Blood Hunt (A Davy Crockett Western. Book 3)

by David Robbins

  More arrows buzzed like riled hornets. Rifles banged, smoke sprouting to pinpoint the shooters. Davy ducked as John Kayne fired, the blast setting his ear to ringing. He skipped backward to grab one of the rifles that had been tied to the sorrel.

  A whinny and the sound of a scuffle brought Davy around in a crouch. Flabbergasted, he saw Cyrus yank Rebecca out of the saddle, then hook a foot in a stirrup and clamber on. The next moment, the sorrel was racing southward with Cyrus clinging on for dear life. And with it went the extra rifles and pistols.

  A lead ball thudded into the soil next to Flavius. Crabbing to the left, he hollered, “A rifle! Give me a rifle!” Then he saw the fleeing settler. Queasiness overcame him as he realized that they must face the war party unarmed. “Davy? What do we do?”

  Davy was asking himself the same question. He scampered toward Rebecca, but Pashipaho beat him to her side by vaulting from the bay, which immediately ran off after the sorrel.

  It dawned on Davy that Norval had not entered the fray. Looking, he learned why. The grizzled oldster was on his knees, a lance jutting from his left thigh.

  They were being decimated.

  Only John Kayne held the warriors at bay. He had fired one pistol and drawn his other one. Slowly retreating, he swung from right to left and back again, seeking a target the elusive Indians were loath to present.

  Pashipaho, even with his wrists bound, practically threw Rebecca into the vegetation, then hurtled in after her. Norval, somehow heaving upright, tottered on their heels.

  Davy was left in the open, arrows and bullets whisking on either side. “We have to find cover!” he yelled to Flavius, and suited his own actions to his words. Angling into the trees, he ran flat out for over fifty feet, fully expecting his friend to follow him. But when he drew up in a patch of wildflowers, Flavius was nowhere to be seen.

  Eager to go find him, Davy started to retrace his steps. A dusky silhouette materialized a dozen yards off. It was a warrior armed with a war club.

  The thick foliage kept Davy from seeing whether the man was a Sauk or an Atsina. Lowering onto his stomach, he crawled eastward, applying his weight carefully in order to avoid breaking twigs.

  The warrior moved into the open. A raven mane, husky build, and war paint pegged him as a member of He-Bear’s band. The Big Belly prowled southward, passing within thirty feet.

  What Davy would not have given for a gun! He had a perfect shot and could not take it. Obtaining a weapon was critical. He heard Kayne’s second pistol boom, heard the whoops of the Atsinas, two more rifle shots, then the drum of feet speeding to the southwest.

  Kayne was seeking to escape. The Atsinas were after him. But not all of them, as furtive movement told Davy. Another warrior was creeping in his general direction, this one holding a rifle with a brass name-plate on the stock.

  Davy dug his fingers into the soil and palmed a handful of dirt and grass. The Atsina was gazing intently beyond him. Clearly, the warrior had spotted someone.

  Tucking his chin to his chest, Davy shifted just enough to see the area behind him. His blood chilled. He was not given to profanity, as many were by habit and sloth, but he mentally cursed a storm.

  Norval Worthington was propped against an oak. Bent in weakness and fatigue, sweat dripping from his glistening brow, he had wrapped both hands around the lance embedded in his thigh and was struggling his utmost to pull it out. Blood soaked the bottom of his leg and his palms. A sob tore from him when the lance moved a fraction.

  The Atsina slid nearer, his attention focused on the settler to the exclusion of all else. Stopping, he raised the rifle, but held his fire, opting to get a little closer.

  Davy prayed that the warrior would not notice him. Bracing his elbows and knees, he held his breath as the Big Belly came to within ten feet, then eight, then six.

  Halting again, the warrior sighted down the barrel while slowly uncoiling. At that range he could not possibly miss.

  Come closer! Davy mentally screamed, and when the man didn’t, when the Atsina was undeniably about to fire, he heaved up and attacked.

  The startled Atsina automatically recoiled. Davy swatted at the rifle at the very split second that it discharged. The black powder flashed. Burning smoke enveloped him, stinging his eyes, shrouding the warrior.

  Flailing at the cloud, Davy glided to one side. He must not give the Atsina time to reload! As he took another step, the warrior reared out of the cloud, gripping his rifle by the barrel.

  Davy jerked his arm up as the rifle swept down. Intense agony spiked his arm, his shoulder. Another blow smashed into his ribs. His knees bent as the Atsina towered over him, the man’s eyes wide with hatred.

  Like a lashing bullwhip, Davy drove himself upward and hurled the dirt into the Atsina’s face. The man backed off, blinking rapidly. Tears smeared brown by the dirt trickled from the corners of his eyes.

  Davy grabbed the rifle and the warrior grabbed him. Grappling, they staggered against a tree. The Atsina’s sturdy legs pumped, slamming Davy against the trunk. The rifle was across his chest, pinning him in place. Grunting, the man wrenched the rifle higher. Cool metal gouged into Davy’s neck, choking off his breath and threatening to crush his throat.

  Straining, Davy pushed the rifle off him, but only a few inches. The Atsina was uncommonly strong. Davy’s muscles bulged, yet he could not move the man any farther. The warrior’s snarling visage was so close, drops of spittle sprinkled him when the Atsina unexpectedly threw everything he had into a supreme effort.

  The rifle gouged into Davy’s throat again. And now, try as he might, Davy could not push it off. He found it first hard to breathe, then impossible. A fraction at a time, the Atsina was accomplishing what none of the Creeks had ever been able to do.

  He was killing Davy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Flavius Harris had heard Davy Crockett yell and saw his friend sprint into the undergrowth. Heaving to his feet, Flavius slanted toward his friend, but as the vegetation closed around him, he tripped over an ankle-high rock hidden by the high grass. Sprawling, he caught himself on his hands and knees.

  The thunder of rifles and the whoop of a warrior somewhere close by inspired him to catapult into the woods. Afraid that the warrior was right on his heels, he ran blindly for a score of yards. When he looked back and discovered that no one was after him, he slowed.

  The Irishman had disappeared. Worry knifing through him, Flavius turned in a complete circle, then hurried in the direction he thought Davy had been heading. It soon became apparent that it was the wrong direction.

  Flavius stopped, hunkered, and listened. Guns blasted a few more times. Brush crackled at the passage of unseen bodies, followed by silence, an unnerving quiet that raised goose bumps all over him.

  Flavius swallowed hard. His best guess was that the unseen ambushers were the Atsinas. According to the settlers, the Sauks did not own many rifles.

  As near as Flavius recollected, six Atsinas survived the battle on the hill—six heavily armed warriors, any one of whom possessed more woodcraft than he ever would. What chance did he stand without a weapon?

  Casting about, Flavius spied a short broken branch that made a dandy club. Hefting it a few times restored a smidgen of confidence.

  Taking a deep breath, Flavius snuck into the trees, moving southward, which he assumed the others would do, provided any of them survived. Furtive movement and disturbing whispers of sound grated on his nerves. He imagined that he was surrounded by the war party, that all six were slinking closer and closer. At any moment now they would pounce.

  A commotion directly ahead brought him to a halt. Ducking, he sought the source. Unable to see anyone, he reluctantly advanced, his palms so sweaty on his makeshift club that it nearly slipped from his grasp.

  There! Something moved! Flavius darted behind a clump of weeds. When no shots rang out and no lusty war whoops punctured the woodland, he peeked out. An Atsina had someone pinned against a tree, someone whose buckskins looked aw
fully familiar. It jarred Flavius to realize that the man was Davy.

  Forgetting all concern for his own safety, forgetting everything except the welfare of his friend, Flavius ran toward the tree. The two men were so engrossed in their life-and-death struggle that neither saw him until he was on top of them.

  The Atsina snarled and pivoted, whipping the rifle in a short arc. But Flavius already had his heavy club at the apex of its own swing. He brought it crashing down on the warrior’s head. To his horror, it broke in half on impact, leaving a worthless stub in his hands.

  Flavius hurled it from him and cocked his fists to defend himself as best he was able. Inexplicably, the Atsina had not moved—inexplicable until Flavius saw the tremendous gash in the man’s head and the mix of blood and gore that oozed from the opening and down over the warrior’s painted features.

  The Big Belly’s eyelids were fluttering, the whites of his eyes showing. He made another effort to employ the rifle, but it slipped from quivering fingers. Stiff-legged, the man took a few shambling steps. His eyes rolled up into his head as he fell to the turf and lay shaking convulsively.

  Astonishment riveted Flavius. He looked at his own hands, amazed at his power. Now he knew how Samson must have felt.

  A groan brought Flavius back to the world of reality. Davy had slumped and was sucking in air. Clasping him, Flavius said softly, “It’s all right, pard. I took care of him.”

  Davy had seen as much. He wanted to thank Flavius, but he was too weak to speak. Rarely had he been so close to death’s door. Another few moments and his soul would have taken flight. His throat hurt abominably. Each swallow was torture. He rested, gathering his energy.

  The crack of a tree limb many yards off prompted Flavius to help himself to the Atsina’s rifle and to strip off the man’s ammo pouch and powder horn.

  An added bonus was a Green River knife in a beaded sheath. He commenced reloading.

  Davy watched for more warriors. It felt as if sand coated his throat; breathing was still painful. Rubbing his neck and tilting his head back helped relieve some of the pain, but not enough.

  “What do we do next?” Flavius whispered. “I vote we go after our horses. None of those mangy settlers give a damn about us, so why should we care what happens to them?”

  The query reminded Davy of Norval Worthington, and he turned.

  Rebecca’s uncle was flat on his back, his right leg bent unnaturally, his left leg propped up by the lance that still impaled the limb. Norval attempted to rise, but fell back again with an anguished moan.

  Davy forced his legs to function. He staggered over and knelt. He assumed that blood loss from the thigh wound accounted for Norval’s condition, but a bullet hole on the left side of the settler’s chest was to blame. The wild shot that the Atsina got off had hit home, after all.

  Norval’s eyes flitted wildly. “Who’s there?” he croaked. “I can’t see!”

  “It’s Crockett,” Davy answered, taking the man’s hand.

  Sighing, Norval said, “I’m hit bad, ain’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn.” Norval was silent a bit, his jaw muscles twitching. “Never figured on buying the farm for a while yet,” he commented. “I reckon it doesn’t do to try and second-guess the Almighty.”

  Flavius joined them. The man’s plight did not arouse much sympathy in him, not after the shoddy treatment he’d suffered at his hands. In his estimation, none of this would have happened, no one would have died, if the settlers had left well enough alone.

  “Is that your friend?” Norval asked. When Davy confirmed that it was, Norval spoke in a rush. “I can feel myself slipping away. I don’t have much time left before I’m called to my reward, so please listen.” His grip on Davy’s hand tightened. “I need the two of you to make me a promise, so I can die content.”

  “What kind of promise?” Davy inquired, suspecting what it would be.

  “Give me your solemn word that you’ll stop my niece from taking up with that stinking heathen. Pledge to me that you’ll kill him.”

  Flavius was offended by the man’s unmitigated gall. “No,” he said flatly. “As she keeps telling everyone, she’s a grown woman. She can do as she pleases.”

  “What about you, Crockett?” Norval said. “Surely you’re wise enough to see that it would be the biggest mistake of her life?”

  “It’s hers to make.”

  Norval was breathing raggedly, but that did not stop him from digging his nails into Davy’s arm and partially pulling himself up. “Please! Don’t let me die knowing she’ll disgrace the family name.” Tears gushed, dampening his cheeks. “I’m begging you! Do you hear? Begging you!”

  “No,” Davy said.

  Groaning, Norval sank back down. “Damn you,” he whimpered, then declared forcefully, “I curse you both! May your lives be filled with misery! May you meet violent, awful ends! It’s the least you deserve for your betrayal of your own race!”

  “Norval—” Davy began softly.

  “I don’t want to hear it!” the settler said much too loudly. “You’re scum! I wish to hell some of the boys from Peoria were here, and not the two of you!”

  “Ask us to promise anything else,” Davy offered.

  “No!” Norval fumed, shaking his fist. “If I could see, I’d teach you! I’d—” His mouth widened, his eyes narrowed, and his fist plopped between them. “I’d—” he said again. It was the last sound he was to make other than the thump of his head striking the ground.

  Davy did not dally. Somewhere or other Norval had dropped his rifle, but a pair of polished flintlocks were tucked under the man’s belt. Davy appropriated them, as well as a pouch and horn. His own tomahawk was nestled at the small of Norval’s back, and Davy patted it as he added it to his waist arsenal.

  Flavius had heard indistinct noises to the south, among them the nicker of a horse. “That way?” he said.

  “Need you ask?” Davy took the lead, a smoothbore pistol in each hand. Now that he was armed, he strode quickly, boldly, his ire at the Atsinas matched by his anxiety for Rebecca.

  Flavius wondered why his friend had thrown caution to the wind. One look at Davy’s face was ample explanation. He had seen that look before, during the Creek War, right before a battle, and again when a man had accused Davy of being a liar. The Irishman had his dander up. Crockett was infernal mad, as the canebrake folk phrased it, and woe betide anyone who dared oppose him.

  The whinnies of the horse were a beacon. Davy’s sense of self-preservation tempered his anger when he spotted the two animals in a clearing; he slowed to a snail’s pace.

  Flavius was as jittery as a fly caught in a spider’s web. He would have dearly loved to take wing and get out of there, but he could never forsake his companion. It mystified him that the sorrel and bay had been left unattended. By rights, Cyrus should be halfway to Peoria.

  Davy drew up at some brambles. The reins to both animals had been left dangling. The sorrel was doing all the nickering, ears pricked, nostrils flared, its attention on a stately willow. Or, rather, on what was taking place under the willow. Figures moved. Someone cried out.

  Davy circled from the east where the cover was better. Two Atsinas were under the tree, bent over someone, brandishing knives.

  Flavius could not quite figure out what was going on until one of the blades dipped and scarlet drops flew. The man on the ground screamed, but it was stifled by a hand over his mouth. On recognizing who it was, Flavius was disinclined to interfere.

  Cyrus had not gotten very far. His clothes had been sliced from his body and he lay as naked as a jaybird, held down by the weight of the warriors on his arms and legs. His chest was crisscrossed with crimson lines where their knives had been busy. From a small cut in his throat leaked more blood.

  The worst was Cyrus’s groin. From that day on, Flavius would shudder whenever he recalled the atrocity. Mutilation had that effect.

  Davy motioned for Flavius to stay put and slid ten paces to the lef
t. The Big Bellies never looked up from their grisly handiwork. Cyrus quaked with each slash, his struggles intensifying to no avail.

  The larger of the Atsinas pressed the tip of his knife against the hothead’s belly. A feral grin hinted at his foul purpose.

  Of all the inhuman deeds humankind perpetrated, Davy rated coldhearted butchery as the vilest. He could not stand to see it inflicted, not even to someone as deserving of torment as Cyrus. In three bounds he was under the tree, the pistol in his right hand centered on the large warrior.

  The Atsina glanced up. Where others might have dived flat or fled outright, he growled like a beast at bay and sprang, the blade smeared with Cyrus’s blood thirsting for Davy’s.

  A stroke of the trigger, and a lead ball smashed into the man’s sternum with the force of a battering ram. Spun completely around, the warrior sagged but did not fall.

  At the same instant, the second Atsina bellowed and leaped up. Rather than get close enough to use his knife, he snapped his arm back to throw it.

  Flavius had the man dead to rights. His sights aligned, he fired at the warrior’s left ear. The Atsina was kicked sideways, tripped over Cyrus, and landed lifeless, two ear canals where there should have been one.

  Davy took a step, but the large Atsina turned. The warrior’s knife arm flicked out, dipping lower as the man who held the weapon keeled over. Knife and owner smacked the earth in front of him.

  Cyrus was trembling uncontrollably, as if he were freezing to death. Teeth chattering, he mewed like a stricken kitten. “Help me! For God’s sake, help me!”

  Flavius fought down bile. There was little anyone could do, short of a parson. “I’m sorry for you,” he said, and was surprised at his sincerity.

  Propping an elbow, Cyrus raised himself high enough to glimpse the lower half of his body. Gulping, he blanched and broke into choking sobs. “No, no, no, no, no, no! Please tell me it ain’t so!”