Fighting to control his repugnance, Davy began to walk off in search of Flavius. But more revelations were to come.
“Have you ever ate a person, Tennessee?”
“Never.”
“You would if it was that or die. George got off his high horse once I’d filled my belly. Oh, he threw up a few times before he could hold any down. Once he did, he wolfed that Injun’s leg like a grizzly. I was so proud of him.”
“Proud?”
“George was always too squeamish. Wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t do that. I had to talk myself hoarse plenty of times to get him to do something that needed doing. Like the time we stumbled on some Piegans camped up in the geyser country. He wanted to let them be. I had to point out that they were part of the Blackfoot Confederacy and had vowed to wipe out every white man west of the Mississippi before he would agree to sneak on into their camp and slit their throats while they slept.” Hoodoo Tom sniffed. “Little things like that can be mighty aggravatin’.”
The welcome crack of Flavius’s rifle gave Davy an excuse to nod and leave. Revulsion washed over him in physical waves. There was a word for what the Fitzgerald’s had done: cannibalism.
Hold it! Davy slowed, thinking back. The other day Hoodoo Tom had claimed his brother died thirty years ago. Yet that couldn’t be true, not if they had been up in the mountains trapping beaver when the blizzard hit. Thirty years ago, there hadn’t been any American trappers that far west.
Something wasn’t quite right. Davy shrugged, reminding himself that he had no business prying. He’d settle for being shed of the cannibal soon. Real soon.
Chapter Eleven
Flavius Harris woke up the next morning refreshed both in body and soul. A fine meal of roast venison the evening before and a good night’s sleep had him raring to go.
Davy Crockett, on the other hand, had not slept well at all. He could not shake the menacing image of Hoodoo Tom Fitzgerald slinking toward him while he had been hunched over the kindling. What would have happened if he had not turned around? Would Hoodoo Tom have buried that knife in his back?
Davy made it a point to arrange his blankets so he was facing the trapper, who stood watch first. He did not sleep a wink. Through slitted eyes Davy spied on their companion, who acted normally enough until it was about time to wake him. Then the mountaineer had started pacing and glancing at them while fingering the knife hilt.
Finally, Hoodoo Tom had nodded to himself, removed his hand from the weapon, and walked over to shake Davy’s shoulder.
Sitting on a log, Davy sipped black coffee and pondered. He had always tended to give people the benefit of the doubt, but what should he do in this case? Was Hoodoo Tom a threat?
Undecided, Davy had awakened Flavius about two in the morning. His last words, whispered in Flavius’s ear, were “Don’t turn your back on our friend.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.”
Covering himself, Davy had tried to sleep. But every time he dozed, any little noise snapped him instantly alert. He was glad when dawn came.
Hoodoo Tom was in fine fettle. He whistled as he prepared breakfast, then took a deep breath and declared, “Smell that coffee? It’s the one thing I missed most up in the mountains.”
“I miss my wife’s cooking,” Flavius commented. “That woman makes the most delicious sweet cakes you ever bit into. And her pies melt in your mouth.”
Hoodoo Tom laid a strip of deer meat in the skillet. “Never saw much sense in takin’ a wife, myself. I can cook as well as any darned female, and I sew better than most. So what use are they?”
Davy resented the slur. His first wife had been the finest of ladies. His second was wonderfully loving, considerate, and warm. “They make us complete,” he said.
The mountain man snickered, then winked at his pack of treasures. “Ain’t that plumb silly, George?” To Davy, he said, “The way I see it, if the good Lord meant for us to go through life shackled to a female, we’d be joined at the waist with one when we’re born.”
Flavius laughed. “And you called Davy silly? How would we get around with four pairs of legs? The man would always want to go one way while the woman hankered to go another.”
“Just my point,” Hoodoo Tom said. “Females are contrary critters. I saw how my ma treated my pa. She nagged him something awful. Nothin’ he ever did was good enough to suit her. And he couldn’t take so much as a sip of liquor without her givin’ him a tongue-lashin’ that would flay an ox bare to the bone.”
“Not all women are like that,” Davy said defensively.
“It only takes one to make a feller’s life miserable,” Hoodoo Tom countered.
Davy did not speak again until the canoes were loaded and being slid into the Mississippi. “We’ll follow you today,” he told Hoodoo Tom.
“Whatever you want, young coon.”
Flavius eased over the gunwale and applied his paddle. He could tell that something was bothering the Irishman, so when they were under way and the trapper was far enough ahead not to overhear, he cleared his throat. “Fess up, partner. What’s eating at you?”
In low tones, Davy related his talk with Hoodoo Tom, ending with, “I reckon I should have let you know sooner, but after we toted that deer to camp, he was always close by.”
“The man ate another human being!” Flavius breathed, revolted. As if talking to long-dead kin was not bad enough! He vowed to never turn his back on the trapper again. After further reflection he remarked, “Maybe we should part company with him.”
Davy wanted to, but his conscience pricked him. After all, the mountain man had not done them any harm. “We’ll see,” he said.
Flavius frowned. Sometimes he did not understand Crockett worth a hoot. What was there to think about? Having Hoodoo Tom around was like being in the company of a partially tamed grizzly. Bears and lunatics were notoriously unpredictable. At any moment he might lash out.
Davy scanned the sky only once the whole morning. Preoccupied with the trapper, he hardly gave the Thunderbird a thought. It had not appeared since the previous morning, and by now they were many miles from its customary haunts.
The Mississippi widened. Brightly plumed herons and ducks became more common. At one point they rounded a bend and came on a herd of elk swimming toward the west bank. Hoodoo Tom, cackling lustily, glided close enough to whack one on the rump. It snorted and plunged, sparking panic among the rest. Hoodoo Tom found the spectacle highly amusing.
The sun was poised overhead when a wide bend appeared. Hoodoo Tom moved closer to shore, as was their habit, and slowed. Suddenly he reversed his grip on his paddle and frantically brought his canoe sharply around, calling out in a low tone, “The Rees! The Rees!”
With all that had transpired the past couple of days, Davy had forgotten about the Arikaras. “Turn!” he said to Flavius.
“They’re comin’ up the river!” Hoodoo Tom informed them as he came alongside. “We have to hide!”
The shore was flat and open on both sides. Their only recourse was to hurry northward around the last turn they had passed and pray they were out of sight before the Arikaras showed. Bending to their paddles, they fairly flew.
Flavius glanced over his shoulder every few strokes. This was the last straw, as far as he was concerned. The Rees were after Hoodoo Tom, not them. Why should he and Davy stick their necks out on the madman’s behalf? The trapper wouldn’t even reveal why the Arikaras thirsted for his blood.
It was all the more unsettling because Flavius had figured the worst was over. They had given the Illini the slip, they had eluded the monstrous piasa. He had looked forward to some peace and quiet, for a change.
Their canoe outdistanced the trappers. Davy pumped his arms, intent on the spur of land they must pass to be safe. It was over a hundred yards away. Then eighty, sixty, forty, twenty.
A triumphant screech signified failure. First one Ree canoe, then the other, swept into view. Four warriors manned ea
ch, and with practiced skill they powered forward, their canoes surging as if slung by slingshots.
“Damn!” Flavius fumed. Now they were in for it! Sheer luck had pulled them through the first clash. This time might be another story.
Hoodoo Tom laughed. “Here they come, boys! Let’s make a stand and teach ’em what for!”
“Double damn!” Flavius declared. For two bits he would throttle the trapper himself. “What do we do, Davy?” he yelled.
Davy was thinking fast. Their choices were limited. Trying to outrun the Rees was hopeless. With four men to a canoe, the warriors would eventually overtake them. Beaching their canoes and fleeing into the forest was equally pointless. Even if they eluded the Rees, the outraged warriors might destroy their canoes and belongings, leaving them afoot with hundreds and hundreds of miles to cover. The only feasible course was to do exactly as Hoodoo Tom wanted.
“Head for shore!” Davy directed.
Their canoe grounded on gravel and they leaped out. Davy had to make another bound when Hoodoo Tom brought the dugout in so close to theirs that it nearly bowled him over.
The Rees’ canoes were abreast of one another, two men in each paddling, two notching arrows. Hoodoo Tom sighted and fired, his ball splashing shy of the mark. “Son of a bitch!” he said. “My eyes ain’t what they used to be!”
Davy had Liz. Flavius had Matilda and his spare rifle. Running to a low log flanked by cottonwoods, they hunkered behind it. “Wait for my say-so,” Davy said.
Arrows cleaved the muggy air. One thudded into the soil near the log. Another missed Hoodoo Tom by a whisker as he hurriedly reloaded, brazenly standing out in the open.
“Take cover, you old coot!” Flavius hollered.
“I ain’t scared of no mangy Rees!” Hoodoo Tom responded, and the very next second a shaft sheared into his thigh. Crying out, he staggered and would have fallen if not for his long gun. Shoving the stock against the ground, he used it as a crutch and hobbled toward them, swearing luridly.
The Arikara canoes were close enough. “Now,” Davy said, aligning his sights on the bowman in the bow of the one on the left. As he placed his thumb on Liz’s hammer, the warrior unexpectedly ducked below the gunwale.
Flavius’s intended target did likewise. He shifted to shoot another, but that man also disappeared. Even those paddling had bent low, exposing as little of themselves as they could and still steer the canoes. “Shoot! Shoot!” Hoodoo Tom urged.
Davy picked a paddler whose shoulder was higher than any of the others. Sighting carefully, he held his breath to steady his aim, and fired. At the report, the warrior jerked up, clutched himself, and sagged against a gunwale, bleeding profusely.
“Again! Again!” Hoodoo Tom goaded. “Finish the bastard off! Kill him!”
Flavius aimed at the wounded warrior, but he could not bring himself to fire. Years ago, he would have slain the Rees without hesitation. But the warrior was defenseless, unable to harm them. Wryly, he reflected that the Irishman’s highfalutin sense of moral rightness must be rubbing off on him. Which was a hell of a note.
Hoodoo Tom pranced on his good leg, wagging his rifle. “What are you waitin’ for? Do it! Do it!” Seeing that they were not going to shoot, he cursed and set about reloading. “If you want something done, do it yourself!”
A warrior in the stern of the canoe on the right popped up and loosed a feathered streak that clipped the whangs on Hoodoo Tom’s sleeve. Unperturbed, he poured powder down his gun, muttering spitefully, “Gonna slaughter ’em all! Damn me if I don’t!”
Davy also started to reload. Realizing the canoes would reach shore before he could, he sprang erect and commanded, “Follow me!”
Flavius obeyed, but Hoodoo Tom stubbornly would not budge. Glaring defiantly at the Rees, his fingers flying, he roared, “Come and get me, you filthy heathens! I’ll show you how a white man dies!”
Almost to cover, Davy paused. He owed the old-timer nothing. He was under no obligation to throw his life away for a man most would deem not worth saving. So why did he hesitate?
Flavius stopped and snatched at his friend’s arm. “What are you waiting for?” he hollered. Already the canoes were grinding on the gravel. In another moment the warriors would spill out. “Let’s go!”
“Who are we to judge?” Davy said, and threw himself toward Hoodoo Tom as the first Ree surged to his feet with a bow extended. Davy’s pistol cracked a split moment before the man’s fingers loosened on the arrow. Struck in the cheek, the Arikara catapulted over the side with a tremendous splash.
Flavius was beside himself. Another step or two and he would be among the trees. But he could never desert Davy, no matter what. The bond that existed between them had been cemented by shared hardships and joys too numerous to count. Or, put more simply, David Crockett was his one true friend, and a true friend was worth his weight in gold.
“Hell!” Flavius cried. Leaning the spare rifle against his leg, he jammed Matilda to his shoulder and sent a ball into the chest of a warrior stepping over the bow of the closest canoe.
The rest of the Arikaras swarmed onto land. Five were left. Animated by fury that contorted their painted features, they converged on the mountain man, the foremost raising a war club to bash Hoodoo Tom’s brains out.
The trapper gave up trying to reload. Gripping the barrel of his rifle, he swung it like a club, momentarily fending the Rees off.
Davy reached the melee. Discarding his rifle and his spent pistol, he drew his second flintlock only to have it knocked from his hand by a blow from another warrior also armed with a club. Flourishing the tomahawk, Davy pivoted, then lunged. The Arikara, exceptionally light on his feet, parried and danced to the left.
Flavius held back, raising the spare rifle. With it and the four pistols he could pick the warriors off. He quickly realized, though, that in the swirl of combat, none of the Rees were standing still long enough for him to fix a bead. He could not shoot without fear of hitting Davy or Hoodoo Tom. Seeing a burly warrior move toward Davy from the side, he lowered the rifle, drew two pistols, and charged into the fray.
Out of the corner of his eye Davy glimpsed Hoodoo Tom holding three of the Arikaras at bay. The oldster could not do so for long.
A swing of his foe’s war club reminded Davy not to let himself be distracted. Blocking the club, he stepped to the right and cut at the warrior’s hip. The man twisted and retreated a stride, unscathed.
“You lousy vermin!” Hoodoo Tom was railing. “I’ll carve out your guts and eat ’em raw!”
Flavius had to skirt Davy for a clear shot at the Arikara sneaking toward him. The man was poised to plunge a keen blade into the Irishman’s shoulders. Without an instant’s hesitation, Flavius simultaneously squeezed both triggers.
At a range of less than two feet the twin balls smashed into the warrior’s rib cage, lifted him off his feet, and flung him toward the river, where he crumpled like a paper doll to lie inert, staining the water a murky brown.
Flavius wanted to reload, but one of the other Rees was not going to let him. A savage war whoop tore from the man’s throat as he pounced, his club sweeping down. It was all Flavius could do to avoid being split like a melon.
Davy had tangled with Indians before, but never any that fought with the unnatural ferocity of the Arikaras. They battled like men possessed, demons made mortal. Why that should be was a mystery undoubtedly linked to Hoodoo Tom Fitzgerald.
The trapper had only two warriors to contend with now, and was still holding his own by swinging his rifle without cease.
Flavius ducked and weaved as his antagonist flailed brutally, nearly connecting time and again.
Davy yearned to help, but he had his own hands full. His wily adversary was not giving him a moment’s respite. Blocking the blows had rendered his forearms and shoulders unbearably sore.
An opening presented itself when the Ree swung so violently, he overextended himself. Tucking, Davy tackled the warrior around the knees. They both toppled
, landing in the river.
Davy had not realized they were so close. The water was shallow, but it got into his nose and mouth. Worse, as the warrior kicked free, some got into Davy’s eyes. Blinded, he blinked to clear them and backpedaled in case the Ree attacked.
Flavius saw that Davy was in trouble, but he had problems of his own. He had tried to draw another pistol and been thwarted by the relentless pressure of the Arikara seeking to smash his skull. The club performed a tight arc, whistling past his ear. In retaliation, he flicked a punch that rocked the man on his heels.
Davy’s eyes cleared just as his enemy closed in. Deliberately, he fell backward, sparing his cheek from being pulped. Flat on his back, he brought up the tomahawk to ward off a drive at his temple. The heavier war club nearly battered the tomahawk from his grasp.
Flavius spun to aid his friend and was taken by surprise by one of the two Rees who had been pressing Hoodoo Tom so hard. The warrior turned from the trapper to him, a knife gleaming in the sunshine.
At that very moment, Davy grabbed the wrist of his assailant, yanked the man toward him, rammed both feet into the warrior’s stomach, and sent the Ree flying over his head.
There was a startled yelp. The Arikara Davy flipped collided with the warrior about to stab Flavius. They went down in a swirl of limbs.
The precious seconds Davy had bought enabled Flavius to whirl and unlimber a flintlock. He pointed it at the Arikara who had tried to cave his head in, and who was now almost on top of him. His thumb and finger moved quicker than the Ree, yet instead of a welcome blast, there was a dry click.
Flavius looked at the pistol. Either he had not primed it properly or it was fouled.
Smirking, the Arikara brought the war club down and around, aiming at Flavius’s legs this time. Flavius darted to the right, but his luck had run out. The club glanced off his thigh, lancing him with agony. He tried to take another step, but his leg buckled and he landed on his knee.
The warrior had him. They both knew it. Aglow with feral glee, the Ree hiked his weapon for the fatal blow.
Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 12
