent to do the same. But instead he hurtled around the lodge to the stallion and executed a flying jump onto its back.
Excited yells broke out. Davy ignored them. Smacking his legs against the stallion’s sides, he made his bid for freedom.
Chapter Four
The seven wolves had backed the buffalo calf up to the brink of the basin rim. Ringing their prey, the pack snarled hungrily as their big gray leader stalked toward the calf.
It was on this scene that Flavius Harris burst after galloping up the slope. His arrival scattered the wolves right and left, except for the leader, which skipped aside and nipped at the dun’s hind legs. Twisting, Flavius tried to fix a bead, but the wolf would not stand still long enough. It danced to the right, reversed itself, and sprang at Little Hickory like a bolt of lupine lightning.
The calf tried to bolt out of the way, but it was abysmally slow. It bawled in panic as the wolf slammed into its shoulder, driving it farther back. For a few seconds it teetered. Then, spindly legs flailing awkwardly, it regained its balance.
The same could not be said for its attacker. As the wolf cut to the left to set itself for another attempt, the earth under its paws gave out. Scrabbling furiously for support that was not there, the predator tumbled down the bank into a heavy thicket.
Flavius moved as near to the edge as he could and rose in the saddle to peer into the brush. Like a ghostly specter, the big wolf had vanished. Swinging the dun, Flavius sought the others. They were off in the tall grass somewhere. The calf was trembling but otherwise appeared to be unhurt.
“Serves you right for falling behind,” Flavius chided. “Now, come along.” Going to the game trail, he paused to verify that the calf was following this time, then rode back down into the basin. He did not like that the vegetation hemmed them in on both sides. So little light was left that the wolf could be on them before he got off a shot.
Thankfully, the big gray did not appear. Flavius went a dozen yards from the growth and halted. After ground hitching the dun, he hurried to a thicket to collect an armful of broken limbs and as much dry grass as he could carry. Three trips were enough to provide a sizable pile that he figured would last him for hours.
The calf cropped grass. Flavius was glad it was old enough to do so, or the poor thing would starve for want of its mother’s milk.
From his possibles bag Flaviu
s took his steel and flint, then his tinderbox. It was half filled with his favorite type of punk, namely dry, decayed maple.
He applied a small amount to the kindling, then struck the flint a slicing blow with the steel, producing a shower of sparks. Not being as adept as Davy, it always took him about seven to ten tries before he got the punk going. Bending, he blew lightly on the tiny flames, fanning them, adding kindling as needed until he had a warm, cozy fire crackling brightly.
As the flames rose, Flavius kept an eye on the calf, afraid it would bolt into the gathering gloom. He might not be able to find it again. But the wolves certainly would.
Much to his surprise, the calf displayed no fright. It stared at the fire with those wide, childlike eyes for the longest while, as if mesmerized. Finally it resumed cropping grass, its small tail twitching.
Flavius had to settle for jerky. He munched morosely while stripping the dun and arranging the blanket and saddle into a fairly comfortable bed.
Truth to tell, Flavius was sick to death of jerky. Davy and he had packed plenty for their gallivant, most supplied by Davy’s wife. She had a way of flavoring the dried meat so that it tasted like honey, and at first Flavius could not get enough of the stuff. Davy had to remind him again and again that it was supposed to last the entire trip, or he would have devoured it all within the first few days.
Since Davy intended to live off the land, they had packed light. No coffee. No flour. No sugar. This last item Flavius missed the most. He had a passion for it that defied reason.
What he wouldn’t give right then for a piping hot cup of coffee with five or six spoonfuls of sugar added! The thought made his mouth water.
A muted crack brought Flavius back to reality. Placing a hand on one of his pistols, he scanned the north side of the basin. By now it was so dark, the thickets were an inky mass silhouetted against the lighter backdrop of the grass and the sky.
Flavius had counted on the fire driving the pack away. It always worked back home in Tennessee. But either these wolves were famished enough not to give up, or they were a different breed than the wolves he was accustomed to.
Placing his rifle beside him and loosening both pistols so he could draw them swiftly, Flavius reclined on the saddle. He wasn’t overly worried. The wolves could prowl the thickets all they wanted, so long as they kept their distance.
He doubted they would be rash enough to venture into the open. If they did, the dun would alert him. So long as he maintained the fire and had ample light to shoot by, the horse and calf and he should be safe.
Until that moment Flavius had not realized how tired he was. His eyelids grew leaden, his limbs sluggish. Yawning, he fought off sleep for another fifteen minutes. Just as he dozed off, something brushed against his leg.
Snapping up, Flavius fumbled for a pistol, then stopped and broke out in a wide grin. Little Hickory had ambled over and plopped down next to him. Chortling, Flavius stroked its neck and scratched behind its ears.
“You’re worse than a damned dog,” Flavius complained, although inwardly he was tickled pink. The buffalo licked his hand again.
“You’re wasting your time,” Flavius said. “I refuse to get attached to you. You’re only going to die sooner or later, just like the original Hickory.”
Lying back, Flavius covered his eyes with a forearm and listened to the snap and crackle of the burning branches.
He wasn’t much for deep thinking, but it had always bothered him how the world was set up. Seemed to him that there was entirely too much suffering.
Why did the Lord allow sickness and accidents and the like? What purpose did it serve for folks who had never harmed a living soul to be afflicted by disease and have to endure torment? Why were wicked people allowed to ride roughshod over decent ones?
It was a mystery Flavius could never fathom, even though he read Scripture regularly. Or, rather, Matilda read it to him, since she was a stickler for reading at least one passage from the Bible every day.
Some parts were easy for Flavius to understand. “Thou shalt not steal” was as plain as could be. But then there was that other Commandment, “Thou shalt not kill.” All well and good, but what was a man to do when a war party of hostiles besieged his cabin and threatened to wipe out his entire family? And if it was not right to kill, why, then, in Ecclesiastes, did it state that there was “a time to kill, and a time to heal”?
Life was the darnedest puzzle ever, and Flavius was at a total loss as to how to solve it.
Part of the fault lay in him. Never one to deceive himself or others, Flavius was all too aware that he was not exactly the smartest gent alive. He often wished he were, because then all the answers would come to him.
Or would they?
Davy had five times the brains he did, yet even Davy admitted to sometimes being as stumped as he was.
Maybe people weren’t supposed to understand life. Maybe it was meant to be a puzzle. Maybe—
A low growl fell on Flavius’s ears. With a start, he realized that he had drifted off.
The growl was repeated. Opening his eyes, Flavius was horrified to see that the fire had almost burned out. He had slept for hours. A few flickering fingers of flame were all that were left. The wolves would close in soon unless he built the fire up again.
Flavius froze. The wolves had already closed in. Five of them formed a semicircle fifteen feet away, their hunched forms a prelude to a concerted rush. Prominent among them was the big gray male, its eyes glowing red like burning coals.
Little Hickory slumbered blissfully on, exhaustion dulling its senses.
Why hadn’t the dun whinnied? Flavius wondered, rotating his head just enough to learn that the dun was gone. The missing wolves must be after it. Maybe, Flavius mused, it had tried to warn him but he had not heard.
The big male wolf slunk forward, its glowing eyes lending it the aspect of demon spawn. Its teeth gleamed as it vented a bloodthirsty snarl.
Flavius rose higher and the wolf stopped. He still had a chance to get out of there. It was the calf the pack wanted. They would probably not interfere if he were to slowly stand and back off.
That very moment Little Hickory rolled over, facing him. The calf’s eyelids fluttered. Its mouth made a smacking noise, as it would if it were sucking on one of its mother’s teats.
Flavius could not move. The calf was so like a sleeping infant that he would never be able to live with himself if he deserted it. His presence was all that had spared it so far from the searing claws and teeth of the ravenous pack. Some folks might call him stupid for sticking, but they weren’t the one standing there with five slavering predators inching steadily closer.
“You picked the wrong meal,” Flavius declared, drawing both flintlocks and cocking them.
The sound of his voice caused two of the wolves to whirl and bolt. The big male did the opposite. Uncoiling, it sprang at Little Hickory just as the calf woke up and rolled over.
The wolf was in midair when Flavius stroked both triggers. Twin balls cored its body, flinging it to the ground as if it had been slammed into by an invisible fist. The other two wolves, in the act of charging, broke to the right and the left and whisked into the night.
They were not the only ones. Little Hickory, terrified by the blasts and the smoke, scrambled erect and sped off across the basin, bawling his lungs out.
“No!” Flavius hollered, to no avail. The calf was panic-stricken. Tucking the pistols under his belt, he grabbed his long rifle and jogged after it. He disliked leaving his saddle and blanket behind, but the calf’s welfare came first. Huffing and puffing, he covered a hundred yards without spying hide nor hair of Little Hickory.
Winded, Flavius stopped to catch his breath. “Where the dickens are you?” he groused. The calf had to be close by. Scant cover existed on the south side of the basin, but it was so dark that Flavius could not distinguish objects more than a half-dozen yards off.
Flavius walked on, turning right and left, anxious to get back to camp
and rekindle the fire. He needed light to reload the flintlocks. Some frontiersmen, like Davy, could load their guns in the dark, but that was a feat Flavius never had gotten the hang of.
A man had to add just the right amount of black powder for a pistol or rifle to discharge properly. Too little, and the ball might as well be fired from a slingshot. Too much, and the barrel could burst.
In the dark, Flavius was never sure of doing it properly.
A hint of movement off to the right brought Flavius up short. Was it the calf or the dun? Or perhaps a wolf? Cocking the rifle, he crouched low, as Davy had taught him. At night a man could see better lower to the ground than when standing.
He was rewarded by the sight of a four-legged form pacing back and forth at the very limits of his vision. From its size and shape, it had to be a wolf.
“Persistent cusses,” Flavius muttered.
As tempting as it was to shoot, Flavius saved his ball in case he needed it more later on.
The wolf melted into the gloom, so Flavius rose and continued to the south slope, his legs swishing the high grass with every step. Little Hickory did not appear. Dejected, Flavius roved the basin perimeter until he reached the heavy growth on the north side. No telltale growls greeted him. The pack had apparently gone, too.
That was not a good sign.
Shaking his head to dispel horrid images of the helpless calf being ripped to shreds by slavering fangs, Flavius made for the wisps of smoke that rose from the campfire. He was almost there when it hit him that something else was now missing. His bedding was intact. His possibles bag had not been touched. What else could it be?
A chill rippled down his spine as he realized it was the big gray wolf.
“Impossible!” Flavius blurted, darting to the spot where the wolf had fallen. Dark stains marked the soil. Hunkering, running his fingers over the soil, he detected scrape marks where the predator had dragged itself off into the brush.
Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2) Page 4