Arlo grew as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Constantly scouring the vegetation, he skulked along on the tips of his toes, poised for flight at the slightest threat. “I don’t like this, bumpkin,” he whispered.
Flavius didn’t either. A feeling came over him that unseen eyes were upon them. He blamed it on bad nerves, but he was fooling no one, especially himself. When a shadow deep in the brush moved, his worst fear was made real. “They’re on to us,” he announced.
The river rat drew up short. “What? You’re sure?” Panic radiated from him like light from the sun. “Then let’s skedaddle, while we have the use of our legs!”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“How can you be sure?”
“They’re all around us.”
Pure speculation, but Flavius had a hunch he was right. The problem now was how to save the blacks and get out of cannibal country with their hides and hair intact. “Act casual. Don’t let on you’re afraid.”
“That should be easy, since I’m not.” Arlo hooked his thumbs in his pants and whistled as if he did not have a care in the world. His choice of songs was a bawdy tune popular in taverns and saloons called “Jenny’s Scandal.”
Flavius knew it well. It had to do with a young woman who sews herself a dress sporting a hem two inches above her ankles. The community is outraged, and some biddies pay her a visit to demand she conform to rules of common decency. So Jenny raises the hem another two inches.
“My God!” Arlo suddenly exclaimed. “Look behind us!”
A hairy man-brute was right out in the open, smack in the middle of the trail, spiked war club at his side, silently staring.
Flavius kept on walking, and advised his reluctant companion to do the same. They were doomed—as good as dead—yet, oddly, he experienced little fear. The river rat, on the other hand, showed the true hue of his backbone.
Arlo commenced shaking like an aspen leaf, and his teeth set to chattering like a chipmunk’s. “I don’t want to die,” he whimpered. “We should make a break for it now. You go west, I’ll go east. And the Devil take the hindmost.” He started to sidle toward the brush.
Flavius snagged his arm. “Don’t even think it. You wouldn’t get twenty feet.”
“How the hell do you know?” Arlo grated, tugging.
“I have eyes,” Flavius responded, and nodded at the woods.
One moment they weren’t there, the next they were. A score or more of tousle-haired warriors had materialized out of nowhere, on both sides. As grimly still as a row of tombstones, they merely stared.
“Noooooo!” the river rat groaned. He turned to run off, but Flavius would not release him. “Please! Before it’s too late!”
“It already is.”
The trail broadened, ending at a wide field. Structures were visible. People were moving about.
“Lordy!” Arlo breathed. “It’s their village!”
No one tried to stop them from entering, but Flavius suspected it would be a different story should they seek to leave. He halted at sight of the slaves in a crude rickety pen beside a long low lodge constructed mainly of brush and limbs.
The rest of the lodges were small conical affairs, each with a single low door but no windows. Women dressed in short animal-hide skirts were busy at various tasks. Some sewed, some scraped hides, some chopped roots or kneaded an unusual reddish dough, while others tended to infants. Older children scampered playfully about, as children everywhere would do. Warriors, for the most part, were huddled in groups, talking or sharpening the spikes on their war clubs.
Suddenly, a gray-haired man screeched like a panther. All activity ceased. All eyes swung toward the Tennessean and the river rat.
Flavius glanced over a shoulder. Escape was out of the question. More warriors were filing from the woods and fanning out.
“I knew it! I just knew it!” Arlo lamented, turning right and left like a coon at bay. “I should have made you shoot me!” He edged toward the tree line. “You can stay if you want, damn your bones. But not me! I’m leaving, and there’s—” His gaze drifted to the long lodge, and a hand shot to his mouth.
In the shade of an overhang was a huge pot made entirely of clay. Large enough to hold two or three sizeable gators, Flavius observed. Only the inhabitants seem to prefer different fare. Ghastly fare.
“Kill me now!” Arlo said.
Jutting over the rim of the pot, bent at the elbow, was the partially devoured remains of a human arm.
Nine
Quicksand! The mere word was enough to spawn terror. Of all the secret fears woodsmen harbored, being caught in quicksand was near the top of the list. No one should have to suffer such a lingering, horrid death.
Sentiments Davy Crockett categorically agreed with. Ordinarily, he gave quicksand and bogs wide berths.
He still remembered that day during his eighth year when a neighbor’s ox had blundered into a nearby marsh. The animal had been up to its belly in quicksand when it was found. Word spread rapidly, and men came to help from miles around. They tried everything. They threw ropes, they used long poles, they stretched a log across to lever the ox out, but all their efforts were for naught.
Davy had been on the bank with the women and a dozen or so children. It had been highly entertaining at first, a break in the daily routine, an excuse to get out of doing chores.
When the ox sank in up to its neck, it had fully dawned on Davy that the animal might die. He’d hollered encouragement to the frantic men, just as the rest were doing, but all the shouting and yelling in the world could not stave off the outcome.
At the very end, the ox bellowed. A pitiable cry, a peal of misery, it sent a shiver down Davy’s young spine. He saw men strain on ropes that had been thrown over the animal’s head, saw others attempt to worm poles under the animal. Methods that had not worked before did not work then.
Like a rock sinking slowly into soft mud, the ox sank from sight, the quicksand flowing up over its horns, its ears, its wide eyes. To the last, it tried to go on breathing. Bubbles frothed the surface, and there was a mighty upheaval, then all was still.
Some of the women and children cried. The men hung their heads. Davy had been sad for days. He’d petted that ox a few times, fed it corn and such.
The lesson he learned had been invaluable. When the life of an animal as big and strong as an ox could be snuffed out so easily, so could his. He’d been very cautious in the wilderness from that day forth.
But a fat lot of good his caution had done him now! Davy saw quicksand ooze up around his ankles, and he did what anyone would do. He lunged toward solid ground. Unfortunately, the brute-man anticipated him, and pounced, swinging the war club at him. Davy had to back away or be bashed.
The quicksand was up above his ankles. Movement made him sink faster. Yet if he didn’t move, if he didn’t get out of there quickly, he would share the ox’s fate.
His pistols had been soaked when he fell into the pool, but he drew the left one anyway, cocked it, and took aim. The hairy warrior showed no fear, standing there as brazen as brass. Davy prayed for the best and pulled the trigger.
The flintlock misfired.
Shoving it under his belt, Davy drew the other one. The quicksand had gained another couple of inches, but he could still move his legs. He angled to the right, the warrior staying with him. Centering a bead on the man’s forehead, Davy fired. A puff of smoke, a flash of flame—and nothing else. The powder had been too damp. Replacing it at his waist, he resorted to a desperate gambit.
Davy had developed a fondness for the tomahawk. Many settlers looked down their noses at the weapon, saying it could not begin to rival a trusty butcher knife. The edge was shorter, it was harder to throw; a “silly savage’s weapon,” they branded it.
Davy knew better. A tomahawk was as versatile as it was deadly. The Creeks had proven that during the war. Properly used, it could hold its own against any knife, ax, or sword. On a stump out behind his cab
in he’d painted a white circle, and for hours on end, day after day, he’d practiced with his, growing more and more skilled, until he could embed it in the circle ten times out of ten.
It was a talent that often came in handy. Such as now.
Davy drew his knife with his left hand. He made a show of preparing to throw it, and did so, knowing full well he lacked the power in his left arm that he had in his right, and that the warrior would avoid it with no problem.
Which the brute did. The knife landed in grass, and the Indian looked at it and grinned. He should have kept his eyes on Davy.
The tomahawk streaked back, flashed forward. Handle and head swirled end over end. Hearing the swish, the Indian glanced up. The edge sheared into the bridge of his nose, parting the flesh as neatly as a dagger would, penetrating deep. For several seconds he was motionless, blood and gore flowing freely. Then he took a halting step toward the quicksand, lifted his heavy club, and died.
Davy had disposed of one problem, but he still had another. The quicksand was almost to his knees. He moved, or tried to; his legs would barely budge. The quicksand clung to him like liquid lead. And the attempt made him sink faster. Desperate, he surged maybe half a foot, and lost four more inches of leg.
Trying not to think of the consequences of failure, Davy girded himself for another effort. This time he used his head. He eased his legs forward one at a time, by gradual degrees. It seemed to work. He was eighteen or nineteen inches from solid ground. Then fifteen. Twelve. He extended an arm toward a bush, to grab it for added leverage.
Suddenly, disaster. The quicksand shot up as high as his chest. Davy froze. He stopped sinking for the moment, but it was small consolation. The bush was well out of reach. The solid ground might as well have been on the moon.
Davy tried to recall all the advice he had been given. “Lie on your back and you’ll float,” one man had claimed, “then you can wriggle to shore.” Another veteran of the wilds had suggested that he “lay on your side and roll real quick-like. Half the time it works real well.” The fellow had not mentioned what happened the other half of the time.
Davy craned his neck, searching for a means of saving his life. Other than the bush, nothing else was close enough. And the bush itself was puny, perhaps too puny to support his weight.
“I reckon I’m in pretty considerable of a bind,” Davy said, just to hear his own voice.
Someone answered. Or, rather, something did. The alligator grunted and swiveled. Davy had forgotten about it. He’d assumed it was dead, that the warrior’s club had crushed its brainpan. Although bleeding profusely, however, it was very much alive. And its maw, filled with sawtooth death, was opening and closing as if the reptile were eager to feast on him.
“Never give up!” his grandma had often told him. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” was another of her sayings. Yet at that moment, Davy Crockett’s wellspring of hope dwindled drastically as the gator slunk nearer. He saw no way out. If the quicksand didn’t claim him, the alligator would. Or maybe when the gator attacked, both of them would be borne under.
The beast moved with exaggerated slowness. Perhaps the head wound was to blame. Or maybe it was not quite sure where he was since he was not moving and gators relied on movement to pinpoint prey.
Davy watched it slink to within a few feet of the quicksand, then halt. It seemed to be staring right at him, yet it did not do anything except blink. Davy did not even do that, for fear the animal would strike.
The alligator looked to either side. Grunting, it lifted its right foreleg while bending to the right, and veered toward the water. It was not going to eat him, after all. Its long tail curved in an S in its wake.
The tail! Davy extended his other arm as the tail slowly slid toward him. What he proposed to do was insane, but it was his only hope. The tail whipped left, whipped right, whipped left again. Then the thing was right in front of him, and Davy grabbed hold and clung on with all his might.
The alligator lashed around, hissing like a snake, but could not quite reach him. In a flurry, it hurtled toward the pool and sanctuary, its short legs pumping. For its size, it was a mass of muscle. Much stronger than the Tennessean. But was it strong enough?
The tail’s serrated crest was as rough to the touch as a dry hide, the scales as slippery as glass. Davy dug in his nails, his muscles corded into compact bands. His body gave a lurch and started to slide upward, but the quicksand was not to be denied. It wrapped around him like a two-ton glove, holding fast.
A tug of war ensued. The gator against the quagmire. The reptile was as straight as an arrow, claws scraping as it heaved forward.
Davy sought to help by kicking with both legs. A sucking noise granted the illusion the quicksand was losing its grip, but just when his body began to move, he was brought to a stop. The next couple of minutes were ordeals in themselves. The gator churned and churned. Presently, it would tire, and that would be that.
No! Davy fumed. Where there was a will, there was a way! If the alligator couldn’t do it on its own, he would give it added incentive. He punched the tail. Once, twice, three times. He was drawing his arm back for a fourth blow when the creature grunted and scrambled forward with newfound energy.
The sucking noise was repeated, louder than before. It felt as if a hundred tiny hands were pulling at Davy. Then, abruptly, he was yanked bodily up out of the muck and was swung to the left. Releasing his unwilling helper, he rolled a few times, coming to rest on his side facing the pool. The gator was in the water, diving from sight.
“I’m obliged, ugly,” Davy said.
Weariness nipped at him, but he shrugged it off. He would rest when Flavius was safe. About to sit up, he tensed when a shadow fell across his chest. Another warrior, he guessed, and cast about for the knife he had thrown.
“Partial to mud baths, are you? I hear tell the well-to-do in Europe spend hundreds of dollars to have themselves plastered with the stuff. Which goes to show you just how dumb people can be.”
Davy squinted up at the tall frontiersman. “Took your sweet time catching up. Stop to smell the flowers, did you?”
“Hell, I came quick as I could,” James Bowie said. “I had to leave Sam. He was groggy yet. Might have a mild concussion. So I built him a lean-to, gave him a rifle and a pistol, and got here in time to see that scaly friend of yours pulling you out.” Bowie grinned. “You do things like this often?”
Making a comment about Bowie’s ancestry, Davy sat up.
Bowie chuckled and began to gather the Tennessean’s weapons. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never believe it. Funny thing is, no one I tell will believe it either. Even tall tales have their limits.”
Davy did not see the humor in the situation. “We’re not far behind Flavius and Kastner.” Rising, he brushed at the quicksand that clung to his buckskins, but it was too thick and gooey to remove by hand. He went to the pool, set his pistols down, and warily waded in. The alligator did not show itself as he ducked under up to his shoulders and hastily cleaned himself off.
Bowie was examining the two flintlocks. “It would take forever to clean these.”
“Then they’ll have to wait.” Davy accepted them, dunked each once, and tucked them where they belonged. He reloaded his rifle, cleaned off his tomahawk and knife, and was ready.
They took up the chase with sober intensity. The Tennessean led. Although he was tired and hurting, he did not slack off. Intuition warned him he must find Flavius soon. Very soon.
Davy hoped his friend was well, and wondered what Flavius was doing at that exact moment.
Had the Irishman only known, he would have begged the powers that be for the fleetness of fabled Mercury.
~*~
For at that very second Flavius Harris was bound hand and foot, his arms behind his back, lying in a small conical lodge. The interior was as murky as a coal cellar. He could barely distinguish the outline of Arlo Kastner.
“You’re a jackass,” the river rat comp
lained for the umpteenth time. “You should have shot a couple. The rest would have backed off and we could have escaped. Now look. Slated for the cookin’ pot, thanks to you.”
“If I’d killed one, we’d be dead,” Flavius said. He had brought Matilda to bear when the hairy warriors converged. He had even fixed his sights on the gray-haired man, who appeared to be their leader, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoot. The Indians had stripped him of his weapons, trussed the two of them like hogs fit for slaughter, and thrown them into the lodge.
That had been hours ago. The afternoon was waning. Soon it would be time for the evening meal, and Flavius shuddered to think what—or rather, who—the main course would be.
“I should have made sure you were dead when I fed you to the gators,” Arlo groused. “You’re the reason I’m in this mess, fat man.”
“Don’t blame me. Blame your greed.”
Arlo swore, and hiked himself into a seated position. “Don’t act so high-and-mighty. You’d do the same if you thought you could get away with it.” He leaned against the wall, dry brush crackling. “A fella can’t be blamed for tryin’ to get ahead in this world. It’s every man for himself, in case you ain’t heard.”
“I don’t believe that, and I never will,” Flavius said. “Most folks are naturally good, not evil. Take my partner, Crockett. Know what his family motto is?”
“I don’t care.”
“Always be sure you’re right, then go ahead,” Flavius quoted. “He learned it from his pa, who learned it from his pa. And so on. Law-abiding, decent people who would give you the shirt off their backs if you were that much in need.” He sat up too. “So much for everyone being as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. The Crockett clan proves most people have hearts of gold.”
“The only thing they prove,” Arlo said, “is that being dumb runs in their family.”
Flavius had a retort on the tip of his tongue, but the deer hide covering the door parted and in came the gray-haired man. The top elder, as it were. “Howdy,” Flavius said, smiling. “We sure would like to palaver a spell, to show you we’re friendly.”
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