The short delay proved costly. Davy pushed himself but could not overtake them, and in due course he broke into the open to learn that he had been royally duped.
All this time the stream had been to his left. But here it bore eastward in a lopsided loop. Pashipaho had led Rebecca into the middle, where the swiftly flowing water had erased every last trace of their passage.
Figuring they had gone eastward, Davy did likewise. Within sixty feet, though, he gave up. There was no predicting where the pair would climb out. He’d need to scour both banks for miles, and even then he had no guarantee of picking up their trail again.
Profoundly disappointed, Davy trudged back to camp. Flavius anxiously awaited him, fingering the rifle. Norval had sat up and was chewing on his lower lip. “Well?” both queried in unison.
Davy shook his head.
“Damn that Indian to hell!” fumed the uncle. “This is all your fault, Crockett! You wouldn’t shoot him when I asked! Who knows what will happen to that poor girl?”
“She’s a grown woman,” Davy echoed Rebecca’s own sentiments. “She can take care of herself.”
“Hogwash! She wouldn’t last a minute against hostiles. That is, if they didn’t keep her alive for fouler purposes.” Agitated, Norval struggled to stand, opening his chest wound, which bled freely. “I hold you to blame if anything happens to her!”
“Sit down,” Davy said, pushing on the settler’s shoulders. “She’ll be fine.”
As if on cue, to the east rose a series of bloodcurdling yips and yells. On their heels rang a piercing scream, the heart-wrenching shriek of a woman in mortal terror.
Chapter Ten
Davy Crockett snaked past a tree, through a patch of tall weeds, then to the bottom of a low mound choked with clover and flowers. Crawling to the top, Davy carefully parted some of the stems and peered at the scene in the meadow beyond.
Seven Sauks were gathered around a shapely blond figure lying on her side. Rebecca Worthington’s hair was in disarray, her clothes askew. She had a bruise on her cheek, and was fearfully regarding the ring of burnished warriors.
Next to her, on his knees, was Pashipaho. He, too, had been roughed up, and over him stood a burly, sneering Sauk who was going on at some length about something or other in their own tongue.
“What do they want, dearest?” Rebecca asked Pashipaho. “What is he saying?”
The burly specimen hiked a hand as if to cuff her. She recoiled, and he smiled. “I will tell you, white bitch,” he snarled in clipped, slurred English.
Pashipaho tensed to fling himself at her tormentor. “Do not touch her again, Niaga.” In their own language he made a comment that caused the other warriors to swap uneasy looks.
Niaga shoved his face in front of Pashipaho’s and taunted him, saying, “What if we do? What will you do? Would you lift a hand against your own brothers?
“Do not make me choose between you,” Pashipaho declared. “You know I love her.”
Niaga straightened. “How can a Sauk love a white?” Giving no hint of what he was going to do, he suddenly turned and kicked Rebecca in the thigh. She clutched her leg and cried out. Instantly Pashipaho threw himself at her tormentor, but two warriors seized him by the arms before he could strike. He struggled to break their grip, and had nearly succeeded when a third man clamped him on the back of the neck. Pashipaho stopped resisting.
“Look at you!” Niaga said, jabbing a finger into Pashipaho’s chest. “Ready to fight us, over her!” So incensed was he that he kicked Rebecca again. She had the presence of mind to curl into a ball, and did not lash out.
“Stop!” Pashipaho raged, once more striving to break loose.
Niaga, flushed with anger, was about to kick Rebecca a third time, but he lowered his foot. “She will never see her own kind again,” he announced.
Rebecca glanced up. “Why? What have I ever done to you, Niaga?”
“Done?” the burly warrior repeated scornfully. “You do not need to do anything. It is enough that you have white skin.”
“That’s all you have against me?” Rebecca asked. “You loathe me because I’m a white woman?”
“That is reason enough,” Niaga said. “All my people hate your people. All, except for him.” He gestured in contempt at Pashipaho. “Once, woman, he was my friend. Once, we roamed these hills day after day. Once, we hunted together, went on raids together. Once, we shared dreams. Then he met you, and you stole his mind.”
Pashipaho came to her defense. “That is not true! If she stole anything, it was my heart.”
Niaga did not seem to hear. Leaning over Rebecca, he said barely loud enough for Davy to hear, “Long have I hoped he would come to his senses. Long have I hoped he would take a Sauk woman into his lodge and forget he ever saw you.”
“I have a right to love who I want! To live as I want!” Pashipaho said.
Niaga sobered and pursed his lips. “Not when in doing so you bring shame on our people. Not when you want to lie each night with a white dog at your side.” He placed a hand on the taller warrior’s shoulder. “Think, old friend. Think of the shame you bring to yourself, to your father, to our people. We could not bear to have her in our village. We could not bear to be reminded every day of all the whites have done to us.”
“But we are not going to the village,” Pashipaho said. “We are leaving this territory. We will go far away and start new lives.”
Niaga apparently translated for the benefit of the Sauks who did not speak English. Their mutual disdain was apparent. “Has it come to this, then?” Niaga said. “You would desert your own for one of theirs? You would turn your back on your family, on your friends, and go off with one of our sworn enemies?”
Pashipaho reared defiantly. “I will not give her up,” he stated.
“Is that so?”
“Let us go in peace, Niaga,” Pashipaho entreated. “No harm will come of it. And you will never set eyes on us again.”
“No harm?” the burly warrior said. “The memory of how you turned against your own will be with me to the end of my life.” He motioned, and another warrior slid behind Rebecca and hauled her upright.
Alarmed, Pashipaho asked urgently, “What do you plan to do?”
“Save you from yourself.” Niaga slowly drew a long, gleaming blade. “With this bitch dead, you will come to your senses.”
“No!” Pashipaho pleaded.
“You will hate me for a while,” Niaga said, “but later you will see that I was right. And you will thank me.” Hefting the bone-handled knife, he stepped in front of Rebecca. “I will make this quick so there is little pain.”
Pashipaho went berserk. Like a madman, he heaved and kicked and thrashed, spinning every which way, and nearly succeeded in tossing the three warriors from him. At that moment a fourth knelt and grabbed him around the shins. Helpless, eyes wide, he watched as Niaga teasingly waved the razor tip of the knife an inch from the woman he adored.
To her credit, Rebecca did not cringe. Body rigid, fists balled, she glared at the man about to torture her.
Davy Crockett dared wait no longer. Cocking the rifle, he rose and took a hasty bead on Niaga. The Sauks were so intent on their victim that none was aware of his presence until he hollered, “Is that any way to treat a lady?”
The warriors whirled and looked up, but taken aback, they were slow to react. Then two started toward him, halting at a word from Niaga, who had not missed the significance of the leveled muzzle.
“That’s right,” Davy said. “You’ll be the first to die if they don’t do exactly as I say.”
“Who are you, white man?” Niaga demanded. “What do you want?”
Davy answered in a lusty roar. “I’m a ring-tailed coon from Tennessee. I’m half horse, half alligator. I wrestle snapping turtles for fun and ride lightning bolts when I can’t find a turtle.”
The ploy worked. Confusion slowed Niaga, who did not seem to know quite what to make of the boast. It bought Davy time to descend the m
ound.
“I’m bad medicine for anyone who mistreats a woman,” Davy said. “So step back and lower that tickler, or I’ll part your turban with lead.”
Niaga surveyed the woodland surrounding them. “Can it be? You are alone?” he said incredulously. “Yet you think you will stop us?”
“I don’t think I will,” Davy said, lowering his cheek to the rifle and curling his finger around the trigger. “I know I will. Now, let her go and have your friends step back or there will be hell to pay.”
Davy counted on Niaga not being particularly eager to die. Should the whole band rush him at once, he’d nail one or two, but the rest would swarm over him before he could blink.
Niaga knew that too. “Shoot me, white man, and you, too, will be slain,” he said nonchalantly. “Lower your rifle. We will talk.”
“Pshaw!” Davy bantered. “If I lower my gun, I’m a goner.” He did tilt the barrel, though, just enough so that it was aimed at Niaga’s crotch. “Ever hope to have kids?” he quipped.
Raw hatred contorted Niaga. Stepping to one side, he spoke in the Sauk language to the others. A few moved back, but the rest balked. Notable among them were two younger warriors who were just itching to attack. One fondled a lance, the other carried a war club.
“Warn them,” Davy cautioned. “It’s your life if they get their dander up.”
Niaga spoke more severely. To a man, the warriors backed away, but only a few feet.
Pashipaho enfolded Rebecca in his arms. Shielding her, he retreated toward the mound. Afraid for her safety, he did not take his eyes off his fellow Sauks, and that proved to be a mistake. For as he backed off, he blundered between Davy and Niaga, blocking Davy’s shot.
A war whoop tore from the burly warrior’s throat. Immediately the six other Sauks charged, voicing war cries of their own.
Davy had to take a sideways step in order to fix a bead on the foremost man. The warrior swept a tomahawk on high. At the crack of the Kentucky, the Sauk crumpled and pitched forward, limbs twitching.
Another warrior closed on Rebecca. A glittering blade sought her body. It cleaved downward, only to be countered by Pashipaho, who grasped the man’s arm. Locked together, they grappled.
“Run, woman, run!” Davy urged, dashing to her aid. Rebecca had tripped over her own feet and was down on a knee. She raised horrified eyes to a young warrior about to smite her with a war club.
Davy’s first pistol flashed clear. It belched lead and smoke, skewering the warrior in the stomach. The man tottered, fingers covering a neat hole that oozed crimson.
Three Sauks skirted their stricken companion and converged on Davy. He had borrowed Flavius’s pistol before he set out, and he now unlimbered it with uncanny speed. The fleetest warrior was almost on top of him when he fired, the heavy ball sheering into the man’s ribs and spinning him like a child’s top.
Davy’s guns were empty, useless. Releasing the second pistol, he gripped the rifle barrel and wielded it like a club. His swing, powered by tempered sinews, caught a Sauk on the chin.
That left one, who was out for blood. Davy swung again, but the warrior ducked and speared a lance at his stomach. Backpedaling, Davy battered the lance aside, again and again. The snarling Sauk pressed him, forcing him backward.
Davy was vaguely aware that Pashipaho still grappled with a determined foe, and that the Sauk he had clipped on the chin was slowly rising.
He had to dispatch his adversary right away. But the lance afforded the warrior a greater reach, which the man capitalized on by staying well back and thrusting.
The rifle parried lunge after lunge. Davy twisted as the spear point streaked past his hip. He took another step and came to the mound. Cornered, he delivered a flurry of wide sweeps that held the lance at bay.
Frustrated, the Sauk danced to the right and speared his weapon in low and fast. Davy had to hop to avoid being skewered, and retaliated with a sweep that knocked the lance to the left.
For a twinkling the warrior was off guard, the lance unbalanced. Dropping the rifle, Davy sprang. His tomahawk molded to the palm of his hand like a glove. He tried to split the man’s skull, but the Sauk evaded him and produced a tomahawk too.
Circling, they feinted and clashed, taking each other’s measure. Neither presented an opening the other could exploit.
Fearful of taking a knife or lance, Davy feinted to the right, then went right. The gambit was not a complete success. He connected, but it was a shallow blow to the rib cage. The warrior hardly flinched.
A woman’s scream galvanized Davy into adopting a desperate measure. He threw his tomahawk, as he had at knots on trees and other targets for hours on end. It spun like a pinwheel, the keen edge sinking into the Sauk below the collarbone.
Davy did not wait to see his enemy fall. Spinning, he saw Pashipaho battling furiously with the warrior he had clipped on the jaw. Pashipaho’s original foe was prone, a scarlet pool spreading under the body. And forty feet off, Rebecca wrestled in Niaga’s iron grip.
The burly Sauk had her by the wrist and was endeavoring to drag her into the forest. Davy flew toward them. Niaga, hissing like a serpent, shoved her to the ground and turned to confront him, drawing a knife.
Davy flourished his own. Darting in low and hard, he slashed at Niaga’s midsection. The Sauk slipped aside, pivoted, and drove his knife downward. A stinging sensation in Davy’s side warned him that the thrust had nearly been fatal. He sidestepped to gain distance between them and accidentally trod on Rebecca, who was rising. Her legs snagged his. They sprawled in a heap.
Davy heard Niaga’s howl of victory and looked around just as Niaga was about to cut him. Salvation came courtesy of a tall figure who shot like a cannonball out of nowhere to slam into Niaga.
Pashipaho was fury incarnate. He seized Niaga’s wrist to prevent his former friend from employing the knife, then wrapped his other hand around Niaga’s throat. In turn, Niaga locked his free hand on Pashipaho’s neck.
Davy untangled himself and rose, pulling Rebecca along with him. She tried to go to Pashipaho, but Davy would not let her. The outcome was in her lover’s hands. Literally.
Both Sauks strained and wheezed, the corded muscles in their arms bulging, as were the veins in their temples. They rolled back and forth, side to side. One second Pashipaho was on top, the next, Niaga.
“Help him!” Rebecca wailed.
“It’s his to do,” Davy said, and was kicked in the ankle. Forking an arm around her waist, he ducked his head to absorb a hailstorm of punches. Fortunately, her strength did not match her rage.
Pashipaho and Niaga continued to wage their private war. Both were beet red and finding it steadily more difficult to breathe. Niaga, sputtering noisily, rammed a knee into Pashipaho’s back—several times. The latter seemed not to feel it.
Then, the culmination. Pashipaho bunched his shoulder in a supreme effort. His fingers sank so deep into Niaga’s neck, they disappeared. Niaga erupted in a frenzy and let go of Pashipaho’s neck to batter his head and face. But the blows were feeble and became more so.
Knowing what was to occur, Davy attempted to pull Rebecca away so she need not see. She resisted. Pashipaho’s wrist gave a sharp twist and the fight was over. Niaga went limp, his eyes registering amazement.
Pashipaho slowly sat up. He pried his fingers from his friend, leaving gouge marks and discolored flesh. Shock set in. Soft words spilled from him in his own tongue.
“Pashipaho!” Rebecca cried.
The warrior did not answer. Gently, he touched Niaga’s cheek. In English, he said in a strained tone, “Niaga! What have I done!”
Rebecca dug her nails into Davy’s arm, and he relented. She promptly dashed to her man and draped a slender arm over his broad shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she said plaintively. “You did what you had to do. It was either him or you.”
In a daze, Pashipaho stared at her. “Do you not understand?” he replied. “He was my friend. The best friend I ever had. Now I have killed him
.”
“But he would have slain you,” Rebecca pointed out. Dismayed, she hugged her warrior, and was rudely startled when he shrugged from her grasp and pushed her away.
Touching a hand to his brow, Pashipaho rose unsteadily. “Has it come to this, then?” he asked himself aloud. “Is my happiness worth the lives of my brothers?
“What are you saying?” Rebecca said, clutching his shirt. “Don’t you want to go off with me? Have you given up on our dream?”
Pashipaho looked down at Niaga and groaned. Swaying like a forest giant about to topple, he reeled backward as if drunk and reached for support that was not there. “What will my father say? What will my sisters say?”
Tears trickled down Rebecca’s cheeks. “Don’t torment yourself so. We knew that something like this could happen at any time.”
“Yes, but ...” Pashipaho’s voice trailed off as he staggered to the mound and sat facing the bodies. “I will be cast from my tribe. From this day on, I can never go back again.”
Rebecca ran to him, knelt, and took his large hands in hers. “You have me,” she declared, but it did not dispel his melancholy.
Davy reclaimed his guns and reloaded them. One of the Sauks commenced to moan, another to move weakly. Examining both, he learned that neither would last out the hour. Still, he made them as comfortable as he could.
Pashipaho sat with head hung low, his eyes closed. Tears streaked Rebecca’s face as she tenderly stroked his hands.
“We should go,” Davy announced. Where there were a few Sauks, there might be a lot more. Or maybe the Atsinas had heard the ruckus.
The warrior stirred, bloodshot eyes centered on Davy. “Why did you come after us, white man? What are we to you?”
“You’re people, just like me,” Davy said. “I heard Rebecca scream and came to help. Anyone would have done the same.”
“No. Not everyone.”
“Come back with me,” Davy said. “We’ll divvy up our weapons and give you what we can spare. My pard has a blanket he’ll likely part with if Rebecca flutters her eyelashes.” Shouldering the rifle, he walked past them and did not turn to see if they followed. The decision was theirs.
Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3) Page 11
