Bowie raised his rifle, but the bowman was not to be seen. “We should split up,” he said urgently. “I’ll draw some of them off.” And in a blur he was gone, flying into a thicket as another shaft cleaved the air.
“No!” Davy objected, too late. Irate, he dashed to the right, along the tree line. Separating was a mistake in his estimation. They stood a better chance fighting side by side. But now he was on his own—with eight bloodthirsty enemies somewhere nearby.
Another trilling call gave Davy a clue to the position of the one of the Karankawas. Halting, he studied the spot intently, in vain. Aware that to stay in one place too long courted calamity, Davy glided further south, his back to the clearing.
He was glad he need not worry about enemies coming at him from behind. Then a grunt proved him wrong. Spinning, he saw the warrior he had shot rising. Blood pumped over the man’s chest and pain contorted his face, but still he shuffled toward Davy with a knife poised to strike. Liz sent a ball into the warrior’s ribs.
To the north Bowie’s rifle spoke. Davy palmed a pistol and raced on, seeking to outflank the Karankawas and take them by surprise. They might be doing the same thing, so he was vigilant for sign of them. A dozen yards from the end of the clearing was a gap in the trees. He slanted into it, to an oak, pausing to look and listen.
Deep in the undergrowth a man groaned in agony. Davy prayed it wasn’t James Bowie. Scooting to another tree, he leaned Liz against the trunk and grasped his powder horn to reload. For a fleeting instant he was distracted, but it was enough. He heard the pounding of onrushing feet and glanced up.
A Karankawa was almost on top of him. Wielding a war club, the warrior slammed into him with the force of a battering ram.
It was like the time Davy had been kicked by a mule, only worse. He smashed against the tree, bounced off, and crashed onto his side. Dazed, in torment, Davy blinked to clear his vision, and sat up. The only reason he was still alive was because the warrior had also gone down.
Davy elevated his arm, belatedly realizing the pistol was gone. He clutched at the other one, his fingers closing on empty air. He had lost both.
The Karankawa, though, still had his war club. Growling like a fierce beast, the warrior heaved into a crouch.
Davy willed his arms and legs to obey and scrambled up. His right hand slid to his tomahawk, and as the warrior charged he yanked it out and swung. Creek weapon clashed against Karankawan. Clashed, and was undamaged. They parted, circled, the warrior feinting and thrusting, testing Davy’s ability.
Davy slashed low, but the man blocked it. He arced the tomahawk high, and again was thwarted. They were evenly matched, both in skill and strength. Which one of them lived and which one died depended on which one of them made the first mistake.
The Karankawa was crafty. Lunging at Davy’s legs, he forced the Tennessean to jerk backwards. In doing so, Davy was momentarily off balance. And in that moment the warrior pounced, swinging viciously.
Davy countered several bruising blows. Stumbling, he righted himself, only to be clipped on the temple. His coonskin cap absorbed the brunt of it, enough so he did not lose consciousness as his legs buckled and he fell.
Howling in feral glee, the Karankawa reared above him and whisked the war club on high for a final, fatal stroke.
Five
Flavius Harris would rather be burned at the stake than split up with Davy. He hated it. Hated it, hated it, hated it. It was all he could think about as he glumly trudged at the end of the column. Matilda had always claimed that he could out-sulk a five-year-old, and he proved it now. Mired in self-pity, he paid no attention to what went on around him. When a snake slithered by, he ignored it. When a gator rose in a nearby pool and yawned wide its fearsome maw, he could not be bothered.
Flavius had cause to be upset. He had been keeping track. Ever since their gallivant began, every time he and Davy split up, something awful happened. Every single time. Davy could poke fun all he wanted, but Flavius was convinced there was a jinx on them. Soon another disaster would afflict them. He was sure of it.
What form it took was of no consequence. After all these weeks of grueling hardship, after surviving peril after peril, he had reached the point where it was irrelevant. Each catastrophe was as bad as the one before it.
So Flavius trudged unhappily along, waiting for impending doom to strike, and summed up his outlook by commenting to himself, “If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
Flavius had forgotten about kindly Sam. “An old saying in our part of the woods.”
“What does it mean, sir?”
“That if it isn’t one problem, it’s another.” Flavius glumly regarded a blue butterfly that flitted by. “And please don’t call me ‘sir’ anymore. I’m not your master. Matter of fact, I’m as much a slave as you are.”
Sam’s eyebrows arched. “You are? I’ve never heard of no white slaves. How can that be?”
“I’m married.”
“Oh,” Sam said. Then he said “Oh!” again, and pealed with delight. “I’ll be a suck-egg mule! I like you, Mr. Harris. You’re a humorous fellow.”
“That’s me, all right. A barrel of laughs.” Flavius was glad to have someone to talk to, so he expanded on his notion. “When a man says, ‘I do,’ what he’s really saying is, ‘I’m yours to boss around to your heart’s content.’ It’s always ‘Yes, dear,’ and ‘Whatever you want, dear.’ He can kiss his freedom good-bye.”
Sam became serious. “You don’t really believe that, do you, Mr. Harris? The right lady can make all the difference in a fella’s life. I keep hopin’ that Master Jimmy will find that special one for him. But he’s like a bear in a shed full of honey pots. He can’t make up his mind which tastes the best, so he goes from one to the other, gobblin’ ’em all down. Like you were once, I bet.”
Flavius had never had that problem. Females had never fallen over themselves to share his company. Matilda was his first, his one and only.
“You must love your missus a whole lot,” Sam mentioned. “Did one of those Injuns bash you on the noggin?”
“I’m serious, Mr. Harris. I saw that look in your eyes when you talked about her. You might be henpecked, but you’re right fond of the hen.”
“Sure,” Flavius blustered. “And I can scratch my ear with my elbow.” He snorted. “One of us is as dull as a meat-ax, and it isn’t me.”
Sam smiled. “If’n you say so. But deep down I think you’re as happy as a clam. You’re just too proud to own up to it. Most menfolk are. They’d rather admit they care for their hound dogs than fess up to liking their wives.”
“Can you blame them? Why the Good Lord saw fit to make men and women so different is a puzzlement. You ask me, men need females like pigs need hip pockets.”
“Ever think the ladies feel the same about us?” Sam pushed past a prickly bush. “My wife once told me that men are as worthless as wings on a rock. She says the only reason womenfolk put up with our shenanigans is because they can’t have babies without us.” Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be something if they could?”
“Never happen,” Flavius declared. “It goes against nature. Against the laws of God. What? Do you think that one day people will pull babies out of thin air like magicians do with rabbits?” It was so preposterous, he cackled.
Suddenly the slaves in front of them halted. Flavius checked their back trail, hoping against hope for sign of Davy and James.
“What’s he so mad about, you reckon?” Sam asked.
Flavius turned around. Arlo Kastner was striding toward them with both fists clenched. Through the trees Flavius spotted Sedge, waiting at the head of the line. “Something wrong?” Flavius inquired.
“Damn right there is,” Arlo snapped. “Why don’t you two lunkheads make a little more noise? The Karankawas might not know where we are yet.” He was fit to be tied. “We can hear you clear up yonder.”
“Sorry,” Flavius said meekly.
Arlo sneered. “That’s not good enough, bumpkin. To make sure you keep quiet, we’re splittin’ you up. You go up front. I’ll stay here with the darkie.”
Flavius resented being treated as if he were a dim-witted lout. He liked being bossed around even less. But the river rats were James’s partners, so that gave them more say. More the pity, since he was growing fond of Sam’s company. “I’ll go,” he said sullenly. Nodding at the black man, he jogged on past the two rows of slaves.
Sedge was tapping his foot. “About damn time,” he groused. “You’ve cost us time better spent puttin’ as much distance behind us as we can. I don’t know about you, dullard, but I ain’t partial to havin’ my heart carved out and served on a spit.”
“And I’m not partial to being insulted,” Flavius said, his temper flaring. “So I’ll thank you to keep a lid on that mouth of yours, or so help me I’ll knock the bejeebers out of you.”
The river rat was genuinely surprised. “Well, well, well. The fat man is a panther in disguise. Sheathe your claws, Harris. It’s the Injuns who are your enemy.” He resumed their trek, holding to as rapid a clip as the shackled blacks could sustain.
Flavius thought it a shame to push the slaves so hard. But he reasoned it had to be done or none of them would escape the swamp alive. Begrudgingly, he admired the ease with which the river rat picked their route. Sedge had a knack for taking the path of least resistance, just as deer and other wild creatures would do.
The heat and muggy air took a toll. Flavius grew drowsy, and had to shake himself every now and then to stay alert. He dwelled on what Sam had said. Could it be he really did love Matilda that much? After all their spats? After she had taken a rolling pin to him more times than he could count? To say nothing of how bossy she was. He’d never mentioned it, but Matilda would make a great army sergeant. She could bellow with the best of them. And no private would dare sass her.
For over a quarter of a mile the slavers bustled on. Flavius’s stomach growled repeatedly, reminding him of how ravenous he was. He was so hungry, he contemplated eating grass. Between his famished state and his musings about Matilda, he did not give Sedge another thought until the uppity river rat halted so abruptly, Flavius nearly collided with him.
“This will do nicely,” Sedge said.
Flavius saw mostly water ahead. A ribbon of partially dry land, a winding, slender natural bridge, was the only means across, and it was choked with vegetation. “What will do nicely?”
“You’ll see,” was Sedge’s perplexing reply.
Water lapped at the edges on both sides, so close that Flavius could have reached out and dipped his hands in. Gators were abundant, most of them smaller ones that would not dare attack. Most, but not all. To the north a giant reptilian back surged up out of the depths. If the visible part of the creature was any indication, it had to be as big as a horse.
Flavius made a mental note to avoid swamps from that day forth. During the Creek campaign it hadn’t been quite this bad. Probably because he had been with hundreds of other men. And when an army was on the move, even alligators laid low.
Unexpectedly, Sedge asked, “Ever wanted to be rich, bumpkin?”
Annoyed that the river rat continued to insult him, Flavius responded, “Who wouldn’t?” Until recently he hadn’t, but that was beside the point.
“I do,” Sedge declared. “I’d sell my own mother for five hundred dollars. My sister for a thousand.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Flavius testily asked.
“Oh, to make a point.” Sedge glanced at him. “How much money would it take to satisfy you, Harris?”
“I never gave it much thought.”
“Well, I have. Arlo and me both.” Sedge did not seem to care that the Tennessean wasn’t interested. “The twelve hundred dollars Bowie agreed to pay us is more money than either of us have had at any one time in our whole lives.”
You’re not the only one, Flavius almost said.
“Six hundred each,” Sedge rolled the sum on the tip of his tongue as if savoring sugar candy. “I can get me a room at one of the fanciest hotels in New Orleans. The kind where they change the sheets every day. Where maids in skimpy uniforms prance around speakin’ French.”
Flavius wouldn’t mind doing that himself. Of course, Matilda would shoot him if he so much as sneaked a peek at another woman. But it might be worth it for a night of unbelievable luxury.
Sedge chattered on, more to himself. “For six hundred dollars I was willin’ to risk this stinkin’ swamp, the damned heathens, and whatever else I came across.” He paused. “For ten times that much, I’d do just about anything. Even kill.” Ten times? Flavius performed the multiplication. It came to six thousand dollars, or exactly half of the sum James Bowie had said the sale of the blacks would bring.
For some reason, Sedge stopped. The slaves were strung out on a long straight stretch, each keeping to the center of the narrow strip. They had nowhere to go except straight ahead or straight back. “We’ve gone far enough, I reckon,” Sedge said.
“For what?” Flavius asked.
Not responding, Sedge stepped to the edge and leaned out so he could been seen by those at the end of the line. He waved vigorously. Arlo windmilled both arms. “That’s it, then,” Sedge said.
“What?” Flavius said, peeved.
Sedge smirked. “Remember what I just told you? That I was willing to do anything for half the money these darkies will fetch?”
Flavius should have seen it coming. The river rat had dropped enough hints. But he was caught flat-footed when Sedge’s rifle arced upward. The heavy stock caught him flush on the side of the head. Pain and bright pinpoints of light overwhelmed him. He felt himself stagger, and attempted to unlimber a pistol, but another blow, to the pit of his stomach, doubled him in half. Slammed backward, he tripped. Clammy wetness dampened his legs, his torso. He was vaguely conscious of being on his back in the water.
“So long, bumpkin. A couple of gators are swimmin’ toward you. I’d stick around to watch them eat, but it might spoil my appetite.”
Mocking laughter rang in Flavius’s ears, laughter that was drowned out by a loud splash. That was the last sound he heard.
~*~
Davy Crockett had stared death in the face many times. Savage beasts, savage men, he had clashed with them time and again during his travels and always, somehow, prevailed. But in the fleeting instant before the war club descended, he knew he had come to the end of his earthly existence. He had lost his hold on the tomahawk, had no means to stop the blow from descending short of throwing an arm up. Which was exactly what he did, even though he knew the club would shatter his bones like so much dry kindling. His skull would be next.
The club swept downward. The warrior’s eyes sparkled.
Then a miracle occurred. There was a flashing streak of shimmering metal. A glimmer of steel reflecting sunlight. And the hilt of a knife sprouted in the center of the Karankawa’s chest. The man staggered backward, his war club shearing wide of its mark, missing the Tennessean by a cat’s whisker.
Still slightly stunned from the blow to his temple, Davy rose onto his elbows. He saw the warrior blink in bewilderment at the hilt, then drop the club and grab hold to yank it out. Gurgling like an infant, the Karankawa tensed his arms. The big knife slid free. A grin spread across the man’s bronzed face. As if he believed that by extracting the blade, he had insured his survival.
Popping the knife out had the same effect as popping the cork on a bottle of wine. Blood gushed from the wound like wine from a bottle’s mouth, a crimson torrent that spattered the warriors, the grass, and Crockett’s legs.
The Karankawa’s knees buckled. He looked at Davy and his mouth moved, but he couldn’t speak. His bewilderment was replaced by total shock. Feebly, he sought to stem the torrent by pressing a hand over the wound. It was akin to trying to hold back a flood with a washcloth.
Davy reclaimed his tomahawk, and rose. The Karankawa raised his face to the
heavens, his lips moved as if in supplication, and he died, falling across the big knife. Davy bent to retrieve it.
“Let me.” James Bowie rolled the body over, cleaned the blade as he had done before, and straightened. “I shot another. So there’s only six left now.”
Still too many. Davy ran to where his pistols lay, and tucked them under his belt. Squatting, he hastily began to reload Liz. “I’m obliged for saving my life,” he said as the tall frontiersman cat-footed over.
“You looked as if you were a gone gosling,” Bowie quipped. “Thank your Maker I’ve been throwing a knife since I was old enough to hold one.” He had a rifle in hand, and at a sound in the brush, he turned.
No enemies appeared. Davy finished, and rose with his back to the tree trunk. “This makes twice you’ve pulled my bacon out of the fire.”
“It is becoming a habit, isn’t it?” James said. “Maybe you can do the same for me some day. In the meantime, what say we learn these red pumas a thing or two about swamp fighting?” He moved eastward, darting from cover to cover.
Davy was not going to let them be separated again. He did exactly as Bowie did, his senses primed. When a Karankawa rose up out of high reeds and sighted down an arrow, he spotted the man first. “Get down!” he shouted. Simultaneously, he fired from the hip. The warrior was smashed backward, and the shaft meant for James sailed skyward to be lost amid trees to the southwest.
The tall frontiersman smiled and winked, then went on.
Davy had seldom met anyone so fearless. And he’d encountered more than his share of brave men. The land itself claimed credit for molding them. Dangerous conditions bred courage. Cowards did not last long on the frontier. Bowie’s bravery was as obvious as a knight’s suit of shining armor. Davy could see it in the man’s eyes, in how he acted, how he handled himself in a crisis. James Bowie did not have a fearful bone in his entire body.
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