Brought over on the Mayflower, he thought in jest, trying to cheer himself up. It did not work.
White-Hollow-Horn’s wife offered Davy some broth, but he shook his head and flopped onto his back. He had no appetite. Who could blame him, when everything that could go wrong had gone wrong?
The couple left him alone for over an hour. Davy tried to doze off to spare himself the misery of contemplating what lay in store for him, but he was too upset.
His curiosity grew when White-Hollow-Horn collected an armful of belongings and brought them over. Sitting cross-legged, the young warrior proceeded to place the objects in front of him and explain the sign equivalent of each.
Davy motioned to be left alone. His spirits had sunk to a rare low, and he would rather just lie there and mope. It was ridiculous to expect him to apply himself in his current frame of mind.
But White-Hollow-Horn ignored him. Nudging his leg, the young Sioux pointed at a bone sewing needle and made a hand sign. He repeated it over and over until Davy gave in and imitated him. Next the warrior taught him the sign for “dress” and “belt” and “hair.”
Davy’s resistance melted. It was better to be doing something—anything—than to lie there pouting. His pa had always criticized them sternly whenever they started to feel sorry for themselves. “Moping is for those with weak dispositions,” John Crockett had been wont to say. “Anyone with grit never complains about their lot in life. They go out and improve it if it isn’t to their liking.”
The couple took turns instructing him. Willow Woman, White-Hollow-Horn’s wife, was even more adept at it than her husband. She had a flair for teaching and would have made an excellent schoolmarm.
It was close to midnight, by Davy’s reckoning, when his hosts saw fit to quit. Their boy was sound asleep by then. They spread out a heavy buffalo hide beside him and were soon in dreamland themselves.
For Davy, sleep was elusive. He tossed. He turned. His mind was plagued by images of Flavius in dire peril, and by bittersweet recollections of his wife and children. It seemed that this time he had bitten off more than he could chew, as the saying went.
He had gone on one gallivant too many.
~*~
Morning dawned brisk and clear. Davy was escorted to the river to wash. It took a while for him to get the hang of moving around with the leg irons on. They were an extremely heavy, cumbersome affair. Each leg felt as if it weighed a ton, and he could not take a full stride for fear that the chain would jerk him off balance. A slow, shambling stride was best.
Some of the Sioux saw him. He noticed that quite a few did not appear pleased that he was in shackles. Maybe it went against their grain. Indians everywhere valued their freedom as highly as their lives. In the estimation of the Sioux, it was probably better to slay their enemies outright than to humiliate them.
His education in sign resumed after the morning meal. Willow Woman took the first shift, her husband the second. Once every article in the lodge had been named, they took him outdoors again, pointing out anything and everything. He grew concerned that they were trying to teach him too much, too fast. At the rate it was going, he’d forget half the gestures they had taught him by sunset.
But the pace slowed considerably after a short break at noon. The couple had run out of objects and commenced with abstract signs that had to do with ideas and values and such, things like anger, love, grief and happiness.
Davy surprised himself. He learned the symbols much more readily than he would have imagined, and he did not forget what he had learned as he fretted he would.
The next day involved more of the same. By late afternoon he was able to hold a basic conversation on just about any subject.
He made it his first order of business to learn as much as he could about his captors. That they called themselves the Dakotas he already knew. That they were further divided into seven or more sub tribes, he did not. The band he was with called themselves Tetons as much as anything else, so he took to referring to them by that name as well.
The Sioux were a powerful people. Their combined tribes controlled an enormous territory that stretched from east of the Missouri River, north to what they called the Greasy Grass River, and west to what were known as the Black Hills.
White-Hollow-Horn mentioned that his people had few dealings with the whites, which sparked Davy to ask a few questions. In order to pose one, a person first had to hold their right hand palm out at shoulder height, with the fingers extended, then rotate the hand slightly two or three times, using the wrist alone.
“Where did the tin cup your wife has come from?”
The young warrior averted his eyes. “From a white trapper who tried to pass through our country to the mountains.”
Davy did not need to ask what had happened to the trapper. “And these?” he inquired, tapping the iron on his left leg.
“They were given to us by a man unlike any we ever saw. His skin was the color of night and his hair was short and curly,” White-Hollow-Horn signed.
A black man? Davy speculated. Maybe a runaway slave.
“He came from the rising sun,” White-Hollow-Horn signed. “He was fleeing from bad white men who made him live where he did not want to live and to do work that he did not want to do.” He paused. “This was before my time. My grandfather and others saw him and have never forgotten.”
“Was he killed too?” Davy bluntly asked.
“No,” White-Hollow-Horn said. “We wanted him to stay with us, but he went on. Later we heard that he shared a pipe with the Crows and stayed with them.” The young warrior snorted. “It upset my grandfather. He never could understand how anyone could pick the Crows over us.”
“Have any other white or black men visited you?
“Twice. One time a man we called Peacemaker came to us and offered to make peace between us and the Pawnees and other tribes. We told him that the Pawnees were not to be trusted, that they would kill him if he went into their country, but he would not listen. He went, and we never heard of him again.”
“And the other time?”
“Many men came down the river in boats,” the young warrior revealed. “They smoked with us and gave us steel knives and tobacco and bells. Our chief at the time was given a flag, which has been passed from chief to chief since. Black Buffalo has it now.”
Davy recalled hearing that Lewis and Clark had made it a point to pass out flags on their historic journey, and he could not help but wonder if he had fallen in with one of the tribes visited by that famous pair.
White-Hollow-Horn frowned. “I want you to know I would not have taken you captive, Tail Hat—”
“Tail Hat?” Davy signed quizzically.
The warrior nodded. “That is what my people call you. No one has ever seen a white man wear a hat like yours.” He glanced at the coonskin cap and chuckled, then became serious again. “As I was saying, I was content to let you go your way in peace. You did not try to shoot me when you could have. But Struck-By-Blackfeet and Half Man did not agree. That is why Half Man grabbed your gun.”
At last Davy had learned the name of the warrior who had been shot, as well as the scarred one who was making his life so miserable. “I hope Black Buffalo will listen to reason. The shooting was an accident.”
“I have said as much,” White-Hollow-Horn signed. “But Struck-By-Blackfeet says that you shot Half Man on purpose. In two sleeps the council will decide who to believe.”
“I can hardly wait,” Davy said to himself. To the Teton, he signed, “I do not need to ask what will happen if they side with Struck-By-Blackfeet. But what if they believe you and me? Will Black Buffalo open these and let me go free?” He tapped the leg irons again.
White-Hollow-Horn glanced at the shackles, then at Davy, then back again. “They can be opened?”
“With a—” Davy began to sign, but stopped because he had not been taught the sign, if there was one, for a key. So he said it out loud and motioned as if unlocking one of the irons.
Chapter Six
Flavius Harris had never seen a grizzly bear up close before. He’d heard all the tall tales that made the rounds of the taverns in Tennessee, though.
Grizzlies were supposed to be monsters twice the size of the biggest black bear that ever lived. Silver-tips, as some called them, were said to have claws five inches long that could shear through flesh and bone as if they were butter. They said it sometimes took ten or twenty shots to bring a single grizzly down, and even then it took hours or days for the bear to expire. And grizzlies would go out of their way to hunt down and kill any human brash enough to be caught in their territory.
Flavius had dismissed most of the talk as idle tavern gossip. When men had a few stiff drinks under the belt, it was natural for them to swap stories to see who could outdo the other. Davy was the acknowledged king in that regard in middle and western Tennessee. No one could match the whoppers he told. Why, if there were ever a national Tall Tale Contest, Davy Crockett would win hands down.
With respect to silver-tips, however, it turned out that the reports had not been greatly exaggerated at all. In fact, if anything, they did not do the bears justice.
For coming down the game trail toward Flavius was a bear fit to give the bravest man nightmares. It was enormous. No, it was bigger than enormous. The head was as broad and thick as a tree stump, the body nearly as massive as a bull buffalo’s.
It was so fantastic that Flavius reined up in amazement and gawked.
The silver-tip shambled lower, its nose close to the ground, sniffing loudly. It had a ponderous yet oddly light tread for a creature endowed with legs as big around as molasses barrels. Gigantic muscles rippled beneath its lustrous coat. Adding to its monstrous proportions was a pronounced hump on its shoulders.
So astonished was Flavius that he gave no thought to the danger he was in. Not until the bear lifted its head and saw him did he realize that to sit there admiring its size might not be the smartest thing in the world to do. Prudence dictated he light a rag before the bear decided he’d make a dandy meal.
The grizzly grunted. Halting, it sniffed the air.
Flavius hesitated. Any movement might provoke an attack. Maybe if he pretended he was a rock the bear would go its merry way. Maybe it had a full belly and was not interested in eating at the moment. Maybe the stories about their ferocity had been overblown a mite.
For tense seconds the tableau was frozen. Then, flabbergasting Flavius, the grizzly started to back up. He smiled, thinking that the worst was over, that he had met the holy terror of the wilderness and lived to tell about it. His luck was changing for the better.
The dun had to prove him wrong. Whinnying, it shied, stomping its hooves.
As if fired from a catapult, the silver-tip hurtled toward them. There was no warning growl, no display of temper. It simply dug in its claws and attacked. Jaws that could crush bone like paper gaped wide.
Flavius reined the horse around and fled. He did not even try to get off a shot. The ball was as apt to glance off the bear’s skull as penetrate, and going for a lung or heart shot was an iffy proposition under the best of circumstances.
Too late, Flavius remembered Little Hickory. He glanced around to see the grizzly moving with remarkable alacrity for something its size. The calf stood a few yards to the left of the trail, close to the vegetation, staring after the dun.
Don’t move! Flavius mentally screamed. So long as the bear did not notice it, the calf would be safe. “Chase me!” he shouted, recollecting that over short distances a silver-tip could rival a horse in speed.
The monster shot into the basin, a booming growl issuing from its curled lips.
“Slowpoke!” Flavius gave the dun a whack with the stock of his rifle. “You couldn’t catch a turtle!” His bluster withered when the bear put on a burst of speed that cut the gap by a third. At the rate it was moving, it would overtake him in seconds.
Little Hickory did not have brains enough to stay put or to hide. The calf followed them, bawling loudly.
The cry brought the grizzly to a sliding stop. Partially turning, it saw Little Hickory.
In fear for the calf’s life, Flavius hauled on the reins and turned back toward the bear. He had gone to too much trouble on the little buffalo’s behalf to stand idly by while the silver-tip devoured it. Thirty feet from the colossus, he cut the dun broadside and wedged his rifle to his shoulder.
Little Hickory had also stopped. The calf regarded the grizzly without a hint of fright. It bawled again, but this time the cry held a new note, more a challenge than a whimper. Lowering its stubby horns, it pawed at the ground, first one front hoof, then the other.
Flavius could not believe his eyes. The plucky calf was fixing to charge! A snowflake would have a better chance in a blacksmith’s furnace than the young buffalo had against a bear that size. “No!” he hollered. “Stay where you are!”
Little Hickory paid no heed. Moving slowly forward, he stomped some more, snorting in perfect imitation of a full-grown bull.
The grizzly acted more confused than anything. It stared at the calf, then at Flavius and the dun. Snarling, it lumbered toward Little Hickory, stopping when the calf tossed its head and bawled another challenge.
Flavius centered the front bead on the bear’s chest and kneed his mount closer. The moment it went after the calf, he would fire. Perhaps the sound and the pain would make it come after him instead.
The bear suddenly reared onto two legs. A full eight and a half feet from the tip of its nose to the soles of its feet, it was a living mountain.
The sight filled Flavius with sheer dread. He did not go any nearer. Little Hickory, however, did, stomping and snorting, a flea threatening a dragon.
Of all the astounding events that had occurred during the gallivant, none so bewildered and thrilled Flavius as what the bear did next. After glancing at him and at the calf, it dropped onto all fours, spun, and hastened to the west, not looking back once until it ascended the slope to the basin crest. Briefly silhouetted against the azure sky, the enormous bear woofed like a dog, then disappeared.
“Well, I’ll be!” Flavius declared, at a total loss to explain why the creature had run off.
Little Hickory came over, prancing and snorting as if celebrating a victory.
Shaking his head in amusement, Flavius said, “You have more luck than sense, you dumb critter! That bear could have licked you without hardly lifting a claw.”
He hated to admit it, but he was growing more attached to the animal with every hour. It wouldn’t do, since before long he intended to return it to the herd it came from so it could find its mother.
“You’re a caution!” Flavius said, leading the calf northwest in case the silver-tip took it into its head to return. Their luck would not hold a second time.
Somewhere, Flavius had heard that grizzlies sometimes traveled in pairs. If true, the other bear might be lurking in the brush or on the north rim, waiting in ambush.
As agitated as a fox caught in a henhouse, Flavius walked the dun up the trail, the growth hemming him in on either side. His skin prickled. Every shadow was a silver-tip about to pounce, every sound a harbinger of an attack. His relief on gaining the prairie without mishap knew no bounds.
The calf was in fine spirits. Now and again it danced off a dozen yards or so to scamper playfully about.
Flavius grew melancholy. It was all well and good to want to see the little fellow safely reunited with its mother. But his first priority should be to find Davy, and the farther he went, the less likely that was to take place.
No two ways about it. He was downright foolish. Yet when he grasped the reins firmly and prepared to leave, he could not bring himself to abandon the calf.
The sad truth was that he happened to be too damned tenderhearted for his own good. Always had been. Likely as not, he always
would be.
~*~
The morning passed uneventfully, which suited Flavius just fine. By noon the temperature had climbed into the eighties and he was thirsty enough to drink a river.
Little Hickory, tired of acting the fool, walked along with his head low.
Locating water was crucial. As thirsty as Flavius was, the dun was much worse off. The horse had not had a drink in more than two days.
If he lost his mount, he might as well stick the muzzle of a pistol in his mouth and squeeze the trigger. He could no more survive afoot than a fish could out of water.
As glum as a pallbearer, Flavius brooded the whole afternoon. Had Davy been there, he would have scolded Flavius for being too full of himself.
“Always look at the bright side,” Davy remarked whenever Flavius was in the doldrums. “Things are never as bad as they seem.”
Which was fine for the brawny Irishman to say. Davy was not a fretter by nature.
Flavius was, and he would be the first to admit it. Ever since he could recall, he had been one to grow depressed when things did not go the way they should. Whereas hardships and setbacks only challenged Davy to overcome them, Flavius was more prone to whine and pout over the bad hand fate dealt him.
That night he pouted plenty. They had gone over ten miles and not seen a lick of water. Nor had he found any tracks belonging to a shod horse.
It was too depressing for words. Flavius slept little that night, arising before first light to be on his way. The morning was as uneventful as the previous afternoon. Horse and buffalo had lost most of their vitality, plodding along on weary legs.
But then the dun nickered, its gait increasing. Flavius looked up and spied a long line of trees running from north to south. “It’s the river!” he exclaimed.
Whether it was the Missouri or the Mississippi was irrelevant. Flavius could not wait to dip his face into the cool, invigorating water and gulp to his heart’s content. Spurring the dun into a trot, he was so elated that he did not notice tendrils of smoke curling toward the clouds until he had gone another quarter of a mile.
Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2) Page 6