Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3)

by David Robbins

  A thicket screened them from a clearing in which a number of figures moved about. The Sauks flattened. Flavius hesitated, thinking that the people ahead might be white men. A yell from him would bring help. Keokuk disabused him of the notion by lightly jabbing his arm.

  The warriors snaked into the thicket. Flavius saw the figures clearly and was glad he hadn’t shouted.

  They had found the war party from Canada.

  Across the way were the sorrel and bay, tied to cottonwoods. Seated in a circle were five painted warriors. Two others were beside a narrow stream. The Atsinas, as Pashipaho had called them, were broad, sturdy, somber men. About half wore buckskin shirts. All were well armed, and among their weapons Flavius numbered his rifle and Davy’s, as well as the two missing pistols.

  A husky warrior with a moon face, whose left cheek bore a jagged scar, was talking in a tongue Flavius had never heard. He had an arrogant bearing, and was stroking Davy’s rifle, which rested across his stout thighs.

  But it was the lone figure near the horses that most interested Flavius. Slender hands bound behind her back, Rebecca Worthington knelt facing her captors. Grime caked her face and her disheveled golden hair was dampened by perspiration. Her dress had been torn in spots, her right shoulder exposed. Yet she knelt there in quiet dignity, her chin high, defiance radiating from every pore.

  Flavius had seldom seen so lovely a female. He would never admit as much, but she had Matilda beat all hollow. Happening to glance at Pashipaho, he was perplexed to see the Sauk gazing at Rebecca with what could only be described as intense longing.

  The two warriors by the stream joined their fellows. One said something that earned a stern rebuke from the large warrior with the scar. The leader, Flavius reckoned.

  Pashipaho wiggled a finger and the three Sauks silently wormed backward. Flavius tried to be as quiet as they were. He drew a barbed look from Keokuk when he accidentally applied his weight to a dry twig that crunched under his knee.

  All four of them froze, but none of the Canadian Indians had heard.

  Retreating a dozen yards from the thicket, Pashipaho issued instructions in his own tongue to Keokuk, then whispered to Flavius, “I will go talk to He-Bear, leader of the Atsinas. You will do as Keokuk wants you to do while I am gone. Is that clear, man from Tennessee?”

  Flavius wondered why the Sauk made it a point to stress where he was from. “I savvy, mister,” he whispered. “I’ll be a good boy. I’m partial to breathing.”

  A few last remarks to the Sauks, and Pashipaho left, circling to the right.

  Wearing a sadistic grin, Keokuk jabbed Flavius with the knife, then pointed at the camp. Flavius retraced their steps and was guided into the thicket. Nothing had changed, except that all the Atsinas were seated.

  That changed a minute later when out of the undergrowth came Pashipaho. Strolling along as if he did not have a care in the world, his spine straight, wide shoulders swaying, the Sauk slanted toward the war party.

  The Atsinas leaped to their feet, many jabbering at once. At a roar from the scarred warrior, who Flavius surmised must be He-Bear, they quieted and spread out. Rifles, lances, and arrows were trained on the Sauk, who showed no fear.

  Flavius figured they would converse in the funny finger talk Davy had learned among the Dakotas. Then he remembered that tribes living in the vicinity of the Great Lakes did not use sign language.

  Pashipaho stopped and spoke in—of all things— English. “We meet again, He-Bear.”

  The big Atsina snorted like his namesake. “Pashipaho. I not think you so stupid. We almost kill once. Now you let us finish you.” His accent on many of the words was atrocious, and he slurred them terribly.

  Pashipaho extended the pistol that belonged to Crockett. “Yes, there are enough of you to slay me. But I will kill at least one before I drop. Guess which one it will be?”

  Rumbling mirth cascaded from the Atsina chief. “Always sly, like fox. What you want, Sauk? Where other warriors?”

  “I came alone,” Pashipaho said.

  “And I fly like bird,” He-Bear retorted.

  Flavius watched the other Atsinas, afraid they would fan into the woods to search for Sauks. He also saw Rebecca Worthington, wide-eyed, staring at Pashipaho in amazement. Amazement, and another emotion he could not quite peg.

  “What you want, Sauk?” He-Bear asked. “You want guns back? Maybe next time you not put down when enemies near, eh? Or you want horses? Which?”

  “I want the white woman.”

  He-Bear’s bushy brows knit. Lumbering past the line of warriors, he held Davy’s rifle out. “You want female, not this? Not bullets? Not powder?”

  “The woman,” Pashipaho said.

  The Atsina acted like a grizzly confused by an unfamiliar scent. He walked a few steps to the right, then a few steps to the left, his moon of a head swinging ponderously from side to side. “Why this be, Sauk? What woman to you?”

  “That is my concern, not yours,” Pashipaho said. “I will give you two more pistols in exchange for her, and let you keep the guns and the horses you stole.”

  The terms provoked more gruff mirth. “You let us keep what we already have, eh?” He-Bear sobered and spat on the grass. “This what I think. We keep guns, we keep horses, we keep woman with golden hair.”

  Pashipaho had not lowered the flintlock. Casually taking a few steps to the left, which put him nearer Rebecca, he said, “What is she to you? Surely she is worth two pistols. The white man’s weapons are not easy to come by.”

  Patting Davy’s rifle, He-Bear said, “I have gun. As for woman, maybe she be wife. Maybe she be slave.” A grin split the scarred moon. “Maybe she be dog.”

  Pashipaho took another step. “What if I have something else you want even more.”

  “What that be?” He-Bear sneered. “A hundred rifles? A hundred horses? Another white woman?”

  “No. A white man.”

  Flavius was not sure he had heard correctly. Where was the Sauk going to get a white man to swap for Rebecca Worthington? A bolt of lightning seared him when he suddenly realized that Pashipaho meant him. “Oh, God,” he breathed, and was poked in the side by Keokuk’s ever-ready blade.

  He-Bear pursed his thick lips. “Why I want white man more than white woman?”

  “I have heard stories.” Pashipaho moved a few more feet. Intentionally or not, he was now a single bound from the captive. “I know you hate whites. I know that many winters ago you made friends with a white trapper who taught you some of their tongue.”

  The Atsina leader scowled. “Him no friend. He claim so, but he hurt sister, steal horse.”

  “Which is why nothing pleases you more than to torture one of his race. You like to hear them scream.”

  “They weak, these whites,” He-Bear said, and chuckled. “Most cry like babies.” He appraised Rebecca Worthington a moment as if evaluating her worth. “Women weak too. Not last long when captive.”

  “So will you trade? Rebecca Worthington for the white man I have?”

  He-Bear tried to pronounce Rebecca’s name but could not say “Worthington” properly. To justify his failure, he said, “White words twist tongue.”

  Pashipaho casually moved one last time, placing himself in front of Rebecca. Flavius could not be sure, but it appeared that the Sauk whispered to her out of the corner of his mouth. To the Atsina leader, Pashipaho said, “Think of it. A white man to do with as you please. What do you say?”

  “Where man at?”

  “I will have him brought when you agree. Do I have your word?”

  Resuming his ponderous pacing, He-Bear did not immediately reply. At length he turned to a short Atsina and they conferred in secret.

  Flavius was sorely tempted to make a run for it. Once the Sauks handed him over to the war party, he was as good as dead. But he dared not try, not with Keokuk’s knife pressed against his ribs.

  The huddle had ended. Smiling, He-Bear pivoted. “All right, Sauk. We trade. Give us whit
e man, two pistols. We give you woman.”

  Lowering the flintlock, Pashipaho called out in his own language.

  Flavius was helpless. He had to let Keokuk and the other Sauk seize him by the arms and haul him from the thicket. Locked in their iron grasp, he was hustled into the clearing. This was it, he figured. His time had come.

  “Only three of you, eh?” He-Bear said. “I thought maybe many.”

  Pashipaho was not paying attention. Rebecca Worthington said something to him that caused him to vigorously shake his head.

  He-Bear’s smile grew wider. “So you not lie, Sauk. Now give pistols.”

  “And we’re free to go? With the woman?”

  “Pistols,” He-Bear said, snapping his fingers.

  Pashipaho started to comply, but Rebecca said his name loud enough for all to hear. Stopping, Pashipaho thrust his pistol at Keokuk, who accepted it and walked toward He-Bear.

  Even though the knife was gone from his ribs, Flavius did not try to run. The Atsinas would drop him in his tracks. Resigned to the inevitable, he saw He-Bear switch Davy’s rifle to the crook of an elbow to free his hands for receiving the flintlocks.

  “We will leave,” Pashipaho announced. Gripping Rebecca’s elbow, he pulled her up and propelled her swiftly toward the safety of the forest.

  From out of the trees in front of them stepped an eighth warrior, an arrow notched to the string of his bow. Abruptly stopping, Pashipaho looked back at He-Bear just as the Atsina leader clasped both pistols. “You gave your word!” Pashipaho cried.

  “We give you woman,” He-Bear said, hefting the flintlocks. He cocked them. “Not say how long keep her.” Snapping the guns up, he fired the left one at Keokuk at point-blank range. The stocky Sauk staggered, his sternum shattered by the ball, then pitched onto his hands and knees.

  Venting a war whoop, the third Sauk rushed to his friend’s rescue. Four shafts were embedded in his torso in half that many steps. Snarling, he made a supreme effort to reach He-Bear, but his knees buckled.

  “No!” Pashipaho raged, and flung himself at the Atsinas. His war club arched overhead. The blow he planned never landed, though, because the eighth warrior let his arrow fly. It sheared into Pashipaho’s right shoulder, spinning him around and dumping him on his knees. The club fell from nerveless fingers as other Atsinas rushed to surround him.

  “Leave him alone!” Rebecca shouted, rushing to the fallen Sauk. “Don’t you dare hurt him anymore!” Boldly, she bent over his back to protect him from the lances and knives of the Atsinas.

  In all the confusion, the Indians had forgotten about Flavius. Or so he hoped. Whirling, he covered a yard. The blast of the second pistol and a ball whistling past his head changed his mind.

  “Where you go, white man?” He-Bear said, snickering. “We want you stay.”

  Three Atsinas enforced their leader’s wish by ringing Flavius and pushing him to where Keokuk was doubled in anguish. Pashipaho and Rebecca were brought over, too. A burly warrior threw Pashipaho down, then kicked him.

  He-Bear was enjoying himself. He strutted back and forth to the admiring hoots and laughter of his followers. Giving the pistols to the short one, he bent over Pashipaho. “You stupid trust me. We enemies, Sauk. I kill you. You kill me. Never change.”

  Pashipaho was in torment. Clutching his shoulder, he said, “I thought you were a man of honor. I was wrong.”

  “Only honor in coup.” So saying, He-Bear slid a Green River knife from a beaded sheath. Pashipaho raised his left arm to defend himself, but He-Bear was not interested in him. Spinning, the Atsina chief sank the cold steel twice into Keokuk’s back.

  “Soon your turn,” He-Bear said, leering at Pashipaho.

  Flavius’s skin crawled as he contemplated the ordeal he faced. It would be better to go down fighting than suffer for hours on end. Judging the distance to He-Bear, he was all set to leap when a new warrior arrived on the scene. Bursting from the woods, the newcomer jogged to the Atsina chief and talked excitedly for some time.

  He-Bear ran a finger along his knife, then held the finger over Pashipaho so bloody drops fell on the Sauk’s head. “You not only one want woman. Thunder Heart say whites trade many guns, many horses, many blankets.” He licked his finger clean. “We go see them. Act like friends. We smile. We talk. Then—” He-Bear made a slashing motion across his throat.

  Chapter Six

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I hand over guns to a pack of stinkin’ Injuns!”

  Curt nods and flinty looks confirmed the declaration by Cyrus. The majority of settlers were unwilling to abide by the offer Davy Crockett had made. So the Tennessean appealed to the two men who were inclined to go along with him. “Talk to them, Norval. You too, Kayne. They’re your friends. Make them listen to reason.”

  The two men were seated apart from the others, who were gathered around the fire. Norval sighed and said, “They’d only tell us to go sit on a porcupine, I’m afraid. If those Big Bellies show up, Cy and the boys will make worm food of the whole lot.”

  “But I gave my word we’d trade,” Davy stressed. “And isn’t it best if we can work this out without losing more lives?”

  John Kayne was cleaning his rifle. Pausing as he inserted the ramrod, he said, “Too much water has gone over the dam, hoss. You’re not from these parts. You haven’t had to deal with these savages day in and day out. They’ve caused no end of grief.”

  “So you’ll sit and do nothing when they pour lead into the Indians?”

  “No. I’ll help them.”

  Davy walked off before his temper flared. Nothing was going right. Absolutely nothing.

  Take Flavius. Davy had tracked his friend and the three Sauks until darkness made it impossible. Noting landmarks, he had sped to the hill. The rest of the Peorians had arrived, and he’d asked them for help. Give him four men, he had said, and he would track Flavius by torchlight.

  The settlers refused. Cy was not about to go traipsing off “after somebody who ain’t even from our settlement.”

  Norval wouldn’t leave, either, until his niece was returned alive and well.

  Kayne was the only one who agreed to go, but once Davy told them about the deal he had made with the Big Bellies, Kayne bowed out. “My neighbors come first. They’ll need me. I’m mighty sorry.”

  Davy was at his wit’s end. He couldn’t go after Flavius until daylight, which was when the war party would most likely appear. If he stayed to try and make peace between the two sides, he might never see Flavius again. If he went after his friend, the settlers and the Indians would be at each other’s throats in no time.

  What should he do?

  Davy spied the sentry Norval had posted making a circuit of the crest. They were to take turns until dawn, then spring their trap.

  The thought of being party to rank slaughter did not sit well with him. It was his word that was at stake—his promise that the Big Bellies or whatever their real name was could come in peace and swap for the woman.

  So what if he had given it to Indians? A man’s word was his bond. Everyone knew that. Those who failed to keep their promises were branded as worthless and never trusted again.

  Only politicians could routinely make false promises and get away with it. And then only because everyone knew that lying was their stock-in-trade.

  Under an oak Davy stopped and leaned against the trunk. Weariness nipped at his brain like termites at wood. He had been on the go for so long, with so little food and even less rest, that he found it difficult to think clearly.

  Fretting was pointless. As his father had impressed on him time and again, when a man had a job to do, he went out and did it. He didn’t moan and groan. He didn’t shrivel into a ball and cry. A true man confronted challenges head-on.

  The Crocketts had always been fighters. A close-knit clan, their outlook on life was summed up by the family motto that Flavius liked to poke fun at: “Always be sure you’re right, then go ahead.”

  Doing the right th
ing was not always easy. Sometimes it was downright unpopular. But Davy would not think to back down from doing as his conscience dictated.

  The whisper of a footfall brought Davy around in a blur, his right hand dropping to his tomahawk.

  A startled Norval Worthington stopped dead. “Lordy, Crockett! You’re a two-legged cat. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  “What do you want?” Davy bluntly demanded.

  “To chew the fat a little.” The older man sank cross-legged to the earth and set his rifle across his legs. “I don’t want you to think poorly of the others. Deep down they’re decent men. Were you in their boots, you’d feel the same.”

  “Would I?” Davy said. “I had my fill of spilling blood during the Creek War, Norval. Killing only leads to more killing. It never solves a thing.” Sighing, he gazed at the twinkling stars. “I wish I may be shot if I ever let myself be roped into going to war again. It just isn’t worth the cost.”

  Norval plucked a blade of grass and stuck an end in his mouth. “You’re right smart for a pup your age. Cyrus is of the opinion that you have a puny thinker, which is a case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever there was one.”

  “You see I’m right, then, don’t you?”

  “Hell, yes. But there ain’t nothing I can do. Cy and the boys have been looking to pay the Indians back for a long time. This is their chance.”

  “What do they plan to do?”

  “Half of us will hide. At the right moment, Cy will give a signal.” Norval chewed on the grass. “That will be the end of that.”

  A sense of sadness came over Davy. Sadness at the stupidity of it all. “No, it won’t end. Killing them will start a whole new round of bloodshed. Their people will want revenge, and butcher some of us. Then we’ll slaughter some of them. And so on and so on until everyone forgets why the fighting ever started.”

  “Sentimental soul, ain’t you?”

  “All I’m saying,” Davy responded, “is why resort to a gun when we can talk our differences out?”

  Norval chuckled. “You’ve missed your calling, son. Any man who thinks like you do should go into politics. It’s the only line of work where a feller can be a windbag and get paid for it.”