Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4)

by David Robbins

  The evening was uneventful. An inky mantle claimed the woodland, luring nocturnal predators from their dens. Howls and snarls joined in savage cacophony, without end.

  Flavius reclined on his side, stuck a finger in his ear, and was asleep within moments. He had the last shift, so he was not awakened until two in the morning. A stiff northwesterly breeze chilled him as he stretched and yawned. “Anything?”

  “It’s been as quiet as church when the parson asks us to pray,” Davy said, stifling a yawn of his own. “I heard a big cat in the trees yonder, but its kept its distance.”

  Flavius turned to add a branch to the low flames. None were left. “I should have gathered more,” he said to himself.

  “Want me to fetch a load?” Davy volunteered.

  “I will,” Flavius said, disguising his trepidation at having to traipse into the stygian forest. Truth was, he’d rather eat nails.

  His boots made little sound on the soft earth. Flavius paused often to look and listen. From the river came soft splashing. On the bank, bullfrogs croaked. Everywhere, crickets sang.

  Flavius remembered where he had seen a lot of dead limbs. Wending among the spectral trees, he placed each foot down with care. Rattlesnakes and water moccasins did most of their hunting at night. Copperheads might also be abroad.

  The cough of a cougar stopped Flavius dead in his tracks. It was much too close. Flattening against a trunk, he probed the murky realm for a hint of its location. Painters, as some folks called them, attacked with blinding quickness, and in the dark they were virtually invisible.

  After a suitable interval, Flavius walked on. Above him the canopy of branches blotted out the stars. To his rear the growth hid the river. It was like being at the bottom of a black pit, only worse.

  He came to where he thought the dead limbs had been, but when he knelt and felt the ground, his fingers encountered grass. Positive he was close, he roved in an ever-widening circle. Soon it grew apparent that he was wide of the mark. Opting to return for a burning brand to light his way, Flavius headed for the river. Or where he believed the river to be.

  He hiked for a score of yards without reaching the shoreline. That couldn’t be, unless he had somehow got turned around. Stopping, he peered upward to take his bearings by the constellations, but the canopy combined with low clouds to foil him.

  “Damn it all,” Flavius muttered sourly. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Licking a finger, he tested the breeze, which had been blowing from the northwest when he woke up. It was not as strong in the woods. Strong enough, however, to guide him in the right direction.

  Two minutes of tramping blindly, of being scratched and poked by bushes and trees, of being snared by vines and roots, was enough to ball his stomach into a knot. He should have come on the Mississippi. Evidently the wind had shifted.

  Flavius was lost. Quelling rising panic, he pondered. It was doubtful he was out of earshot of the camp. A holler would wake up the others. Pride, though, silenced him. No frontiersman worthy of the name would ever own up to becoming lost. What would Davy think? Not to mention Hoodoo Tom Fitzgerald, who would never let him hear the end of it!

  Flavius pivoted on the ball of a foot, a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Dense vegetation hemmed him completely. And either the bullfrogs had fallen silent, or he was too far from the river to hear them.

  Gnawing on his lower lip, Flavius stepped to a maple tree. He leaned his rifle against the trunk and jumped straight up, snagging a limb. His joy on seeing a pinpoint of light was boundless. It was smaller than he remembered the fire as being, but that was easily explained. The fire had burned lower in his absence.

  Cheerfully, Flavius claimed his rifle and hurried toward the spot. Every so often he would hop up and down to verify that he had not strayed off track.

  As the minutes piled on top of one another, doubt crept over him. He could not possibly have gone this far from the river, he reflected. Something was wrong.

  Cautiously, Flavius edged on. The pinpoint of light grew. It was a fire, but it was set amid the trees. It was someone else’s camp.

  Indians! Flavius deduced, and halted. Whoever they were, they were bound to be unfriendly. Backing off, he retraced his steps until he came upon a clearing that he had not crossed earlier. At last he could read the stars.

  The Big Dipper indicated the location of the North Star, which, in turn, confirmed that Flavius was well to the northeast of where he should be. To reach the Mississippi, he must go due southwest.

  Flavius bent his steps accordingly. At the edge of the clearing he drew up short, startled by rustling in the brush. Something, or someone, was in there. Leveling his rifle, Flavius sidled to the left, toward a patch of weeds as high as his chest.

  A figure flitted between trees, affording no more than a tantalizing glimpse of limbs and a breechclout. Flavius tried to take a bead, but the warrior was gone in the blink of an eye.

  Another form rose to the right. Metal glittered dully in the starlight. Rotating, Flavius centered on the man’s chest and would have fired if the apparition had not vanished.

  A feeling came over Flavius that he was being surrounded. He had to get out of there while he still could. Facing due west, he charged into the growth, heedless of the limbs that tore at his face, his eyes.

  Someone called out in a tongue Flavius had never heard before. It must have been a signal, because more shapes heaved up out of the ground. Bounding like bloodhounds, they converged.

  Since all pretenses at stealth had been dropped, Flavius broke into a run and cut to the right. Leaves slashed his cheek. The tip of a limb nearly gouged his eye out. Stung, bleeding, he stumbled over a small log.

  As Flavius regained his balance, a vision solidified out of the night. It was a tall, stately woman in an exquisite buckskin dress decorated with hundreds of beads in many colors. Ivory teeth shone in a broad smile.

  Dazzled, Flavius halted. It couldn’t be another war party, not with women along. Or could it? Hadn’t he heard tell that among some tribes, women did participate in raids?

  “I’m a friend,” he blurted, lowering his muzzle to prove it.

  A tree limb to his right creaked. Flavius glimpsed a tawny outline as he turned. Distracted, he had no idea someone had snuck up on him until bands of iron encircled his chest and he was hurled bodily to the earth.

  They wanted him alive!

  Fear lent Flavius the willpower needed to lash out, to kick his assailant in the stomach and send the warrior rolling. Shoving onto his knees, he wedged his rifle to his shoulder, only to have it knocked from his numb fingers by a heavy human battering ram who caught him squarely in the back.

  His spine alive with pain, Flavius thudded onto his stomach. A foot slammed onto his lower back. Fingers made of stone seized his wrists.

  Flavius had endured enough. “Let go of me!” he fumed, struggling to free himself. There were too many. Four had him pinned. Four more, including the woman, watched. “I don’t mean any harm!” he declared, but he might as well have been speaking Greek.

  A babble of voices presaged the arrival of a warrior bearing a torch. The man held it close to Flavius so the Indians could see his face. It worked both ways, the glow enabling Flavius to behold the handsome features and rippling muscles of his captors. They were unlike those of any Indians he had ever met.

  “Please, you’ve got to believe me!” he tried one more time.

  The Indians consulted. After much gesturing and heated debate, one pointed eastward. Flavius was lifted to his feet and stripped of his weapons. Some of the Indians assumed a single file in front of him; others did so behind. Stout warriors with chests as big around as barrels held on to his elbows and he was ushered from the clearing.

  Flavius was in a quandary. To resist would be pointless. Yet he had to do something. They were taking him eastward, farther from the river. And farther from Davy.

  Two additional torches had been lit. The illumination permitted the party to hold to a brisk
pace.

  Many an inquisitive glance was cast at Flavius, giving him the impression that his captors had not encountered many white men. That could work in his favor. The less contact they’d had, the less likely they were to make worm food of him on general principle.

  They were relying on a narrow trail worn smooth by the passage of many feet over many years. Thick undergrowth walled the path on both sides. It occurred to Flavius that unless a person knew the path was there, they could pass within a few feet of it and not be the wiser. Was that by design?

  Gradually, the eastern sky brightened. A pink streak heralded a new day. The torches were extinguished.

  Flavius happened to be staring at the stately woman when she looked over her shoulder. “Where are you taking me?” he asked politely. “Who are you people?”

  She gestured, signifying she did not comprehend.

  The warriors became agitated when a sliver of gold crowned the eastern horizon. They moved twice as fast, apparently anxious to reach their destination before sunrise.

  Flavius grew depressed. Even if Davy were to track him, it would take half a day. And another half a day for the trek back to the Mississippi.

  That was more than enough time for the Arikaras to catch up. And it was all his fault. If he had the brains God gave a turnip, he would have yelled the moment he realized he was lost. He’d botched things badly this time around.

  Despondent, Flavius plodded on through thinning foliage to the crest of a hill, one of half a dozen that formed a natural barrier around a lush valley watered by a glistening stream.

  Out in the center of the valley were three gigantic knolls, almost hills in their own right. Or so Flavius thought until he noted their precise configurations, and people moving up and down them. One of the mounds was conical, one a rectangle, and the third bore the shape of a giant bird in flight.

  Dumbfounded, Flavius let himself be hustled down the slope. In Tennessee and elsewhere were mounds just like these. No one knew who had built them, or why. Rumor had it that the Indians responsible had long since been wiped out. Obviously, that was not quite the case.

  In the bright light of dawn, Flavius verified his first impression. His captors were remarkably unlike any Indians he knew of. The men were endowed with exceptional builds; the women were magnificently attractive. None, though, compared to a trio of bizarre figures moving from the conical mound to greet them.

  They were men with antlers.

  Chapter Five

  Davy Crockett knew that something was terribly amiss when he opened his eyes to find the sun roosting on the rim of the world. Flavius was supposed to have awakened him well before sunrise.

  Sitting up, Davy saw that the fire had died. The charred coals were cold to the touch, proof it had gone out hours ago. Flavius was too skittish of the dark to ever let that happen.

  Hoodoo Tom snored lightly, blissfully unaware of the new development. Davy let the man sleep and rose to search the ground. He found where his friend had gone into the woods after more wood for the fire.

  Cupping a hand to his mouth, Davy was about to shout when common sense overrode the impulse. If hostiles were abroad, shouting would draw them like a magnet.

  Davy dashed to the camp and bent to shake Hoodoo Tom’s shoulder. The man had to be the heaviest sleeper this side of the Mississippi. Except for a few grunts and snorts, the trapper slept on.

  “Wake up, damn it!” Davy said. “Time’s a-wasting. Those Rees will be along directly, and I don’t want to be anywhere near here when they show.”

  At the mention of the Arikaras, Hoodoo Tom’s eyelids snapped wide. “What’s the fuss?” he asked.

  Davy explained while placing their gear into the canoe. He concluded with, “I’m going after him. You’re welcome to stay, or you can push on by your lonesome.”

  Hoodoo Tom slowly rose, grimacing as he stretched. “Tarnation! These old bones sure do creak in the mornin’!” Scratching his chin, he said, “I reckon I’ll tag along with you, Tennessee. I’ve sort of taken a shine to your fat friend. And besides, you helped me against the stinkin’ Rees.”

  “I’ll be moving fast,” Davy remarked.

  “So? Don’t let my gray hairs fool you, pup. I’ll keep up. Just you watch.”

  Gripping the bow of the canoe, Davy said, “Give me a hand. We’ll pull both into the trees. With any luck, if the Rees do catch up, they’ll go right on by.”

  After both craft were concealed, Davy chopped a small leafy branch off a tree and obliterated the drag marks as best he could. The dugout was considerably heavier than the canoe, and no amount of swishing would erase the gouge in the soil. Gathering armfuls of leaves, he covered the mark from end to end, adding random stones and limbs to keep the leaves from blowing away. When he was done, he was satisfied the site would pass scrutiny from out on the river. A close inspection, though, would betray his handiwork. “It’s the best I can do,” he commented.

  “Not bad, hoss,” Hoodoo Tom said. “Now what say we go find your fat friend?”

  “Don’t call him that.”

  “What? Fat? Well, he is, ain’t he?”

  “He’s heavier than most, but most of it is muscle,” Davy said, hefting Liz as he entered the trees.

  The trapper chuckled. “If’n you say so, young coon. I won’t argue. But it seems to me that sayin’ your pard is mostly muscle is a lot like sayin’ a cow is mostly brains. And George agrees.”

  Davy held his temper. He had to remember that the man was not quite right in the head. When Davy had asked why he insisted on bringing the pack made from wolf skin, the old trapper had winked at him while adjusting the straps, and said, “I don’t want any thievin’ redskins to steal my treasures. Where I go, they go. When I die, I want ’em buried with me so I can fondle ’em in my grave.”

  Flavius had left a trail that any twelve-year-old from back home could follow. Davy moved swiftly. It was soon apparent that Flavius had grown lost and wandered in circles. Then Davy came to where his friend had made a beeline to the northeast. Flavius’s long stride and steady gait were ample evidence that he had thought he was going in the right direction.

  Davy sighed. Only once in his whole life had he ever been lost, and that when he was barely old enough to shave. His sense of direction had not failed him since. Others, though, were not so fortunate. Many a fellow frontiersman had felt harrowing fear at being adrift in the deep woods at one time or another.

  Flavius had a knack for getting lost more often than most. Davy had taught him how to read the night sky, and how to tell the four points of the compass by day. He had also made it plain that certain wood lore taken for granted as true was not.

  For instance, moss did not always grow on the north side of trees. It grew on the shadiest, dankest side, and if that happened to be the east, west, or south, then that was where the moss grew.

  Another fallacy was that the wind always blew from the west. Generally, it did, but it could switch to come from any direction at any time.

  Flavius had shown great improvement recently. It was mildly annoying that now, of all times, he should get lost again.

  Davy’s annoyance changed to outright alarm in a small clearing where scuffle marks revealed his friend had been taken prisoner by Indians. A war party, Davy reckoned, until he discovered the moccasin prints of two women.

  Hoodoo Tom studied them as well. “Mighty strange, hoss,” he said. “No two tribes fashion their footwear exactly alike. I ain’t never seen this style before, and I know most every kind there is.” Brow furrowed, he gazed into the forest. “I wonder. Could those wild tales be true?”

  “What tales?”

  “Stories about the Old Ones, a tribe that used to call this region their own. Other Injuns came along and wiped ’em out. Or so most believe. But a few claim the tribe is still here, hidin’ far back where no whites have ever gone.”

  “Has anyone actually seen them?”

  “Two or three, as I recollect. About the same as have seen th
e Thunderbirds.”

  Davy had turned to hurry along the narrow trail. He paused. “The what?”

  Hoodoo Tom peered skyward. “Giant birds, son. As big as a horse. Back in the old days they were a holy terror, killin’ Injuns and whites alike. I talked to a ’breed once who swore some are still around. The piasas, he called ’em.” He wagged a finger westward. “In fact, on the river, not far from here, is a cliff where the Old Ones painted a likeness of one of these birds. The Sioux call ’em Thunderbirds.”

  Birds as big as horses? Davy shook his head and began to jog.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” the trapper said, keeping up. “And I’d think it was nonsense, too, if not for the time I found a dead bull buffalo out on the prairie. Something had ripped that critter to shreds, tearin’ off huge chunks of flesh. At first I thought wolves were to blame. Then I saw bird tracks, prints bigger than those of the buffalo.”

  “You’re saying that one of these Thunderbirds killed a full-grown bull?”

  “What else could it have been?” Hoodoo Tom said. “You should’ve seen the tracks! They were like an eagle’s or hawk’s, only ten times larger. Gave me goose bumps just to look at ’em.”

  A tall tale, if ever Davy had heard one. One eye on the trail, he forged eastward.

  Hoodoo Tom was in a talkative mood. “That ’breed told me a lot about the Old Ones. How they used to be on friendly terms with the piasas, until one day some other Injuns attacked their village. After the battle, the ground was covered with the dead and dyin’. And that’s when the piasas came. They ate the flesh and took a likin’ to it. Ever after, the Thunderbirds have fed on us like we feed on rabbits.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I swear by the Bible! The ’breed also told me that the name, piasa, comes from the Old Ones themselves. It means ‘The bird that eats people,’ or some such.”

  Davy did not encourage him by asking any more questions. The legend was interesting, but it was no more than that. He’d heard plenty of similar whoppers over the years, from reports of demons dwelling underground to fanciful accounts of hairy manlike beasts over seven feet tall roaming helter-skelter all over creation. Any sensible person took the reports with a grain of salt.