With only his oldest friend and his trusty long rifle for company, Davy Crockett explored the wild frontier, looking for adventure ... and finding it. The courageous pioneer had the strength and cunning to get out of any scrape and face any enemy, no matter where his gallivanting might take him. But even he might have met his match when he got caught between two warring tribes on one side and a dangerous band of white men on the other—all of them willing to die—and kill—for a captive woman. It was up to Crockett to save the woman, his friend, and his own hide if he wanted to live to explore another day.
DAVY CROCKETT 3: BLOOD HUNT
By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson
First Published by Leisure Books in 1997
Copyright © 1997, 2016 by David Robbins
First Smashwords Edition: April 2016
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover © 2016 by Ed Martin
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This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
To Judy, Joshua, and Shane
Chapter One
The wolves just kept coming.
Flavius Harris had a kink in his neck from twisting so often to keep track of the pack. “Damn it to blue blazes!” the stout Tennessean swore. “Why do those varmints keep following us? It ain’t natural.”
Seated astride a fine sorrel a few yards ahead, Davy Crockett turned his piercing blue eyes on the gray specters flitting through the shadowy woods behind them. “I don’t rightly know what they’re up to,” he admitted.
And that worried the husky Irishman. A lifetime spent in the wilderness had made him familiar with the ways of all its many creatures. For a wolf pack to dog the heels of two riders for over an hour was so unusual, it was downright spooky.
“Maybe we should shoot one of the critters,” Flavius suggested, nervously fingering his Kentucky rifle. “It might scare off the rest.”
“It also might rile them enough to attack us,” Davy said. “No, we don’t fire unless they close in.” His gaze rose to the mackerel sky. In the west a blood red sun hovered above the distant horizon. Soon that fiery orb would sink and twilight would descend. Twilight, when wolves went on the prowl for food. Had these gotten an early start?
Flavius kneed his bay so it would go a bit faster. “If it ain’t one thing, it’s another,” he groused. Ever since his friend had talked him into going on a “little gallivant,” weeks ago, they had been through one narrowing ordeal after another.
Flavius couldn’t blame Davy, though. No one had forced him to tag along. The prospect of getting away from his wife for a spell had been so tantalizing that he had leaped at the chance without a second thought.
More was the pity, Flavius mused. If he had known their gallivant would take them clear to the Great Lakes, or that they would tangle with hostile tribes that made the Creeks from back home seem tame by comparison, he would have wished Crockett well and stayed with Matilda. Being nagged to death beat being shot at all hollow.
The forest thinned. Davy spied a meadow ahead, dominated by a low grassy knoll in the center. It was a good spot to make a stand, if need be. Pointing, he said, “We’ll stop yonder for the night.”
“With these shaggy devils so blamed close?” Flavius squawked. He’d rather put their horses to a gallop and leave the wolves in the dust.
This wasn’t the first time the pair had run into them. The remote regions they were exploring were rife with wildlife. Bears, deer, coyotes, rabbits, you name it, Flavius had seen more than he ever saw in Tennessee.
Davy made for the crest of the knoll. Sliding down, he looped the reins around his left wrist as a precaution, in case the pack attacked and spooked their mounts.
The wolves, though, halted at the edge of the trees, strung out in a long line. Some sat on their haunches and stared, their tongues lolling. Others paced restlessly. At their center was an enormous male with a silver-tipped coat. The end of his left ear was missing.
“The leader,” Flavius commented.
Since the pack had yet to prove hostile, Davy proposed, “You fetch some firewood while I guard the horses.”
To bring back wood meant venturing into the forest, a prospect that froze the blood in Flavius’s veins. “I’m the one who should keep watch,” he countered.
“Why you?” Davy asked.
Flavius racked his brain for a valid excuse. “Remember that bad tumble I took when that low limb clipped me? My shoulder is still awful sore.”
Davy did indeed recollect the mishap. His companion had dozed off in the saddle and been unhorsed when a branch caught him across the chest. “That was nine or ten days ago,” he noted.
“So?” Flavius moved his left shoulder up and down, then winced. “Can I help it if I’m a slow healer?”
Hiding a grin, Davy dismounted and struck off to the east. The wolves were glued to his every step. When he was halfway to the pines, several padded around the perimeter of the meadow to intercept him.
Davy was not overly worried. In addition to his rifle, he had a pair of flintlock pistols wedged under his wide leather belt, a butcher knife in a sheath on his left hip, and a tomahawk on the right. He could hold his own against almost anything.
Plenty of dead, fallen limbs littered the carpet of pine needles. Davy kept one eye on the lupine predators as he gathered a sizable pile. Five of the beasts regarded him with interest but did not press close.
It occurred to Davy that they were more curious than threatening. Maybe Flavius and he were the first white men the pack had come across. Wild creatures who had never been hunted or trapped often displayed no fear of man.
Soon Davy had collected enough firewood. Bending at the knees, he was looping his left arm over the stack when one of the wolves—the huge one with the bit ear—ambled toward him. Immediately Davy brought up Liz, as he called his rifle in honor of his second wife, Elizabeth.
The wolf did not display the slightest trace of belligerence or fright. Limping ever so slightly, it approached to within six feet, then stopped.
Tense moments dragged by. Davy was ready to shoot if the beast so much as curled a lip, but the wolf simply stood there. “Well?” he prompted. “I don’t have all day. Either put up or light a shuck.”
Sometimes the mere sound of a human voice was enough to cause wild animals to flee. Not this one. The wolf sat and lifted its right forepaw as a hound trained to shake hands might do.
“Well, coon my dogs!” Davy exclaimed in amazement. “Don’t this beat all.” Unsure of exactly what the wolf had in mind, he did nothing.
A low whine escaped the animal. Cocking its head, the wolf wagged its paw.
“What do you want?” Davy wondered aloud. It was preposterous to think that the beast really wanted to shake. Could it be a ruse to distract him while the rest pounced? Apparently not, because none of the others had moved.
Whining more loudly, the wolf narrowed the gap between them by half. Again it sat. Again it lifted the same paw and looked at him expectantly.
“What in tarnation?” Davy said. Slowly lowering his rifle, he cautiously leaned forward. Instead of snapping at him, the wolf extended the paw a little farther. Confo
unded, he studied it, and at first made no sense of the animal’s peculiar behavior. Not until he bent lower and spied pus dripping from under the creature’s foot did he comprehend.
“I’ll be damned,” Davy could not help saying. Gingerly, he reached out and lightly clasped the leg. Gently raising the paw high enough to see it clearly, he confirmed his hunch. Something was embedded deep in the callused pad.
As incredible as it seemed, the wolf apparently wanted Davy to remove the object. But how could that be? Davy had never heard tell of a wolf begging for help from a human before. Was it possible the animal had been in contact with people sometime in the past? Perhaps when it was a cub?
Another whine, punctuated by a rumbling rasp, ended Davy’s speculation. Taking a gamble, he set Liz at his feet. The wolf offered no protest as he examined the wound. He wiped the pus on his sleeve and pried at the hole with a fingernail. Wary of causing pain that might provoke an attack, he peeled the pad back until he spotted the blunt end of a buried thorn.
“This is going to hurt some,” Davy told the animal. Making no sudden moves, he drew his knife. A slanting sunbeam shone on the smooth steel.
Davy hefted the blade a few times, battling doubt. Removing the thorn was bound to hurt. What if the wolf reacted in the wrong manner? What if it sprang at his throat? The others would be on him before he could rise. He’d be torn to pieces.
The big wolf fidgeted.
“I must be shy a few marbles,” Davy scolded himself, and applied the tip of the blade to the opening. As delicately as a sawbones doing surgery, he worked at the hole, inserting the knife far enough to hook the thorn.
Not once did the wolf growl or whimper. It sat rock-still, like a statue carved from solid granite.
Blood seeped from under the thorn as Davy attempted to ease the barb out—which was easier contemplated than done. He had to press harder than he liked, and move the thorn from side to side to loosen it.
Keenly aware of the wolf’s fierce gaze fixed on him, Davy picked and prodded and wriggled and poked until the thorn jutted from the slit. With his free hand he plucked it loose and showed it to his patient.
“See? Here’s the culprit.”
The wolf sniffed once, then rose. Without another sound or a backward glance, it turned and loped off, the rest of the ghostly forms trailing. In moments they were swallowed by the lengthening shadows.
“You’re welcome,” Davy said softly, stupefied by the turn of events. No one back home would ever believe him should he relate the tale. They’d jest that he had guzzled one horn of liquor too many.
Tossing the thorn aside, Davy wiped his fingers on the pine needles. The incident was just the sort of thing that put zest into a gent’s life. New people, new places, new sights—they were a heady tonic, part of the reason he was afflicted with incurable wanderlust.
Filling his arms with firewood, Davy retrieved Liz and started toward the meadow.
On top of the mound, Flavius Harris paced while gnawing his lower lip. The sun had dipped partway from sight. His friend had been gone much too long.
Afraid that Davy had been brought down before he could get off a shot, Flavius debated going into the woods after him. The wolves were bound to—
Flavius blinked. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Or was the pack truly gone? He scanned the tree line and did not discover a single wolf.
Frantic, now, that his friend was being feasted on by the four-legged fiends, Flavius cupped his mouth and hollered, “Crockett! Where are you?”
Davy chuckled as he strode into the open. “Right here, Ma,” he quipped. He’d never met anyone who worried as much as Flavius. It was a minor miracle the man didn’t have ulcers.
“Where’d the pack get to?”
“Shucks. I didn’t think to ask. Want me to call them back?” Davy answered, and chuckled when his fellow Tennessean cussed a blue streak. “Now, now,” he said. “What would Matilda say if she heard that outburst?”
Flavius frowned at the reminder. “She’d want to wash out my mouth with soap.” His beloved was a devoted churchgoing woman who could no more abide foul language than she could taking the Lord’s name in vain. He had to curb his tongue around her or suffer her wrath.
Davy kindled the fire at the base of the knoll on the southeast side. There they were sheltered from the northwest wind, which blew gusty and chill at night. Flavius tethered their horses, then deposited their saddles and blankets in the ring of firelight.
“What do you aim to do about supper?”
It was a good question. They were about out of jerky and pemmican. “I’ll see what I can rustle up,” Davy said. Holding Liz in the crook of an elbow, he drifted westward. As the better hunter and better shot, filling their bellies was usually his job.
Creeping darkness claimed the woodland. Davy kept his eyes peeled for squirrels and rabbits and such, but had no luck. The wolves had scared all the smaller creatures into hiding. He was about to give up when the snap of a twig to the north rooted him in place.
Something was out there. Something big. Davy gauged its size by the crack, for only a heavy animal could make that loud a noise. He hoped it was a deer. The thought of fresh roasted venison made his mouth water. And whatever was left over they would cut into strips, salt, and hang out to dry.
Crouching, Davy probed the murky undergrowth for a telltale hint of movement. Unsuccessful, he inched to the left, tucking the stock of his long rifle to his shoulder. No other sounds broke the stillness. Even the breeze had momentarily dwindled.
A whisper of motion to the west brought Davy around in a twinkling. Somehow, the animal had snuck past him. Or were there two of them? Hunkering, he bided his time, knowing that most animals gave themselves away sooner or later.
Not in this instance, however. Davy let a full five minutes go by, then rose and glided deeper into the brush. Apparently the animal had eluded him, because he found no trace of it.
Just then a rustling noise sounded to the south. Jarred by the realization that he had made a grievous blunder, Davy spun.
It was no deer. Whatever lurked in the gathering gloom was circling him, stalking him. The hunter had become the hunted. But what was it? Davy mentally ticked off the possibilities: a bear, a painter, one of the wolves, maybe even a wolverine.
His best bet was to reach the meadow. In the open he could see it charge.
Backpedaling, never taking his gaze off the thicket where the sound came from, Davy threaded through the trees. It was so dark when he reached the meadow that he could barely see his hand at arm’s length.
No snarling brute burst from cover. Nothing tried to stop him.
“Where’s our meal?” Flavius asked, profoundly disappointed that his friend was returning empty-handed. The only aspect of their journey that made it bearable, in his opinion, were the delicious hot suppers Davy whipped up. Having to resort to jerky and pemmican again was plumb depressing.
Practically everyone in western Tennessee knew about Flavius’s fondness for food. His pie-eating ability was legendary. One year, he’d won every contest in four counties. It got so that no one would compete with him; the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
“Sorry. I couldn’t find anything,” Davy said. He debated whether to tell Flavius what had happened, and decided not to. Flavius would only fret himself sick. And it was unlikely that any roving beast would dare come near their fire.
Sitting, Davy poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot Flavius had brewed. They were out of sugar so he drank it black, savoring the warmth that spread through his midsection.
“Wonderful,” Flavius muttered, sulking. To date he had lost close to ten pounds. At the rate they were going, he’d be skin and bones when they finally reached Tennessee.
To cheer his friend, Davy made small talk. They reminisced about their wives and Davy’s children, about their homesteads and kin. They discussed politics, which had always held a strange fascination for Davy but bored Flavius to death.
�
�Politicians!” he spat at one point. “They’re all a bunch of swindlers. And those that ain’t are power hungry.” He shook his head. “Mark my words. This country would be better off if we only let Congress sit in session two days out of the year.”
“How do you figure?” Davy asked, taking a bite of tangy jerky.
“That’s all the time it would take Congress to pass new laws we actually need. The rest of the time those strutting peacocks just flap their gums to hear themselves talk.”
Davy didn’t argue the point. It wasn’t the institution that should be blamed, it was the people who belonged to it. A decent man, someone who represented the interests of the common folk and not the special interests or the greedy, could do some real good.
The fire was burning low. Davy placed his tin cup down and turned to add more wood.
“I’ll be back in a while,” Flavius said, standing and hitching at his belt.
“Don’t forget your rifle.”
“Never,” Flavius said.
A frontiersman’s rifle was as essential to his survival as his legs and arms. More essential, in fact, since a man could get by without a limb but he could hardly fend off a ravenous grizzly or a bloodthirsty war party without a gun.
It explained why trans-Appalachian frontiersmen were so fond of their Kentucky rifles, so fond that they gave their guns pet names.
Davy watched the darkness swallow Flavius. Hours had gone by since his encounter in the woods, so he was not concerned for his companion’s welfare.
Sparks wafted skyward as Davy added a thick branch to the flames. Overhead sparkled a myriad of stars, a breathtaking spectacle that always mightily stirred Davy’s soul. He lay back, his arms folded behind his head. The tail on his coonskin cap brushed his wrist.
Lord, the heavens were beautiful! Davy noted the Big Dipper and the North Star. He saw Mars. Plus several constellations.
It never ceased to astound him how creation was so orderly, how the stars and the planets were part of a vast stellar procession that performed as smoothly as a steam engine.
Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3) Page 1
