Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2)

by David Robbins

  Wild animals were strange in that regard. They never wanted anyone or anything to see them die. They would rather expire by their lonesome than do it even in the company of their own kind. Mortally stricken, they found a quiet spot, curled up, and surrendered the ghost. If animals had one.

  Certain he had seen the last of the big wolf, Flavius got the fire going. His next order of business was reloading. When that was done, he stretched out on his back and treated himself to another small chunk of jerked venison.

  He was in a fix now, for certain. Davy was gone, possibly dead. The dun had run off. He was lost in unknown country with little food and only the clothes on his back and a few dozen lead balls to see him through until he reached a settlement. Were he a gambling man, he would not wager a red cent on his prospects.

  Flavius tried to console himself by noting that it did no good to cry over spilt milk. He had to make the best of the situation. In the morning he would head east until he struck the wide river that Davy and he had crossed several days ago. He believed it was the Mississippi, but Davy was inclined to think it was the Missouri. Whichever, once across, Flavius would head southeast until he came on some white folks.

  Easy as pie.

  Pulling his blanket up to his chin, Flavius grasped a pistol in each hand and tried to sleep. This time it was not so simple. His overwrought nerves would not permit him the luxury.

  The beastly chorus in full throat outside of the basin did not help much, either. Wolves were constantly wailing their plaintive cries. Coyotes yipped without cease. As if that were not enough, the guttural grunts of prowling grizzlies, the scream of panthers, and the bleat of victims punctuated the din from time to time.

  Flavius tried to get to sleep by counting the stars, but he soon developed a kink in his neck. He counted sheep next, a ruse that had worked when he was small, so maybe it would again. He was at fifty-eight when slumber claimed him.

  The warm sunlight on his face woke Flavius out of a sound sleep. Feeling refreshed but lethargic, he stretched and rolled onto his back without opening his eyes. A few more minutes of rest would do him good.

  It had been ages since Flavius was last able to sleep past sunrise. Matilda was a stickler for being up and about at the crack of dawn, always scolding him for being a lazy lay about when he tried to catch a few extra winks. Davy had turned out to be just as fanatical about rising early, a habit he had acquired as a child.

  Let them get up with the crows if they wanted! For once Flavius could do as he pleased, and it pleased him to sleep until he was tired of sleeping!

  Flavius smiled, then went rigid as something wet and raspy stroked the left side of his face. Shocked, he looked up just as a large pink tongue descended, slobbering across his nose and lips.

  “Consarn it!” Flavius fumed, getting some of the slobber into his mouth in the process. Spitting and sputtering, he sat up as he was licked a third time, on the ear.

  “Enough, for land sakes! You’re drowning me!” Flavius said, pushing off the ground. Wiping his sleeve across his face, he held out an arm to prevent Little Hickory from doing it again. The calf was wagging its tail just like a dog, and looked as happy to see him as he was to see it.

  “Where have you been?” Flavius asked, checking the calf for wounds. “I was worried sick that those mangy wolves got you.”

  The calf playfully nuzzled him. Flavius laughed and gave it a smack on the rump. Little Hickory bounded in a circle, bucking like a mustang, then prepared to butt him.

  “Hold on, junior!” Flavius cautioned. “One of us might get hurt, and it could be me.” The calf’s horns had started to grow but were as yet mere knobs. Another six months and it would be a different story.

  Flavius ran a hand through his hair, plastering it to his head. He double-checked that his guns were loaded, then scratched his chin, debating whether to lug the saddle and blanket along or to cache them until he could come back.

  A whinny to the west spared him from having to decide. The dun had not strayed far, after all. After stomping its front hoof a few times, the horse trotted into the basin and slowly approached.

  Flavius stood stock-still. Experience had taught him that if he ran toward the contrary animal, it would run off. He had to make the horse think that he could not care less if it came close, and then it would. Sure enough, without his lifting a finger or raising his voice the dun pranced up to him and permitted him to grip the bridle.

  “From here on out I hobble you,” Flavius vowed. Normally he would have scolded the horse for running off, but having both the calf and the dun return safe and sound had put him in mighty fine spirits.

  “It must be my lucky day.” It amused Flavius that he was talking to the animals as he would to Davy. If his mother-in-law could see him now, she’d claim he was touched in the head.

  Saddling up, Flavius mounted and headed for the game trail that would take them to the top. Things were going so well that he entertained high hopes of finding the buffalo herd before long. As for Davy, Flavius could not shake a nagging fear that his friend had met a violent end.

  It would not be the first time Flavius had lost someone he cared about.

  Life on the frontier was nothing if not harsh, and those who chose to live in the deep woods learned early on that Nature was a temperamental mistress. Violence was a daily part of their existence, wild animals, hostile Indians, and the elements themselves usually to blame.

  Death was a common occurrence, and if a person was too cocky for their own good, or too careless at the wrong moment, or just plain stupid, they died that much sooner. With that thought in mind, Flavius came to the gap in the brush that marked the game trail and swung into it. A gasp ripped from him.

  Coming down the slope toward him was a grizzly.

  Chapter Fiv

  e

  Davy Crockett, smirking in triumph, lashed the reins of the stallion and hunched forward in anticipation of making a rush for the prairie. The stallion, though, just stood there as if it were carved from stone.

  Boisterous mirth cascaded through the village. All the Dakotas were fit to bust a gut. Not one raised a weapon against him or tried to grab the horse before it ran off.

  With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Davy glanced down. The stallion’s forelegs were hobbled. He could smack it until Judgment Day and they would not go anywhere. His ruddy cheeks growing redder, Davy sheepishly slid down and rejoined the young warrior, who was the only person in sight not laughing. “Sorry,” Davy said. “It seemed like a right smart notion at the time.”

  A small boy nearby mimicked his antics by dashing to a stick, wedging it between his legs, and pretending to lash it as Davy had the stallion. A renewed torrent of glee rippled through the encampment.

  “It’s nice that your people appreciate a good laugh,” Davy told the young warrior.

  It would have been nice to be able to speak his newfound friend’s name, and earlier he had tried to do just that, without much success. It was a real tongue twister.

  There was another problem: the language barrier. As fast as Davy was picking up the sign language used by the tribe, he still could not express or grasp complicated concepts. The young warrior’s name had proven difficult because one of the words had been particularly hard for the man to convey.

  As near as Davy was able to comprehend, the warrior was known as White-Hollow-Horn. Or it might be White-Empty-Horn. Or even White-Hole-Horn, although Davy thought the last extremely unlikely.

  Now, as White-Hollow-Horn parted the flap and went in, Davy took a deep breath to steel his nerves. He had to keep his wits about him at every moment from now on. Whatever occurred next would determine whether he lived or died.

  The lodge was twice the size of White-Hollow-Horn’s. Fourteen warriors were present, dressed in what had to be their very finest garb. At their head sat a powerfully built warrior Davy had not seen before, an imposing individual who sat straight and proud.

  That would be the high chief, Davy reckoned, t
he man who had the most say, the man whose advice the rest of the tribe was apt to follow, and therefore the man Davy most had to impress.

  Also present were the three warriors who had paid White-Hollow-Horn a visit.

  Surly Face, as Davy nicknamed him, was one of those seated nearest the entrance. Since it was common among the Creeks and Seminoles for the warriors of highest standing to sit nearest their leader, Davy wondered if maybe the Sioux did the same. In that case, Surly Face was low in rank, which was a plus for Davy in that Surly Face’s opinion would not count for all that much.

  The warrior with the wide shoulders sat about halfway up the row on the left, while the gray-haired warrior with the kindly eyes sat at the chief’s right side.

  White-Hollow-Horn led Davy between the two rows and halted in front of the high chief. Davy held his chin high and would not allow his face to betray a lick of anxiety. As he had learned during the Creek War, Indians regarded courage as a supreme virtue. They respected bravery even in their enemies.

  The high chief addressed White-Hollow-Horn, whose answer, complete with pantomime, demonstrated that the chief had asked about the commotion outside. When White-Hollow-Horn got to the part where Davy had whipped the stallion to get it going, fully half of the assembled leaders laughed heartily. One of those was the gray-haired warrior.

  Davy smiled at the man, then shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes skyward. That made the old warrior laugh harder. Davy suspected that he had made another friend, and he could only hope the older man’s influence would help him out when it came time for the council to render a decision as to his fate.

  At a gesture from the grand chief, White-Hollow-Horn sank onto his knees. Davy, without being told, did the same, and added a courteous bow to the high chief.

  The council began. Initially, White-Hollow-Horn and Surly Face did most of the talking. Davy gathered that they were telling about his capture. At one point a heated exchange erupted between the pair, stopped only when the high chief interceded.

  Then White-Hollow-Horn had another warrior extend an arm. Yanking on it, he voiced a loud cry and pretended to fall. Whatever he added did not please Surly Face, who curtly interrupted and went through the motions of deliberately firing a rifle.

  Davy did not need an interpreter to understand. They were arguing over whether the shooting of their companion had been an accident or intentional. No one had indicated he could speak, but he felt it best to get across his side of the dispute. Pointing at White-Hollow-Horn, he made the sign for “yes.” Shifting, he stabbed a finger at Surly Face and signed an emphatic “no.”

  Murmuring broke out. The high chief asked Davy a question in sign language. Most of the gestures were ones Davy had yet to learn, but he got the gist. The chief had asked him if he was fluent in sign. “No,” he answered, and qualified it by making the hand symbols for “little sign.”

  It sufficed. The high chief addressed White-Hollow-Horn. Next the gray-haired man spoke. Others had their turn. A decision of some kind was being made, and Davy was on pins and needles waiting for them to make their verdict clear. If they chose to slay him, he was going to make another break for it, on foot this time. He would rather go down fighting than be hog-tied and led out like a lamb to the slaughter.

  The Crockett clan were not the kind to die meekly. Ingrained in their Irish heritage was a fighting spirit that had seen them through countless conflicts in their native Ireland and in the New World as well. Davy’s grandpa had borne a scar on his left side inflicted by an enemy’s sword in the Old Country. Davy’s pa had been a frontier ranger during the American Revolution.

  No, Davy would not be slain without a fight. Even though the odds were hopeless, he would show the Sioux that Crocketts were warriors in their own right.

  The council went on and on. Every man was given a chance to speak his piece. When it was Surly Face’s turn, he harangued them at length, casting many spiteful glances at Davy. In conclusion, he indicated Davy and raised his right hand in front of his right shoulder with the hand nearly closed, then chopped his hand down and to the left.

  It was a sign Davy had not been taught, but its meaning was not hard to guess. Surly Face had recommended that he be rubbed out.

  Two last warriors had their say, then, when they were done, everyone turned their attention to the high chief, whose forehead was furrowed in thought.

  Davy could feel sweat on his palms. His welfare rested in the hands of a man who had sufficient reason to have him slain. Killing a warrior was a severe offense. Many Sioux besides Surly Face were bound to resent it.

  Everything depended on the high chief’s sense of justice and fairness.

  The silence was thick enough to slice with a tomahawk. Davy had to exert all his willpower to keep from fidgeting. When the leader gazed at him, he met the gaze frankly and fearlessly. An eternity passed while the chief appeared to take his measure.

  Everyone listened when the leader rendered his decision. Some of the warriors, such as the gray-haired man and White-Hollow-Horn, smiled. Surly Face and a few others looked fit to choke. All of which seemed to be a good sign.

  White-Hollow-Horn rose and beckoned Davy. Once outside, the young warrior visibly relaxed. Dozens of Sioux were clustered near the main lodge, evidently awaiting word. White-Hollow-Horn responded to something a fellow warrior said, and his answer was rapidly relayed from person to person.

  Davy could barely contain himself. He had to find out what the chief had decided. The moment they were back in White-Hollow-Horn’s lodge, he nudged the young warrior and arched his eyebrows.

  It was Davy’s fervent hope that he would be released unharmed. But that was not to be. The leader, whose name translated as Black Buffalo, had instructed White-Hollow-Horn to teach Davy enough sign language for Davy to speak on his own behalf at the next council. There was only one hitch: The next council would be held in three days.

  Davy supposed he should be grateful for the temporary reprieve, but all he felt was keen disappointment. Glumly taking a seat on his bedding, he rested his chin in his hands and debated whether to wait out the three days or try to escape.

  The young couple became embroiled in an earnest discussion, the woman upset about something or other.

  Davy was sorry to be such a burden on them. After all they had done on his behalf, the last thing he wanted was to cause them any grief. That alone was enough of a reason for him to leave as soon as he could.

  Another had to do with Surly Face, who was bound to spend the next three days stirring up sentiment against him. Popular opinion being as fickle it was, Surly Face might succeed in turning everyone against him. Should that happen, the high chief would have no choice but to have him put to death.

  It was a no-win proposition. Even if he got away, the Sioux were bound to come after him. Unless he was uncommonly lucky, he’d wind up their prisoner again.

  The more Davy pondered, the more hopeless it seemed. But he had to do it, so there was no use moaning and groaning. If by some miracle he eluded them, he would spend however long it took to track down Flavius and grant his friend’s long-deferred wish to head for home.

  Outside, someone called out. White-Hollow-Horn rose and bid them enter. Davy stiffened when Surly Face and three other warriors came in, Surly Face wearing a wicked sneer and holding an old pair of rusted leg irons. Where in the world the Sioux had obtained them, Davy did not know.

  Another brief argument took place, White-Hollow-Horn objecting to what Surly Face had in mind. Evidently the high chief had given his consent, because the young warrior reluctantly stepped aside.

  Davy rose. “If you think you’re slapping those shackles on me,” he snapped, “then think again.” Once in irons, he would be helpless. Escape would be impossible.

  Grinning sadistically, Surly Face shook the chains so they rattled noisily. The three men with him fanned out, one blocking the entrance. None of them resorted to weapons. But then, they had no need. All three were muscular and strong.
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  White-Hollow-Horn protested once more, but Surly Face brushed him away in blatant contempt. Turning to Davy, the young warrior signed, in effect, “You must let them do as they want or they will harm you.”

  Crouching, Davy said, “Let them try!” He bunched his fists, eager to plant one on the tip of Surly Face’s nose. The four warriors inched forward, Surly Face swinging one of the shackles in a small circle to taunt him.

  “Come on, you bastard!” Davy fumed.

  Surly Face laughed.

  Davy cocked his right arm and was set to spring when the couple’s child cried out. Little children were often sensitive to the threat of impending violence, and the youngster was clinging to his mother while regarding the warriors and Davy with troubled eyes.

  It gave Davy pause. If he fought tooth and nail to keep from having those irons slapped on, some damage was bound to be done to the couple’s possessions. Maybe the couple or their child would be hurt.

  Davy could not allow that, not after all the kindness they had shown him. Against his better judgment, his innards churning in turmoil, he slowly straightened and held out his arms. “Get it over with, vermin,” he said.

  Surly Face did not waste a second. At a curt nod from him, the other three warriors seized Davy and bore him roughly to the ground. Surly Face leaned over Davy’s legs, not his wrists. There was a loud click. Then another. Stepping back, Surly Face nodded and made a comment that struck his three companions as funny. Clapping one another on the back, they filed from the lodge.

  Davy rose on his elbows. The irons encircled his legs above the ankles, linked by the rusty chain, which, only a foot and a half long, did not allow for much freedom of movement. Davy lifted both legs, the chain clattering.

  White-Hollow-Horn stared sadly down at the shackles. “I am sorry,” he signed.

  “Not half as sorry as me,” Davy responded aloud while signing, “Thank you.” Sitting up, he examined both shackles. They were as old as the hills, the locks as rusty as, if not rustier than, the chain.