Davy hiked for hundreds of yards without mishap. He had not realized how far he ran the night before, and seeing how rugged the land was in the full light of day, he marveled that he had not broken a leg, or worse.
His face grew hot. A burning sensation in his chest brought him to a stop. Alarmed, he leaned against a maple and touched a hand to his brow. Daily he dreaded that he would suffer another bout of the mysterious illness that had laid him low several times, once almost proving fatal.
No one could tell him what it was. None of the doctors he went to had been able to pinpoint the cause. Prolonged exertion brought it on, which was why he made a point of getting enough rest, and always eating enough.
But he had not slept last night. And his last meal had been two days ago.
Tensely, Davy waited. The first symptoms were always fever and weakness in his legs, weakness that spread rapidly throughout his body, rendering him helpless, so feeble he could barely lift a finger.
This time, fate spared him. His brow cooled. He could breathe again.
In a crouch, Davy moved on, veering to the south slope of the hill. It was choked with blackberry bushes. To reach the bottom he had to negotiate a thorny maze.
The screech of a blue jay brought him to his belly, and he did not go on until he was sure that the jay had not squawked at roving Old Ones.
The morning sun lent the valley a pristine quality that belied the horror spawned by darkness. Davy climbed into an oak. Here and there Old Ones moved about the village. Most were missing, perhaps asleep after their all-night search.
Descending, Davy worked his way along the tree line to more open, broken country. He was watching the mounds, and almost committed a serious blunder. Voices stopped him just as he stepped from cover. Quickly, he ducked behind a patch of weeds.
Sixty feet away were eight Old Ones. A husky warrior was on one knee, examining the ground. At a gesture from him, the war party filed southward at a brisk jog, the tracker well in the lead.
On hands and knees Davy advanced to the same spot. Their feet had tramped on the spoor they followed, but Davy found a partial print that spurred him into flying after them.
No two people made identical tracks. Footprints were as unique as signatures. And Davy knew the one he had found as well as he knew the back of his hand. Sometime during the night, Flavius had escaped! The Old Ones were in pursuit.
Being in the open bothered him. Davy constantly checked the sky for sign of the Thunderbird. Once, a large speck appeared and his heart skipped a beat. The speck was only an eagle, though.
Stands of trees were broken by meadows and gullies. The Old Ones forged silently on, pausing every so often for the tracker to examine the sign. A mile from the village the trail bore to the right.
Davy had figured it would, eventually. His friend was making for the Mississippi. Flavius enjoyed a substantial lead on the Old Ones, but now they picked up the pace, moving three times as fast as Flavius ever could. Davy was hard-pressed to keep up.
The broken country gave way to lowland, which in turn was bordered by marshy tracts that fringed the river. Stretches of shallow water had to be waded. Bogs and deep holes had to be avoided, along with scores of slithering snakes.
Judging by how adroitly the Old Ones wended through the marsh, they had been here before. All Davy had to do was walk where they walked, skirt whatever they skirted, and he was safe.
His main worry was that Flavius, who had covered the same ground in the gloom of night, might not have fared as well.
~*~
Little did Davy know that his concern was justified.
At that moment, Flavius Harris was up to his chest in muck. Thick, clinging mud held him in a reeking vise that he could not, for the life of him, break.
Flavius stared forlornly at a low limb, just out of reach. Everything had been going so well until he blundered into the bog. In the dark, covered as it was with moss and tufts of grass, he had mistaken it for solid ground. Two steps was all it had taken to sink to the waist. Twisting, he had tried to regain the bank, but he could barely move his legs.
Flavius had sunk another four inches between then and daylight. Thankfully, he had not gone under any farther. Neither could he reach the limb, although he attempted over and over to snag it with his rifle.
Now Flavius licked his dry lips and squinted at the blazing sun. Exhaustion nipped at him. Drowsiness plagued him. His only consolation was that he had given the Illini the slip.
Plants growing along the edge of the bog rustled. A blunt brown head emerged, a snake whose red forked tongue darted in and out.
Flavius trained his rifle on it. This was the fourth or fifth he’d seen, but the others had not come so close. As the serpent slid forward, he cocked Matilda’s trigger. Whether the reptile was poisonous or not, he had no idea. It was a snake. That was enough.
The thing glided out onto the bog. Slitted orbs regarded him coldly. Maybe it thought he was a small animal, since most of his body was under the muck. He sighted on the head.
“Go away!”
At the sound of his voice, the serpent coiled.
“Shoo!” Flavius said. “Scat, or so help me, you’re dead!” The other rifle, the one he had taken from the great lodge, lay on the bank six feet away, where he had thrown it after becoming stuck.
Tongue flicking, the snake sidled nearer.
“Suit yourself, damn you,” Flavius said, and stroked the trigger. The retort rolled off across the marsh, startling storks into flight.
~*~
Well to the east, Davy Crockett stiffened. That had to be Flavius. The Old Ones were bound to have heard, and would go even faster. He broke into a run.
~*~
Flopped onto its back, the snake twisted and churned in the grip of death throes. Over five feet in length, its slender body bore speckled scales.
Five feet. Flavius gazed at the low branch, gauging the distance. Maybe. Just maybe.
Gingerly, dreading he would miss, he chucked his rifle to the bank beside the other one. Then he slid the strap to his possibles bag off his chest and shoulder.
The strap was about three feet long from the top of the bag to its end. Alone, it was not long enough to reach the branch. But what if he added another two feet or so of makeshift rope?
Flavius flipped the bag at the snake. Several tries later, he aligned it just right and slowly dragged the dead reptile toward him. Skin crawling, Flavius picked the serpent up. Its skin was silken smooth. Squeezing the jaws apart revealed fangs typical of vipers.
Swallowing, Flavius looped the body of the snake around the end of the strap to his bag. Gripping the viper below the head and tail, he swung his arm from side to side, gaining momentum, the leather bag rising higher and higher.
On the apex of a swing, Flavius angled the bag at the tree limb. It caught, drooping over the far side. Afraid it would slip off, he pulled with both hands. Bit by bit, the branch bent toward him, its leaves shaking.
Flavius froze when the bag started to slide. Once it was still, he tugged gently. The limb angled lower, but it was not yet close enough.
“Just a little farther,” Flavius breathed. “Don’t fail me now!”
His body quivering, Flavius transferred his right hand from the snake to the strap, then his left. The serpent plopped next to him. Using both arms, he brought the branch nearer. Thrusting against the muck, he grabbed the end and held on.
Would the limb hold? Flavius inched his hand higher. Tensing his shoulder, he cautiously eased his body toward solid footing. The branch creaked but did not break. Slipping the possibles bag over his shoulder, he wrapped his other hand around the limb.
Painstakingly, Flavius hiked himself higher while pulling landward. The muck clung to him like a glove. Each leg seemed to be encased in iron. He had to pull on one, then the other, alternating so the weight of both combined would not put undue stress on the branch.
The bank was tantalizingly close. Flavius flipped the possibles bag onto
it. Muck held him from the knees down, but its grip was weakening.
“Come on!” Flavius spurred himself. He tried not to think of the consequences should the limb snap.
Another few inches were gained. Flavius probed with his right foot and found firm purchase. Taking a gamble, he threw himself at the bank. The muck encasing his left leg was like solid stone. It held on, refusing to give. For awful moments he teetered. Gravity won, and Flavius pitched onto his face, spongy grass breaking his fall.
“Hallelujah!” Flavius whooped.
In his opinion he’d earned a rest, so for a spell he lay there, his head pillowed by an arm. But the random thought that another viper might come along was sufficient to counter his lethargy.
Sitting up, Flavius took stock. His buckskins were a muddy mess, the four pistols caked and useless, his knife coated thick. The ammo pouch and powder horn were dry, but only because he had knotted their straps so they were above the mud shortly after he’d stumbled into it.
Palming a convenient stick, Flavius scraped at the muck on his right leg. A dip in clean water was in order as soon as he quit the bogs.
To the west a quarter of a mile, through a line of trees, glimmered the surface of the broad Mississippi.
Flavius would be there before too long. He pried mud off his moccasins and stood. Deeper in the marsh, the growth crackled to the passage of an animal in a hurry. Flavius rose on the tips of his toes and saw several figures wading through cattails.
There was not another moment to lose. Tossing the stick, a rifle in each hand, Flavius dashed over the bank. He sloshed through an ankle-deep, insect-infested pool. Dragonflies buzzed his head. Butterflies flitted over flowers.
The Old Ones had caught up. Flavius had tried to conceal his trail, but he was not as skilled in that regard as his Irish friend.
Hugging cover, avoiding bogs and snakes, Flavius came to a particularly large pool. Twenty-five feet across, the surface was choked by lilies. Frogs lined its shore.
Nervously, Flavius waded in. A lily pad on his left stirred as something moved underneath. “Another danged serpent,” he muttered. Or was it a lot worse? Were there gators in that neck of the woods?
Every step tested Flavius’s courage. When his foot slipped on mud, he backpedaled, terrified of being sucked under. Turning wide of the spot, he pushed lilies aside with the stock of the spare rifle. A green frog swam frantically away, rear legs pumping. A tadpole, or a small fish, dived deep.
Flavius was a few feet from the water’s edge when a mat of growth lining the shore bulged upward. The outline of a big creature took shape. Alligator or lizard or God-knew-what, Flavius didn’t care. He was out of the pool in the blink of an eye.
The trees beckoned. Once among them, Flavius loaded both rifles. The pistols were too caked with mud to be of any use.
The Illini were after him. They were nearing the bog in which he had been caught. Suddenly an enormous shadow swept over the eight men and half of them glanced overhead. Flavius looked, but trees hid the sky.
Could it be? Flavius wondered. A shadow streaked over the treetops and he heard the pounding beat of mighty wings. Only one bird alive could make that much noise.
If the monster had shown up thirty seconds sooner, it would have spotted him crossing the pool.
Flavius turned to wade down river so the Illini couldn’t track him, staying close to shore where the undergrowth would shelter him from their avian protector.
Or was the piasa more than that? Was the mound and their feathered garb and their fascination with the giant birds tribute paid an ally, or worship afforded a god?
The notion wasn’t so far-fetched. Flavius had heard tell of tribes in South America that worshiped jaguars. And the Sioux regarded white buffalo as special.
Not losing sight of his pursuers, Flavius hastened away, pausing only to verify that none of the Illini had glimpsed him. That was when Davy appeared.
~*~
Keeping up with the band of Old Ones had proven a daunting chore. Davy had never met anyone who could move so swiftly for so long. They were tireless. Their feat was all the more daunting because the vegetation was unbearably thick, tearing at him like a thing alive.
He had lost sight of them for a while. Breaking from high grass, he saw them beside a bog, pointing and jabbering. Apprehensive that Flavius was trapped, or had already gone under, Davy moved closer. A high bank interposed. In order to see what they saw, he would have to scale a tree.
There was only one problem. Trees were few and far between, except on the other side of the marsh, and those that had taken root were short and gnarled and would not serve his purpose.
An Old One hollered. Another, linked by hand to several companions, waded down into the bog.
Davy had to see. A stunted tree on a knoll was his best bet. To reach it he crossed a pear-shaped pool that rose as deep as his waist. Leaning Liz against the trunk, he hoisted himself onto a low limb.
The warrior in the bog was probing its depths with a pole. Did they think Flavius was in there? Another warrior, the tracker, roved to the other side. Hunkering, he called out and pointed westward. The man in the bog was pulled out by his friends. Like a ravenous pack of wolves hot on a fresh scent, the Old Ones padded to the tracker. They consulted, then fanned out. Several kept glancing upward.
Why? Davy scanned the sky. Other than a few fluffy clouds and a flock of ducks on the wing, it was empty.
The tracker was threading slowly across the marsh. Davy would not lose them again. Dropping from the limb, he reclaimed Liz and paralleled the route taken by the Old Ones.
Deduction told Davy that his friend was nearby. Flavius’s tracks had grown so fresh, the war party must be almost on top of him. Flavius was bound to put up a fight, and Davy needed to be ready to intervene.
An open tract unfolded before him. Scattered lilies dotted clear water no deeper than his knees. Briars and reeds separated him from the Old Ones, so he felt comfortable in venturing from concealment.
It would only take a minute to cross. What could happen in so short a time?
Davy moved slowly in order not to splash. Bypassing clusters of lilies where water moccasins might be hiding, he was halfway across before he realized that the Old Ones had stopped to study a grassy area fringing a pool. An opening in the brush revealed them. It also exposed him, and Davy immediately ran several yards, putting vegetation between them.
No one yelled. No war cries pealed.
Avoiding a large snapping turtle that fixed him with fierce eyes, Davy wiped a sleeve across his face.
The temperature had climbed dramatically. What he wouldn’t give for a brief shower to cool things down.
As if in answer to his plea, the sunlight dimmed. A cloud had covered it, Davy reckoned. As he removed his coonskin cap, the breeze fanned his scalp. Stooping, he scooped a hand in the cool water and splashed it on his neck.
As Davy put his cap back on, someone appeared among the trees lining the Mississippi. Davy brought up his rifle. Stunned, he recognized Flavius. His fellow frontiersman was waving.
“What in the world?” Davy blurted, and motioned for Flavius to hide before the war party saw him.
Flavius waved again wildly. Davy took several strides, thinking that maybe his friend thought he was waving, too. Then it hit him. Flavius wasn’t waving; he was frantically gesturing at the sky.
Too late, Davy saw that the shadow he mistook for a cloud had grown in size and was expanding by the second. The air pulsed to the swish of enormous wings as a shrill shriek drew his gaze to its source. Despite himself, he staggered backward.
The Thunderbird had found a new victim.
Chapter Nine
Twenty times larger than any eagle ever known, the aerial predator plummeted toward the Tennessean with its talons outstretched to rip and rend. It should not exist, yet it did. Legend made real. Monster given flesh. The piasa was a living wonder, so gargantuan, so dazzling, that Davy Crockett gaped at it in sheer astonishm
ent.
Another hair-raising shriek snapped Davy out of his daze. He bolted to the right, spraying water everywhere. Twisting, he tried to bring up his rifle.
The Thunderbird was upon him. Its raking talons missed him by a few feet. Alighting in the pool, the creature snapped its beak at him while pumping its huge wings.
One of those wings caught Davy across the shoulders. It was like being kicked by a mule. Propelled toward the brush, he stumbled to his knees.
The piasa came after him, shrieking in baffled anger. Whereas in the air it was grace incarnate, on the ground the creature was awkward, ungainly, its short legs reducing its stride to small steps. Swaying from side to side, it extended its neck, its hooked beak seeking his flesh.
Davy scrambled upright and crashed through the reeds, into the briars. Barreling through them, scratched and bleeding, he turned to confront the Thunderbird.
Behind him, voices rose in alarm. Davy pivoted. In the extremity of the moment he had blundered on the Old Ones. But they had no interest in him. To a man, they gawked at the monstrosity smashing through the growth. Jabbering and pointing, they broke in fear, running every which way.
One collided with Davy, bounced off, and ran past the Thunderbird. Instantly, its iron beak swooped. A scream rattled from the warrior’s throat as he was lifted bodily and shaken as a terrier might shake a rat.
Davy sped toward the river. Among the trees he stood a better chance of eluding the piasa. Some of the Old Ones felt the same way. They were also racing for the tree line.
A glance revealed that the Thunderbird had pinned the man it caught and was tearing at his abdomen. The bird jerked its head up, intestines dangling from its beak. The yells of the Old Ones turned it toward the river. Shrieking, it came after them.
Davy tripped. Flinging an arm out, he caught himself, heaved to his feet, and hurtled for cover. The bird made an awful racket, its feet pounding heavily, its wings fluttering.
Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 9
