by Lauran Paine
The buck who had shot the first arrow, a pale-skinned half-breed with black eyes and hair took the rifles and said something that Jesse understood but did not interpret. Davy had heard the term many times. Most Indian languages lacked profanity, but they had no trouble learning from whites. They usually embellished curses with a few words of their own. Among other things he had called them scalp locks.
The Indians were restless. They were aware of the peril of remaining in one place very long.
Charley Ben retained his sullen expression when he squatted in front of the captives. “Time you die,” he said.
Davy’s answer should have appealed to Charley Ben because of what he and Jesse had done—saved an entire village from being massacred by soldiers. With other Indians it probably would have been grounds for release, but these were renegades, haters of whites, men who wanted only to kill, destroy, plunder, and burn.
Charley Ben’s expression showed no hint of gratitude. When Davy reminded him of the village, Charley Ben said, “Yesterday. Many yesterdays. We take scalps from soldiers, too. From all people who don’t belong in our country.”
That large half-breed Indian who had been with the spokesman in the village Davy had saved pushed through his companions and spoke to Charley Ben. He spit out words of contempt. “Big warrior. Davy Crockett big hunter, bear fighter. Big warrior.” The large half-breed took the hatchet from his belt. “I am Many Scalps.”
Charley Ben looked from the rangy, tall white man to the pale-skinned, muscular large warrior and said, “Do it fast. We got to leave here.”
Jesse glanced at the Indian who had their rifles. He also had their hatchets and knives. The Indian looked back and made a mirthless smile.
Davy did not move. There was a long moment when no one made a sound. Many Scalps moved on the balls of his feet, like a stalking mountain lion. He did not raise his tomahawk. His black eyes never left Davy’s face. Davy remembered this buck, but only that he was large and powerfully built. Now he understood something else. Many Scalps had probably earned his name as an experienced fighter.
He half circled Crockett, his intention to make Davy move his feet, a man with one foot in the air could not move as swiftly as a man balancing forward on the balls of his feet.
There was not a sound. The renegades anticipated a swift killing. When Davy had to shift position, he did not raise a foot. He scuffed dust as he kept both feet on the ground.
Many Scalps hesitated, stepped back, let the hatchet hang briefly at his side, then, with an unnerving scream, he raised the hand ax and charged.
Davy waited until the ax arm was rising, when Many Scalps was less than two feet in his headlong charge, whipped sideways, and gave ground. As the big half-breed brought his ax down where Davy had been, Crockett hit him under the ear with a rock-hard fist. The blow would have put most men flat down. It dazed Many Scalps, who staggered and gave ground until his eyes focused. He wasn’t hurt and began to sidle sideways, almost past Davy and out of arm’s reach, then swung around, and again raised the ax.
This time, as Davy moved, the Indian holding Betsy and Jesse’s rifle shoved a gun butt out. As Davy fell and rolled to get one hand braced to arise, Jesse swore at the Indian who had tripped Crockett. Otherwise there was not a sound.
Many Scalps hurled himself at Crockett before Davy could stand up. He rolled frantically but Many Scalps still struck him as he fell. His ax missed Davy’s head by at least twelve inches. It buried itself in the ground close to the foot of the renegade with the captured rifles who jumped furiously and someone laughed.
Davy got onto all fours as Many Scalps struggled to reach a position where he could use the hatchet. Davy kicked, watched the hatchet sail in the direction of the spectators, then got upright. When Many Scalps was coming up off the ground, he hit him again, this time rolling his shoulder in behind the blow. In the deathly hush it sounded like someone bursting a gourd.
Many Scalps fell into the arms of two onlookers who roughly pushed him around and shoved him ahead. This time Davy moved out of the way as Many Scalps grabbed for air and went down on all fours, and hung there like a gut-shot bear. For moments the Indians stared at Davy, who, as victor, had the right of killing Many Scalps.
Jesse held out Davy’s coonskin hat, which Crockett put on and turned to go over beside the dazed Indian on all fours. He hoisted him upright, jutted his jaw in the direction of the half-buried tomahawk, and said, “Get it.”
The big half-breed had one eye closing. There was a thin, flung-back streamer of blood at the corner of his mouth. He met Davy’s eyes from a distance of no more than fifteen inches until the Indian with the captured rifles leaned them aside, retrieved the tomahawk, pushed ahead, and put it into the hand of the big half-breed.
Davy roughly shoved Many Scalps away. Charley Ben growled at the big half-breed, “You make hurry, dammit!”
Many Scalps had been hurt, but something else had happened to him. For the first time in his life he knew fear. Several raiders snarled at him. He shook his head like a bear in bee time and shuffled forward. Davy waited.
Jesse wrenched the hatchet from the belt of a warrior standing with him, walked over, and handed it to Davy. He then walked back, looking straight into the face of the man from whom he’d taken the hatchet. That Indian said nothing. None of them did.
This time it was Davy who began the stalk. This time it was the muscular half-breed who shuffled dust so he would always be able to face Crockett as he retreated.
An Indian called to Many Scalps, “You quit! I finish.” His tone had been contemptuous. All the bystanders understood. Another Indian called to Many Scalps, and this time the words stung, “No Many Scalps. Many Skirts!”
Indians laughed. Charley Ben stood up, dusted off, and said, “We go. Get horses. Too much time gone here.” He looked among his followers, selected an older man, and said, “You kill white men. We go. You catch up.”
The older buck was the Indian who had the captured rifles. He did not watch his companions move off in the direction of patiently standing horses. He looked from Many Scalps to Crockett who was stalking his adversary, this time with equal armament. He could not shoot as long as Davy was between him and Many Scalps so he moved a little to one side.
Jesse called to him to effect a diversion. As the renegade half swung to face Jesse, Davy sprang. This time Many Scalps not only did not raise his hatchet, he backpedaled.
Davy’s momentum carried him ahead so fast they collided. Only then did Many Scalps raise his ax. It was too late. Davy struck him hard on the side of the head with the flat side of his tomahawk.
The result was that this time when Many Scalps went down he stayed down. As Davy bent over, the old Indian hastily fired. The musket ball struck a tree chest-high where Davy had been standing before leaning down.
Jesse picked up Many Scalps’ ax and hurled it as hard as he could. It did not strike the older Indian but it came close enough to make him flinch.
Jesse ran at the renegade who had no time to reload before Jesse reached him. The blow was overhand and descended as hard as Jesse could make it. The Indian was dead before he hit the ground.
Jesse reached for his rifle, fired it into the air, and then, with both rifles, joined Davy in the race to the place where they had left their horses.
As they got astride, Jesse tried to reload. He spilled more powder than he was able to get into the muzzle. They did not make haste, but they remained on the trail. Where they stopped before crossing a burned-over clearing, Davy asked about that second shot. Jesse answered in the matter-of-fact way that was typical of him.
“He was supposed to kill two of us. That second shot would carry a considerable distance. I figured if they didn’t hear two shots, maybe one of ’em might have come back.”
They were heading in the general direction of the Crockett homestead, slightly more westerly, but the farther up
country the renegades rode, the greater was the possibility that they would find isolated farms—and settlers.
They were remaining in the trees as much as they could, but by late afternoon the trail they were following began to veer more to the west.
Davy knew they would have scouts out. He also knew the country into which the renegades were heading and it had quite a few settler clearings. The farther north they went, the more inhabited clearings they would encounter.
Where they made a wide sashay before coming back on course, Davy told Jesse they undoubtedly had scouts out who had seen the settlement nearest the Crockett place.
With the sun descending, the trail began to change again, this time bearing more easterly. Jesse thought the reason for this was because in that direction the forests were thick. A large war party could pass along undetected.
Jesse made one of his laconic observations. “Where in hell are them neighbors of your’n?”
Davy had no idea. “They maybe went south. They’d know about them people gettin’ killed down there.”
Jesse jettisoned his cud, cleared his pipes, and said, “You’re a Christian man?”
Davy nodded.
“Well, Davy, it come to me back yonder there must be an easier way to serve the Lord than settlin’ in this country.”
They stopped where the renegades had halted, read sign, and Davy’s worry was strengthened. The renegades were no more than a couple of miles from his clearing. In another hour or so they would see the cabin.
Jesse speculated about the halt. “They counseled. That don’t make much sense. All they got to do is keep ridin’. They’ll see farms.”
Davy dismounted and led his horse. Tracking in a forest was difficult at best, and except that there were so many mounted Indians who trampled undergrowth and small trees, it would have been harder than it was. It did not help that as the sun descended the forest’s gloom deepened. They had faced this same situation the night before but this time Davy had the best of all reasons to keep going. His family, the families of his neighbors, even their settlement, were in the worst kind of danger.
Jesse walked behind Davy. Most of the trail was in territory where timber growth made it impossible for men to ride abreast. The men they were trailing had this same difficulty, but, as they spread out, they made the tracking easier.
Jesse was letting his horse drink at a muddied creek when he mentioned food. Davy said, “In the morning. One way or another we’ll find it. From them renegades or from some settler.” Jesse had to settle for molasses-cured tobacco but his twist was getting shorter since he had been sharing it with Davy, and, while it helped to appease a shrunken stomach, the best chew in the world was no substitute for food.
Forest shadows deepened. Eventually they had to do as they had done the previous night, read sign that was nearly invisible.
The farther they went, the more Davy worried. As often as not renegades attacked after nightfall, particularly if a cabin was so isolated that gunshots would not be heard for any distance. His cabin was such a place.
He and Jesse tracked, listened, and, because the ground was covered inches deep with ancient leaves, even their horses made very little noise.
The trail abruptly veered eastward. Davy sighed with relief. The nearest settler in that direction was a good ten miles distant.
The renegades would not be there until dawn. Jesse loosened the cinch of his horse, let it pick grass where it found any. Davy eventually left his animal with Jesse while he scouted ahead on foot.
He moved like a wraith, had gone more than a mile when he heard talking, this time in English. He crept closer, saw the little cooking fire, and saw something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.
Three white men were sitting with the Indians, one of whom was Charley Ben. Two of them were bearded men in buckskin. The third man wore a smoke-tanned, fringed buckskin coat and a dark beaver hat. His trousers were worn inside high black boots. Davy could not hear what this man was saying but he could interpret the wibluta, sign talk, of one of his bearded companions and was impressed with this man’s ability to use sign language. He missed some of it because the firelight was not bright enough to reach very far, but what he understood froze him in his tracks. By sign language the bearded frontiersman was telling the renegades that three army supply wagons were coming south on the only road going in that direction from the north.
He signed that two of the wagons carried supplies for soldier forts farther south, and the third wagon carried rifles, ammunition, and powder. This wagon was also carrying detonating charges of explosives inside small round objects that had a fuse. When they were thrown after the fuse was lighted, they sent pieces of steel in all directions. The sign-talker only faltered when the white man in the beaver hat explained that these little hand bombs had been imported from France. Since the Indians had no idea where France was, or for that matter what it was, the bearded man gave up and spoke to the stranger in the beaver hat. Davy had been unable to hear what was being said until the other man addressed the Indians in English. He spoke loudly as though by raising his voice those who did not understand or who barely understood English would understand.
He cupped his hands. “Little bombs!” he exclaimed, and used an upright finger to indicate a fuse, then the motion of lighting a sulfur match, holding it to the fuse, drawing his arm back, and making a throwing motion.
Charley Ben seemed to comprehend. He mimicked the other man’s gestures and was rewarded with a wide smile and a vigorous nod.
Charley Ben turned to his Indians, spoke rapidly, and again imitated the throwing of a bomb.
Charley Ben then said, “When wagons come?”
The beaver-hatted man answered shortly. “Tomorrow before sundown. They will pass the white rock.”
Charley Ben had another question. “Soldiers?”
“Yes. A company of soldiers on horses. You had no trouble finding us. All you do now is ride to the edge of the road where the white rock is. Be ready when they come along.”
Davy went back where Jesse and the horses were waiting, told Jesse what he had heard, and Jesse said, “That’s why they cut off easterly. They wasn’t huntin’ places to raid. They went to a meetin’ near a white rock with them strangers.”
Davy snugged up the girth on his horse, mounted, and told Jesse one of them had to find the settlers and bring them to the roadway.
Jesse agreed to make the search but was not hopeful.
Davy struck out northward to find the wagons and give the warning. As he passed through darkness deep in the forest, he thought about hand bombs. He’d never heard of such things, but if the renegades got them, they wouldn’t have to ride into clearings; they could creep up by stealth and hurl the little bombs. They could also use them in ambushes.
Chapter Eight
Danger
Davy rode steadily but without haste. He and his horse shared one discomfort: neither had eaten lately.
Darkness increased as he worked his way through the forest. He probably could have gone easterly a mile and used the road, but one thing he had learned back yonder was that Charley Ben’s raiders kept scouts out. They wouldn’t have to see him; they could hear him. Indians and hound dogs had one thing in common. They could hear leaves stirring.
He had no idea how much time had passed until the chill arrived, which meant dawn was close.
He halted once in a small clearing where a cabin had once stood. All that remained was black char and a lonely stone fireplace.
His horse tugged at the reins so Davy let him have his head. There was a root cellar some distance from where the cabin had stood. Davy got down, flung aside tree branches, found the door, and raised it. Inside, rats scuttled and an aroma of fermentation arose. It was dark in the cellar and warm.
With no way to make fire, Davy groped until he found a corncrib. The ears were
as hard as rock, but he took an armload outside and patiently held them for the horse to eat. When he was ready to depart, he looped the reins and worried kernels off the cobs until some of his hunger was appeased.
The cold increased and the sky paled to a uniform sickly blue-gray. He estimated the distance he had traveled, thought he was far enough northward, and angled closer to the road. There was always the danger of scouts but it seemed unlikely they would be this far upcountry.
After daybreak he made a dry camp, fed the horse the last three ears of corn, left the animal tethered, took Betsy, and scouted. Once, from a thin verge where trees had been cut, he saw a farmed clearing in the distance. There was smoke rising from the mud-wattle chimney of a cabin.
He made a wide scout and returned to the horse that was standing, hipshot, sound asleep.
When he continued northward, he saw sign of many boot tracks. He did not see the men who had made those marks but saw the place where they crossed the road and disappeared into the forest on the east side.
Indians hadn’t made those tracks, but red men weren’t the only renegades. The entire area for hundreds of miles in most directions was without law. There were few forts and only occasional soldier patrols. Nothing short of a full-fledged army could stop the killing, the peril, and the lawlessness of a countryside in turmoil after the Creek War. There were dozens of villages but few towns. Villages were attacked by large bands of displaced, homeless Indians. The roads were unsafe. Renegade whites rode in deadly bands, better armed than Indians and usually more successful at attacking isolated homesteads and villages because a white man could ride across a clearing in plain sight where an Indian could not.
Davy did not draw rein again until he paused at a creek to tank up the horse. Here, the sign was fresh and had been made by moccasins. He tied the horse and followed the tracks. There were two of them; one had small feet. That would be a woman.
