Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4)

by David Robbins

  Fitzgerald snickered. “I’ll never tell,” he said, ushering them toward his camp.

  Flavius was uneasy. “Tell me, Mr. Fitzgerald—”

  “Call me Tom, boy,” the trapper interrupted. “Or Hoodoo Tom, if you want. That’s what the mountaineers were partial to callin’ me, the skunks.”

  Hoodoo meant “crazy.” Flavius was having serious reservations. “We don’t mean to be any bother, Tom. Maybe we should be on our way.”

  “And let all this meat go to waste?” Hoodoo Tom said, indicating the strips and a butchered deer lying in the shadows. “That’d be a shame. What do you say, Irish?”

  Davy wondered how the man had guessed. “Bring on the victuals.”

  “Hallelujah! I’ll fetch the fine china.” Hoodoo Tom dashed into the woods, scampering from tree to tree like a squirrel gone amok.

  When the man was beyond earshot, Flavius leaned toward Davy. “I’d rather we were on our way.”

  “Since when do you pass up food?”

  “I don’t trust this jasper.”

  Davy pointed at a fine Hawken rifle propped against a log. “He must trust us. He left his belongings here, didn’t he?” Sitting, he patted the grass. “Make yourself comfortable. The worst that can happen is he’ll talk us to death.”

  Soon their host jogged up bearing three flat pieces of bark. “Our china!” he said, passing them out. “Don’t break the dishes or George will have a fit.”

  Davy joined the trapper in rowdy mirth, but Flavius merely smiled to be polite. He didn’t like how Hoodoo Tom’s oversize eye always seemed to be staring at him, even when the man was facing Davy.

  “Are you boys bound for St. Louis too?” the trapper inquired while spearing a piece of meat with his Green River knife and sliding it onto a makeshift plate.

  “Yep,” Davy said, and explained briefly. “You’re the first white man we’ve come across since we struck the river.”

  “Really?” Hoodoo Tom bit off a mouthful of dripping venison and moaned in ecstasy. “Nothin’ like whitetail. Not even buffler can shine with this.” Chewing lustily, he commented, “Keelboats and mackinaws go up and down the Mississippi all the time. A few steamboats have tried it also, I hear. You’re bound to run into one, sooner or later.”

  “Seen any big animals?” Flavius asked, recollecting the monster he had glimpsed the night before.

  Hoodoo Tom grinned. “Boy, if I was to tell you about some of the critters I’ve come across, you’d brand me a liar. Why, once up to the geyser country, I saw me a—”

  “Geysers?” Flavius cut in.

  The trapper nodded while taking another hearty bite. “Seen ’em with my own eyes, I did. Spouts of hot water shootin’ out of holes in the ground. Hundreds of feet high they go.” He paused. “And there are pools of mud that bubble like stew in a pot and stink to high heaven. Mounds of dirt that look like beehives. Bears as big as elephants. And a lot more, besides.”

  Flavius could not help but chuckle. “Did you happen to see horses with wings and wolves that can sing?”

  “Scoff if you like, youngster,” Hoodoo Tom said. “But I know what I saw. John Colter told me about the place. Everyone knows that his word is his bond.”

  Colter’s name was familiar to Davy. A famous frontiersman who had been on the Lewis and Clark expedition, Colter had visited parts of the country never set foot in by other whites.

  “Go there yourself if you don’t believe George and me,” Hoodoo Tom was saying to Flavius. “You’ll be eatin’ crow, if’n you do.”

  Flavius realized that he had hurt the old-timer’s feelings. To make amends, he remarked, “I’m not calling you a liar, friend. It’s just that some folks like to tell tall tales for the fun of it, and you might be one of them.”

  Davy’s mouth quirked upward. Flavius was referring to him, among others. The backwoodsmen of west Tennessee took great pride in their ability to spin yarns and boast. Under the influence of horns of liquor, informal matches were often held to determine which of them could outdo the other. And while he didn’t like to brag, he was the generally acknowledged champion.

  “I was speakin’ with a straight tongue, young feller,” Hoodoo Tom told Flavius.

  Since it was plain the man was still peeved, Davy changed the subject. “Come across much Indian sign hereabouts?”

  “Not for a couple of days,” Hoodoo Tom said. “How about you? Any sign of a pack of Rees?”

  The Rees were also known as Arikaras. A powerful tribe notorious for their dislike of whites, they dwelled in villages far up the Missouri River. Not the Mississippi. Davy brought that up, adding, “You have about as much chance of meeting up with a Ree here as you would a Comanche.”

  An enigmatic twinkle lit Hoodoo Tom’s left eye. “I suppose,” was all he said.

  They finished their meal in silence. The trapper poured each of them a cup of coffee, filled his own battered tin cup, then sank back against the log with a sigh of contentment. “I’m about down to the last of my supplies,” he revealed. “Another day or so and I’ll be livin’ off the land.”

  An idea occurred to Davy. “We have plenty, and we’d be glad to share. Since we’re all heading for St. Louis, why not stick together? There’s strength in numbers.”

  Flavius had his cup in front of his face or they would have seen his frown. Davy was entirely too friendly and generous, to his way of thinking. Inviting a stranger to join them was tantamount to asking for trouble. Hadn’t Davy learned his lesson with Grizwald and Zeist?

  Hoodoo Tom scratched his chin. “Hmmmmm. Your notion has merit, hoss. I’d hate for anything to happen to my plews after all I went through to get ’em.”

  Davy checked the vicinity. “Did you cache them somewhere?”

  “I’ll show you in a bit,” Hoodoo Tom said. “First let’s polish off this pot.”

  So they did, the trapper regaling them with stories of his sundry escapades in the Rockies, where the beaver were “as thick as fleas on a coon dog,” where in winter it got so cold that a man’s breath “plumb froze the moment he exhaled,” and where the wind “howled constantly like a wolf with its paw caught in a trap,” and was “enough to drive a man clear out of his mind.”

  When the coffee was gone, Hoodoo Tom rose stiffly and beckoned. Walking to a patch of high weeds growing rank along the river, he parted them. Hidden from prying eyes was a dugout twice as long as the canoe being used by Davy and Flavius. Two large bales of prime beaver hides occupied the bow; another had been placed at the stern. Next to it was a unique pack consisting of wolf hides stretched over a wooden frame. The top had been lashed tight with cord.

  Hoodoo Tom bent to pat the craft. “Carved this my own self,” he declared proudly. “Took me practically a week, workin’ from before sunup until damn near midnight each and every day.”

  Davy had to admit the old-timer had done an outstanding job, worthy of a Creek Indian. “What happened to your packhorses?” he inquired.

  The trapper glanced at him. “Who said I had any?”

  “You had to tote these hides to the Mississippi somehow,” Davy said. Now that he thought about it, it was strange that Hoodoo Tom had gone to so much bother when it would have been infinitely easier to float the hides down the Missouri River to its confluence with the Mississippi just a few miles above St. Louis.

  Flavius hunkered to run his hand over the bale in the stern. The soft beaver fur tickled his palm. Innocently, he reached out to touch the wolf-hide pack.

  “Don’t you dare!” Hoodoo Tom snapped, swatting Flavius’s arm aside. “That there contains my treasures. Ain’t no one allowed to look inside except me.”

  Miffed, Flavius said, “I wasn’t trying to take a peek.” He rubbed his sore wrist and stepped back, grousing, “What do you have in there, anyway? Gold?”

  The trapper squatted and embraced the pack as a man might a lover. “That’s none of your business, hoss. Just don’t let me catch you near it or George and me will skin you alive.” His hand dri
fted to the hilt of his knife.

  Davy moved between them, intent on being peacemaker. But as he did, three canoes flowed into sight around the bend hundreds of yards to the north. All three were filled with painted warriors bristling with weapons.

  Chapter Four

  “The Rees!” Hoodoo Tom gasped. “George and me are goners if they get their hands on us!” Whirling, he bolted for his camp.

  Davy Crockett and Flavius Harris ducked. As yet, the warriors were unaware of their presence. Their canoe and Tom’s dugout were close among the reeds, and the smoke from the trapper’s fire had dwindled to barely noticeable wisps.

  “Can they really be Arikaras?” Flavius whispered. He was no Indian expert, but from what he’d gleaned on their travels, the Rees had never, ever been this far from the tribe’s homeland before. Which was just as well, because the Arikaras despised whites.

  Word had it that their hatred stemmed from an incident in which a party of trappers sided with a band of Nadowessioux, or Sioux, as some called them, in a dispute with an Arikara band.

  The two tribes had long been bitter enemies. By not remaining neutral, those trappers had imperiled every white man who ventured into the wilderness after them, for the Rees had vowed that whites would no longer be welcome in their land. And it just so happened that the Missouri River, the gateway to the Rockies, passed smack dab through the middle of their territory.

  A muted clank brought Flavius’s recollection to an end. Hoodoo Tom, bearing his pack, coffeepot, and cups, was racing for his dugout. He made no effort to hide, so it was no surprise that one of the Ree warriors suddenly pointed and shouted. All three craft shot forward.

  “Damn!” Davy declared. The fat was in the fire now. Dashing to the canoe, he climbed in, waited for Flavius to join him, and shoved off. A few strokes swept them into the current. “Paddle for your life!” he yelled.

  Flavius needed no encouragement. The Arikaras were paddling like men possessed. Hatred distorted every face. A few sent arrows winging in their direction, but the range, as yet, was too great.

  Hoodoo Tom had cleared the reeds and was propelling his dugout southward with surprising agility and speed. The bow of his craft nipped at the stem of theirs. He talked excitedly—to himself.

  Flavius cocked an ear, but he could not hear what the addle-pated trapper was saying.

  Davy was anxious to gain the next turn. Once around it, they would temporarily be safe from stray shafts. Eluding the Rees, though, posed a thornier problem. On open water it was impossible. “Stay close to shore!” he advised their newfound companion.

  War whoops resounded off the walls of vegetation lining both banks. The Arikaras were bunched together, their sleek canoes knifing through the water with the grace of winsome swans.

  The bend loomed. Davy leaned into his strokes, throwing all the power in his brawny body into every one. Hopefully, he scanned the next stretch of river. Cattails and low trees bordered it, offering no safe haven. “Keep at it!” he urged.

  Flavius had broken out in a sweat and was breathing as heavily as a bellows. Over his shoulder he saw the old trapper keeping pace, a lopsided grin curling his features. It was almost as if Hoodoo Tom were enjoying himself. Crazy as a coot, Flavius thought.

  Without warning, a snag appeared. Davy tried to steer wide but felt grating contact. The canoe tilted upward, its momentum carrying it up and over the submerged tree. For tense seconds he feared the collision would open a gaping hole in the keel, but the canoe made it over, righting itself with a splash that drenched him.

  Flavius nearly fell out. Grabbing a gunwale, he clung on and hollered a warning to Hoodoo Tom. “Look out!”

  The mountaineer never slowed. Wearing his inane grin, he powered his dugout at full speed, cackling with glee when it careened over the obstruction.

  Davy was more alert for obstacles from then on. But despite his vigilance, repeatedly they came on snags so unexpectedly that there was little he could do other than pray their canoe stayed intact.

  For more than ten minutes the chase continued, with the Rees neither gaining nor losing ground. Davy’s shoulders began to ache. At that pace, it would not be long before creeping fatigue slowed them to a crawl, with disastrous results.

  The fourth or fifth bend hove into sight. A check showed that the Rees had adopted a regular, relaxed rhythm. They knew that they would overtake the smaller canoes eventually and were not about to exhaust themselves in the effort.

  Davy’s paddle sliced smoothly into the water. Past the turn was a short straight section, then another, sharper bend. Between the two lay the mouth of a narrow creek, one of hundreds that fed into the mighty river.

  “Follow us!” Davy cried to Hoodoo Tom, and steered into the creek, past high cattails and lush grass. Hugging the steep north bank, which was shrouded in shadow, he brought the canoe to a stop and tucked at the waist.

  Flavius did not need to be told what they were up to. Mimicking his friend, he shifted to see that the trapper had also caught on.

  Paddles splashed beyond the mouth. Bronzed figures flashed past. Flavius counted five in each canoe, and was horrified to hear Hoodoo Tom laugh lightly. The fool would give them away if he wasn’t careful!

  Davy did not share the trapper’s elation. They had earned a fleeting reprieve. Once past the next bend, the Arikaras were bound to realize that they had been duped, and backtrack. In order for his plan to succeed, he must now pursue the warriors as ardently as they had pursued him.

  “Back into the Mississippi,” Davy whispered, and dipped his paddle.

  Experience had taught Flavius not to question the Irishman at times like this. Diligently, he helped bring their canoe around and barrel it through the reeds.

  Turning the bow downstream, Davy hurtled after the war party. The three canoes had slowed to a turtle’s crawl twenty yards from the bend. At least one warrior in each had stood to scour the waterway.

  Davy made straight for them. It was madness, but sometimes only a mad act would suffice. The Rees were preoccupied with the river; not one had looked behind them.

  The three canoes were spaced about two yards apart, barely enough space for what Davy had in mind. Facing Flavius and Hoodoo Tom, he pantomimed his intention. They nodded, the trapper snickering in anticipation.

  Slowing dramatically, Davy slanted between the center canoe and the one on the left. Both were now virtually dead in the water. Many of the warriors were talking at once, creating quite a racket. Which suited Davy perfectly.

  As his canoe glided into the gap, Davy shoved his paddle against the inner gunwale of the one on the left. The Ree craft tilted sharply. Some cried out. Two who were on their feet lost their balance, flailing their arms as they fell. Neither could stop his plunge. Their combined weight was sufficient to upend their canoe.

  Flavius, meanwhile, gripped the stem of the center canoe and wrenched with all his might. Only one man was standing, and he pitched sideways, yelping. The warrior nearest the stern shifted, bringing up a war club. As the blow descended, the canoe went over, spilling all five warriors into the water.

  Flavius swatted an out-flung arm. Another warrior lunged, seeking to grasp their canoe, earning only a thump on the head. Then they were in the clear, moving rapidly, going faster with each heartbeat. Strident shouts and shaken fists testified to their success.

  Davy looked for Hoodoo Tom. To his dismay, the trapper had not bothered to overturn the third craft. Instead, he had drawn his Green River knife and slashed at each warrior as he sailed by.

  Two were slumped over, their throats spurting. A third had a hand pressed to his scarlet side. The fourth’s left hand was nearly severed. And the last man had taken a thrust in the chest.

  Hoodoo Tom roared with mirth as he paddled out of their reach. “That’ll teach you, you filthy red vermin! Next time stay on the Missouri, where you belong!”

  Fury gushed in Davy. By wreaking bloody havoc, the trapper had ensured the Rees would never give up. As soon as the
war party tended their wounded, they would strike out in pursuit.

  With that in mind, Davy did not stop again until twilight claimed the river country. A barren finger of land offering an unobstructed view was the site he selected for their camp. All afternoon he had simmered, so no sooner was he on solid ground than he stormed over to the mountaineer.

  “What got into you earlier? Why did you tear into those Arikaras instead of doing as I wanted?”

  Hoodoo Tom’s left eyebrow arched. “Who are you to tell me what to do? Those varmints have been doggin’ my heels for weeks now. I can’t wait to be shed of the whole bunch.”

  “Why have they been after you for so long?” Davy bluntly asked.

  The trapper shrugged. “My hide is white, ain’t it? Rees don’t need more reason than that.”

  Davy was skeptical. Yes, the Arikaras went after every white man they saw. But none had ever traveled so far afield before. What had the trapper done to garner such fanatical spite?

  “They’re bound to give up, in time,” Hoodoo Tom said. “Not even those bloodthirsty butchers would dare get too close to St. Louis.”

  Flavius lived for that day. The pearl of the frontier, St. Louis boasted more taverns, saloons, and grog shops per square mile than any city except New Orleans. His first order of business would be to gorge himself on cornpone, johnnycakes, and ale. If he couldn’t find cornpone, a huge pot of baked beans would do, maybe with a dozen hot biscuits as an added treat.

  Stomach gurgling, Flavius sought wood for the fire. He kept his rifle handy in case game strayed by, but none did. Pemmican and jerked deer meat had to suffice. “I sure do miss Matilda’s potpie,” he commented.

  Davy had more than food on his mind. He was debating whether to press on or wait for daylight. Navigating the river in the dark was a risky proposition. Normally, few attempted it. But the Rees just might be mad enough to try. He voiced his concern.

  “Don’t fret,” Hoodoo Tom said confidently. “The Arikaras never fight at night. Most Injuns don’t. Superstitious bunk, mostly.”

  “Even so, we’ll take turns keeping watch,” Davy said.