“You’re letting us keep our fire steel and tinder box?” Grizwald said sarcastically. “How generous.”
Their shenanigans annoyed Davy. They didn’t seem to realize how fortunate they were that he did not plant them six feet under. Given their crime, he would be thoroughly justified.
Toting them the fifty or sixty miles to Peoria wasn’t practical. The fledgling settlement lacked a duly constituted arm of the law. There was not even a justice of the peace. To turn the pair over to the authorities entailed a trip to the nearest military post, a costly delay.
Davy would rather just be shed of the pair. His conscience was pricked, however, by the thought of their being free to commit more dastardly deeds later on. To nip their foul career in the bud, he proposed, “There’s something you should know. At the first town I come to, I’m writing a letter to the commander of the garrison at Fort Dearborn.”
Grizwald started. “You wouldn’t!”
“I’m sure he’ll be mighty interested in your antics,” Davy said. “In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he sent a patrol out after you boys.”
Livid with fury, Grizwald clenched a fist. “If I ever run into you again, Crockett, I’ll hack off your oysters and make you eat them!”
Davy took a step, jamming his pistol into the man’s stomach, causing Grizwald to blanch and gulp. “I hope we do meet, mister. I’d sorely like to finish what I started.”
His dander up, Davy shoved the cutthroat, then stalked to the canoe. Flavius had it fully loaded. To reach open water they would have to wade through forty feet of reeds. Davy grabbed an end, but his friend was not in any great hurry to leave.
“I hope we’re not making a mistake, pard. Good horseflesh is hard to come by. And I’m right fond of that bay.”
“Is this the same bay that’s forever biting you? The same bay that tries to throw you whenever it thinks it can catch you unawares? The same bay that you once claimed we should carve up and eat?”
Flavius was unwilling to admit that he never had liked the critter. “You ought to know not to take me seriously when I’m raving like that,” he responded lamely.
“Quit fretting,” Davy said. “On our way downriver we’ll keep our eyes skinned for bear and panther. With any luck we should collect enough peltries to pay for two new horses. And we’ll sell the canoe in St. Louis for provision money.”
“I’m not upset,” Flavius lied. They both knew he was the world’s worst worrier, a bad habit he had developed as a child and never outgrown. His pa claimed that his grandma was to blame. She had always been warning him against this, that, and the other.
Flavius blamed a massacre of close kin when he was only seven. His folks had gone to pay their respects, and Flavius had seen a corpse for the very first time. Actually, there had been five bodies, in various states of mutilation. For years afterward, nightmares about that day plagued him.
“Let’s go,” Davy said, raising his end of the canoe. Action was a sure cure for indecision. Once they were under way, Flavius was bound to perk up.
Against his better judgment, Flavius lifted. “All right. Let’s do it before—” The distinct crack of a twig in the forest silenced him. It had been much too loud for a small animal to be responsible.
Davy had also heard the sound. Peering into the shadowy woodland, he beheld spectral shapes flitting toward the shore. Ten, possibly twelve, strung out in a ragged line. One crossed an open patch and was bathed by sunlight, clearly revealing bronzed limbs, buckskin leggins, moccasins, and a quiver full of deadly shafts.
“Indians!” Davy hollered, propelling the canoe into the reeds.
Ice congealed in Flavius’s veins. Of all the fates that might befall a frontiersman, he dreaded most being captured and tortured. Stocky legs churning, he barreled into the cattails.
War whoops rent the air. Painted forms burst from the trees.
At the same moment, to the north, two canoes appeared—canoes filled with more warriors.
Chapter Two
As the first war whoops rang out, the sorrel and the bay nickered and bolted.
Griswald yelled for Zeist to help him catch them and bounded in pursuit. Managing to snag the sorrel’s reins, he held on for dear life.
Zeist went after the bay, but his wounded leg hampered him. His outstretched hand missed its dangling reins and the horse raced off, swerving past a husky warrior who attempted to bar its path. It plunged into the undergrowth.
Davy Crockett and Flavius Harris barreled through the slippery reeds, pushing their canoe. Davy saw a warrior in the bow of the nearest Indian craft notch an arrow to a sinew string. As yet, the warriors were out of range, but that would not last long.
Warriors in both canoes were paddling in swift, flawless rhythm, hurtling their craft through the water at unbelievable speed.
A scream drew Davy’s attention to the shore where Grizwald had mounted the sorrel and was galloping madly southward, dodging warriors right and left.
The one who had screamed was Zeist. Five warriors ringed him. Terrified, he was beside himself, screeching and cursing while darting every which way in a vain bid to get past them. Whenever he drew close to one, the warrior would shove him back again.
Flavius could not take his eyes off the approaching canoes. He didn’t see how Davy and he could escape. All the ghastly tales he had ever heard about the atrocities committed on captured whites flitted through his mind in riotous confusion. Some had been skinned alive, then staked out on anthills. Others had had their eyes gouged out, their tongues and ears cut off, and worse, before being killed. Some had been whittled down a small piece at a time, lingering in abject torment for days on end until their captors eventually put them out of their misery.
Goose bumps erupted all over Flavius. He could practically feel cold steel sliding into his flesh already. Shuddering, he tripped over a cattail and almost fell.
The sudden lurch threw Davy off balance. “Be careful!” he warned. A misstep now would prove costly. The two canoes were nearly in range, and the archer in the lead craft was taking precise aim.
A yip of triumph to the south heralded Griswald’s escape. He had burst past the last of the Indians and was speeding along, bent low over the sorrel. Looking over a shoulder, he grinned, but his grin died seconds later when a feathered shaft streaked out of the blue and embedded itself in his back.
Stiffening, Grizwald flung his arms out wide. Just then the sorrel vaulted over a low log. Unable to hold on, Grizwald pitched off, landing on his shoulder. Weakly, he endeavored to regain his feet, but his legs wobbled and buckled. Looking up, he saw six warriors converging. The cry that issued from his throat was hideous to hear.
Zeist, meanwhile, had exhausted himself. On his knees, he blubbered piteously as the warriors toyed with him, lightly pricking him with knives.
“They’re goners!” Flavius exclaimed, resisting a tidal wave of stark fear that threatened to engulf him. What was it Davy always said? So long as there was life, there was hope. Gulping, he helped plow the canoe through a thick cluster of reeds.
Ahead, open water beckoned. As Davy lowered the canoe and turned to climb in, an arrow sliced into the river inches from his leg. Tucking Liz to his shoulder, Davy cocked the hammer, sighted, then stroked the trigger.
The bowman in the lead canoe was nocking another shaft. The ball smashed into his chest. Catapulted to the rear, he bowled over one of the paddlers and both fell against a third. The canoe veered landward, the last man trying to straighten it as his companions untangled themselves.
Davy did not waste another precious second. Getting in, he traded his rifle for a paddle. “Hurry!” he urged.
Flavius set his rifle down and gripped the gunwales. He started to heave himself up over the side, but the canoe pitched perilously, almost spilling Davy.
“Get in the right way!”
Not having much experience with canoes, Flavius had completely forgotten that when a canoe was in the water, the safest means of entering
was to rise up over the stern and gently slide in. Shifting around, he did just that, gouging his belly on the steeply upturned end. Once his knees were on the bottom, he scooped up a paddle. “Go! Go!”
Davy dipped his paddle into the Mississippi and their craft moved forward, gaining momentum rapidly. A check showed that the second warrior-laden canoe was flying toward them, all four bronzed Indians stroking in skillful unison. “Give me your rifle!” Flavius did not ask why. Snatching Matilda, his rifle, up, he shoved it at his friend.
The warrior in the bow of the onrushing craft stiffened when Davy pointed the rifle. Lining up the front and rear sights, Davy waited a few more seconds before he fired. What he was attempting had rarely been done. If it didn’t work, their prospects of getting away were slim.
Matilda roared. The lead warrior ducked, then smirked, thinking that Davy had missed. Suddenly he glanced down at the bow and bleated. Setting his paddle down, he bent to press both hands against the hole Davy’s ball had made just below the waterline.
Flavius whooped for joy. That should keep the warriors busy for a spell. He matched his strokes to Davy’s as their canoe angled southward under Davy’s seasoned guidance. “We did it!”
“Did we?”
Flavius was afraid to look, but he did anyway. The first canoe was after them again. The man Davy had shot had been placed in the center and the remaining three were hell-bent for vengeance, paddling with savage vigor. “Damn!”
Davy threw every ounce of strength he had into each and every stroke. Because the current was sluggish close to the bank, he steered toward the middle.
An interesting observation provided insight into why they had been attacked. Davy noticed that the canoe they were in was an exact duplicate of those used by the Indians. Evidently, the warriors were members of the tribe Grizwald and Zeist had stolen it from.
Speaking of which, Davy twisted and discovered that the cutthroats were being tied, hand and feet. Grizwald resisted, but Zeist simply lay there, weeping forlornly.
Davy could not honestly say he was sorry for them. There was no telling how many innocents the pair had murdered. Justice had been served, wilderness fashion. Or, as the parson back home might put it, as they reaped, so had they sown.
“Davy!”
The other canoe was gaining fast. Grim bloodlust lit the swarthy faces of its occupants.
Davy pulled a pistol, but instead of aiming at one of the warriors, he aimed over their heads. He had no personal quarrel with these Indians. And ever since his involvement in the Creek War, where he had witnessed atrocities that curdled his blood, he had gone out of his way to avoid needless killing.
Back home, a few unfriendly types had spread the rumor that he had gone soft in the head, that he was willing to let the Indians be if they would let the whites be. Siding with Indians was highly unpopular; most folks shared the sentiments of Andrew Jackson, who wanted to get rid of every red man, woman, and child, either by relocating them if they would cooperate, or by much harsher measures if they would not.
But Davy had never been one to go along with the crowd for conformity’s sake. He always settled in his own mind on the right course, then stuck to it, come what may.
So now, as the canoe full of hostile warriors bore down on them, Davy fired into the air above the first man’s mane of black hair. The warrior slowed a trifle, then resumed stroking hard and fast again.
Davy sighed. Exchanging the spent pistol for his other flintlock, he aimed as best he could. The .55- caliber smoothbore thundered, spewing smoke and lead.
In the act of dipping his paddle, the warrior wrenched sharply around. His hand flew to his shoulder as he slumped, stunned. Without him to steer and help stroke, the canoe slanted to the right.
Flavius redoubled his efforts. Sweat broke out on his brow and his shoulders commenced to ache. Adopting a mechanical motion, he did not check behind them until they neared a bend.
The Indians in the first canoe had given up. They were heading for the shore. Those from the second canoe were already on land, surrounded by their fellows. Prominent among them were the slumped forms of Griswald and Zeist. Neither horse, Flavius was pleased to learn, had been caught.
Davy held to a steady pace for the next half hour. Only when he was convinced the Indians were definitely not after them did he straighten and say, “Take a breather. Well let the current carry us for a spell.”
None too soon, by Flavius’s reckoning. His arms were leaden, his shoulders pricked by awful pangs. “If we ever make it home alive, I’m never setting foot out of Tennessee again,” he vowed.
Davy made no such promise. Since he had been knee-high to a grasshopper, he’d been afflicted by a powerful hankering to always see what lay over the next hill. Wanderlust was in his blood. Daniel Boone, it was claimed, had been the same. Some people just couldn’t stay in one place for any length of time. The enticing allure of adventure forever goaded them on.
Now that they were safe, Davy took stock. They had their saddles. They had parfleches filled with jerked venison and pemmican. They had enough ammunition and powder to last until St. Louis if they conserved it wisely. All in all, they were doing right fine. He mentioned as much.
“I suppose,” Flavius said flatly. He missed their horses something terrible. Gazing out over the gently rippling water, he shivered.
Water and Flavius did not mix. The deep, dank depths scared him. Next to being captured by hostiles and tortured, he most feared drowning. Several times he nearly had.
Unless someone had been through what Flavius had, they could never fully understand the queasy helplessness that came over those who were barely spared a watery grave when near deep water.
On occasion, Flavius still had bad dreams about sinking into a murky, clammy pool, about pumping his arms and legs for all he was worth and continuing to sink, sink, sink, about the excruciating pain that engulfed his lungs as the last air was expended, then the sickening sensation of water rushing into his mouth and down his throat as he gasped for salvation that wasn’t there. He woke up in a cold sweat every time.
But Flavius was not going to tell Davy. He had an obligation to his friend to hold up his end of their partnership. He would not let Davy down.
The afternoon waxed and waned. Lulled by the warmth and serenity, Davy paddled slowly.
Wildlife was abundant. Ducks, geese, and various other waterfowl thronged sections of the river. Fish constantly jumped. The croaking of frogs, the buzzing drone of insects, and the musical chirping of birds seldom ceased. From time to time the snarl of a cougar or the cough of a prowling bear punctuated the chorus.
The river itself meandered lazily. Snags and bars were common. Once, Davy spied a gigantic snake coiled on a jutting log. He had never seen the like. Over twelve feet long and as thick around as a man’s thigh, it was a peculiar copper hue. It detected them and, hissing loudly, glided smoothly into the water. Glad he had reloaded his guns earlier, Davy gripped a pistol, but the snake did not reappear.
The reptile appalled Flavius. Where there were snakes, alligators might lurk. And next to being tortured by Indians or drowning, he most dreaded being tom apart by a wild animal.
Flavius had been told that the marshy country around the Mississippi Delta swarmed with gators. How far north the alligator population thrived, he did not know. But suffice it to say, he regarded every shadow and untoward ripple with keen suspicion.
Twilight lent the river a majestic glow. Davy sought a spot to land, and it was not long before a small clearing hove into view. Motioning to Flavius, he brought their craft to shore broadside, then hopped out and carefully eased the canoe out of the water.
Flavius was so glad to be on solid ground, he had to resist a temptation to hunker and kiss the soil. “I’ll get the fire going,” he volunteered.
Davy unloaded their effects. By then half the sun had vanished below the horizon. With darkness pending, he deemed it prudent to rely on their supplies for supper rather than go off into the
woods after game.
Thanks to John Kayne, their friend from Peoria, they had enough coffee to last a good long while. Flavius filled their pot and soon had the brew steaming. His stomach rumbled like that of a bear fresh out of hibernation. To quiet it, he greedily munched on the pemmican given to them by Kayne’s sister.
Flavius had watched her make it. Susan had pounded deer meat into a powder, then mixed it with hot fat. Berries had been added for flavor. When the mess cooled, she cut it into pieces for ease of packing.
Pemmican was on the tough side and not exactly tasty, even with the berries, but it could keep indefinitely. A little could keep a man alive for many days.
Davy found a log close to the clearing and dragged it near the fire. Propped against it, he quietly chewed as the day’s tension drained away. “Still have regrets?” he asked.
“No,” Flavius fibbed. To change the subject, he said, “I hope to heaven we don’t tangle with any more hostiles. How many tribes live along the Mississippi, anyhow?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Davy confessed. “I think the ones who jumped us today were the Illinois tribe, but I could be wrong. Farther south live the Missouria and the Quapaw. South of them are the Chickasaws, the Choctaws, and a whole passel of others that the whites know as much about as a frog does about bed sheets.”
The news was not comforting. Flavius tilted his tin cup and savored a sip. “In other words, we’ll have to be on our guard every minute until we reach St. Louis.”
“More or less.”
The Irishman’s casual attitude annoyed Flavius. He held his life too dear to be so nonchalant about possibly losing it. “Doesn’t anything ever bother you?” he inquired.
“Why trouble our heads about things we have no control over?” Davy responded. “We have to take each day as it comes.” The sage advice had been dispensed often by Davy’s father, who had lost his father to a marauding war party.
People living on the frontier learned early in life never to take anything for granted. A man never knew from one day to the next if he would be alive to greet the next dawn. Indians, fierce beasts, illness, and accidents made it highly unlikely that any frontiersman would live to a ripe old age.
Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 2
