by Lauran Paine
He found the horses before he found their owners. One of them was indeed a woman. Her companion was young, muscular, and well-armed. They were eating cold meat within a short distance of the creek.
The buck had a knife and hatchet. His rifle was leaning close where creek willows flourished.
Davy did not step into sight and did not raise his voice when he said, “If you got food to spare, I sure could use it.”
The woman froze. The Indian sat, straight and motionless, for seconds before turning to look in the direction of Davy’s voice.
Davy came around a tree, rifle in the crook of one arm. He said, “Name’s Crockett,” and walked toward the Indians.
As he hunkered, the woman passed him some cold meat. She was expressionless. She was also young and pretty. Her companion was a Creek. He watched Davy wolf down food and finally spoke. “You alone?”
Davy nodded as he reached for more meat.
The Indians exchanged a glance before the Creek spoke again. “Why are you out here?”
Davy drew a buckskin cuff across his lips before replying. “Hunting,” he said. “You, too?”
The Indian, wary but curious, shook his head. “Hunt to eat,” he stated. “We go north. Too much trouble here. Too many enemies.”
Davy relaxed and gazed at the buck. “Friend, if you go north, you’re going to run into more white skins than you can shake a stick at an’ they ain’t fond of Indians.”
“We at peace,” the Indian said, and again Davy shook his head.
“Maybe you are but most other folks ain’t. Indians or whites.”
The Indian looked at his woman. She looked back in silence, but had the same thought. He addressed Davy again. “Can’t go east. Choctaws on war trail. Can’t go south, all full of settlers.”
“Go west,” Davy said. “Keep goin’ west until there ain’t no settlers, no soldiers. Many miles, the farther you go the better.”
The Indian did an odd thing. He produced a twist of Kentucky-cured tobacco from his parfleche and held it out. Davy accepted the tobacco, bit off a corner, and handed it back. He had known very few Indians who chewed tobacco. The buck put the twist back into its pouch without taking a chew. He said, “A band of white raiders crossed the road miles back going toward Creek country.”
Davy nodded. “I saw their sign.”
The Indian said, “Muller.”
Davy had heard of a renegade band headed by a white man named Muller but had never met the man or his raiders. Muller’s reputation, though, was bad. The Indian held up both hands, fingers extended, then lowered one hand, and again raised all five fingers of the other hand.
Davy thought that was about right. The sign he’d read back yonder had been made by about fifteen riders crossing the road.
Davy thanked the Indian for the food, went back to his horse, and continued riding northward. As he rode, he remembered stories he’d heard about the Muller raiders; they were grisly. He wondered why Muller would be heading into Creek country, which was now full of displaced Indians on the move, and soldiers. Anyone riding in that kind of country would be running a high risk.
The sun did not burn through the treetops but there was welcome new-day warmth. When he thought he might be in the area where the army wagons were coming south, he angled over close enough to be able to see the roadway. He stopped several times to listen, heard no wagons, and continued northward until a flock of wild pigeons flew frantically overhead on a southwesterly course.
He heard something that had nothing to do with wagons. A wild turkey gobbled loudly on the east side of the road and was answered by another turkey on the west side. The last turkey sounded close to the area Davy was riding through.
He hid the horse in a dense stand of timber and brush, waited briefly for either of those turkeys to sound again, and, when neither did, he began a stalk. The sound of the bird on the west side of the road had been deeper in the forest.
Both calls had been perfect imitations, but when one tom turkey gobbled it was unlikely another would do the same from a distance.
He could be wrong, but he possessed something only frontiersmen developed—if they lived long enough—instinct.
He reached the area where the second turkey had called, moving cautiously from tree to tree.
Any time of year forests had birds, particularly in the spring and summer. Davy neither saw nor heard birds. When the little bell in the back of his mind was ringing an alarm, he crouched in a large thicket. A short man in stained buckskins who had a full beard was standing with his back to Davy’s bush. The distance was not great but it was great enough so that, if Davy came out of his bushes to attack, the other man would hear the noise and whirl before Davy could reach him. He could not use his rifle. If there was one man, there might be others. He had his knife and hatchet, but, although he was a dead shot with Betsy, he had never mastered the art of throwing a tomahawk or a knife.
While he watched, the bearded man turned in the direction of the road and disappeared among the trees.
Davy thought the man had been a scout. He had not seen or heard other men. Scouts ranged ahead on both sides of moving bands, which meant the main body of men was deeper in the forest to the west or north.
He waited a long time in his place of concealment before rising up. There was no sign of the bearded man and there was not a sound; particularly there were no birds.
Davy left his bush, moving from cover to cover on a westerly course. If the other men were northward, he wanted to make certain they would not be behind him as he moved upcountry.
He did not speculate on their reason for being here. He concentrated in finding them—if they were close by—but the bearded men in buckskins could have also been alone, as Davy was.
He hadn’t covered more than a quarter mile before he detected a familiar scent—pipe smoke.
He hid again in underbrush, trying to correct his stalk in the proper direction, but the scent was too faint for that. It did, however, settle the question of other men hiding in the forest.
The day was waning. It was still hot with high humidity, and, although there would still be several hours of daylight in open country, in the forest the gloom deepened.
Davy wondered about the army wagons and their dragoon escort. Until he knew where the men were he was stalking, he dared not continue northward to intercept the wagons. That bearded man who had gone in the direction of the trees would see anyone near the road.
A horse nickered. The sound, though soft, was followed by loud profanity and the sharp sound of someone using a whip.
Davy was finally able to set the direction and moved westward as he also yielded ground southward.
After what had happened at Charley Ben’s encampment when he and Jesse had been caught flat-footed, he occasionally looked back. Somewhere, not too distant, was that bearded man, probably closer to the road, but that was nothing Davy cared to bet his life on.
He did not see the men. He saw tethered horses impatiently fidgeting. He did not count them as he moved with extreme caution among the trees and brush, helped by the increasing gloom.
The first man he saw had a brace of pistols in his belt. He was unwashed, unshorn, and lean. He was smoking a little pipe.
Davy hunkered in a big bush, counted fourteen men. One man in particular caught his attention. He wore a red sash that had a brace of pistols in it. His knife sheath was elaborately beaded. Dangling from the sheath’s bottom was a small circlet of twigs in the center of which was a small scalp lock dried hard and held inside the circlet by rawhide strips. Aside from the flamboyant sash what caught Davy’s attention was the way this man took snuff from a small silver box and sniffed it. Red Sash and the others were white men; there was not an Indian among them. They could not be Charley Ben’s Choctaw renegades.
Red Sash was broad-shouldered and thick-chested but was not very t
all. He had jet-black hair and his skin was weathered darker than was customary.
Davy speculated that he might be some kind of half-breed Indian. If so, he was the only frontiersman Davy had seen who wore a red sash.
Several of the men were eating. The pipe smoker said something to Red Sash and got an answer Davy could not hear. The pipe smoker disappeared eastward through the forest. He could have been sent to relieve the bearded scout near the road, or to join him. Either way there were now two men far enough eastward to be between Davy and his horse.
A coarse-featured individual who was wiping grease off his fingers on his trousers called to Red Sash. “They should’ve been here by now. It’ll be dark directly.”
He got no reply. Red Sash was standing with his head cocked. Eventually he faced around and spoke sharply. “Mount up.”
There was a scramble as men got to their feet, sheathed the knives they had used as eating utensils, and without a word went out where the horses were. Red Sash was the last man astride. As he swung over leather, he said, “Did you hear it? The turkey gobbled.”
Davy used the time the men got mounted to slip out of his hiding place and move in the direction of the road. He did not worry about being detected by mounted men following Red Sash. The gloom had increased the last hour. If Davy had stood up in plain sight, as long as he didn’t move, they wouldn’t have seen him.
He got back to his horse, mounted, and rode northward within shouting distance of the hastily abandoned camp. There was no one there, just some cast asides.
If Red Sash had been signaled, something was coming southward on the road. Davy had to get far enough northward to warn of an ambush.
This time he pushed the horse that could travel no faster than a rapid walk because of trees and increasingly poor visibility, but he did pick up the gait a little.
Eventually Davy edged closer to the road, running the risk of detection, but he had to find the wagons before they were ambushed.
He heard nothing as he hastened, until he topped out over a rib of land that went as far as the road and across it. This rise created a natural bulwark in the otherwise flat course of the road.
Davy reached it in the forest, and followed its easterly course in the direction of the road. When he could make out the road through forest gloom, he again tied the horse, took his rifle, and went ahead on foot. When he reached the final fringe of trees, he stopped. This time he heard wagons, still distant but grinding steadily southward.
A turkey gobbled loudly to the south. Davy guessed the call had been made by either the bearded man or the pipe smoker. If so, they were moving upcountry in his direction.
Davy hid and waited. The first man he saw was neither of the scouts. It was a tall Indian, standing motionlessly beside a tree. He was peering in the direction of the gobbler’s call.
Davy did not think this Indian was part of the raider band. There hadn’t been an Indian among them. He understood the Indian’s anxiety. Turkeys roosted at dusk; they didn’t gobble.
The Indian hooked his rifle into the crook of one arm and began moving westerly—deeper into the forest. Davy guessed the Indian had no idea there were men hiding close by, but whatever he thought, hurrying westward was the prudent direction for someone who did not want to be seen.
A night-hunting owl swept through the trees with uncanny ability until Davy moved. The owl detected movement and furiously beat silent wings to get clear.
Again the turkey gobbled. It was difficult to see any distance into the forest, but this turkey was coming toward the road using the same land swell Davy had used.
The sound of wagons was closer and more distinct. Davy found a large old deadfall, got on the north side of it, and hoped the oncoming scout would be southward.
He watched intently for shadowy motion. If they were together—pipe smoker and whiskers—Davy was not in the best position of his life.
He settled Betsy atop the big old deadfall tree and waited.
The sound of oncoming wagons was now loud enough for Davy to be able to discern the sound of shod horses with the wagons.
Chapter Nine
Stalemate
Davy had a choice—run to the road and signal for the cavalcade to halt, or lie behind this deadfall tree until the renegade scouts appeared. The decision was made for him when the bear-built scout appeared out of the gloom. If Davy jumped up and raced toward the road, a renegade could easily shoot him in the back.
The second scout appeared. They halted, facing in the direction of the road where wagon sounds were clearly audible even through the forest.
Davy was not going to be able to reach the road but he had an opportunity to do something that might provide a warning to the wagoners and their soldier escort.
He settled Betsy atop the deadfall, took careful aim, and fired. Pipe Smoker’s old leather hat took wing like a wounded bird and disappeared among the trees. Both scouts dropped. One said, “Yonder’s the smoke,” and fired his rifle. It was a clean miss. As this scout settled around to reload, his hatless companion took long aim, which provided Davy with enough time to roll clear so that when the musket ball struck punky wood the man who had shot from behind the log was two yards away.
There were startled shouts from the roadway, but Davy’s warning had brought other renegades in an angry rush.
They had been anticipating a successful ambush since the previous evening, and, although they had no idea who had fired the first shot, they wanted to find him. He had destroyed their element of surprise.
Davy had no time to reload. He scuttled northward until he had sufficient forest cover, then got to his feet and ran, dodging around trees, heading for the roadway, fully aware of the danger. Renegades would be ahead where they had infiltrated the forest.
He was swerving to avoid a big wood rat’s nest when a man on the far side shoved out his leg. Davy saw the obstacle too late.
As he fell, the renegade scrambled to his feet and leaped with his sheath knife raised. Davy rolled, fetched up against a large rock and so could roll no farther, and swung his rifle. The renegade took the blow in the middle and briefly staggered. Before Davy could get clear of the boulder, the renegade jumped at him, slashing with his knife.
Davy felt the cut. It was as if he’d been branded with a hot iron. He closed with the knife wielder, who was a tall, sinewy individual with pale eyes and a gash for a mouth.
Davy blocked the descending knife hand, rolled the man half over, and straddled him. His antagonist was strong. The knife had been halted in the air but its descent seemed inexorable regardless of how hard Davy fought to stop it.
The renegade’s breath hissed out as he fought to dislodge Davy. Cords stood out in his neck. Davy struck the renegade with his fist. He might as well have struck rock. The renegade blinked and fought like a tiger. Davy leaned, got his forearm across the man’s throat, and bore down as hard as he could.
The renegade continued to struggle right up until his eyes bulged and the knife-wielding arm began to falter.
Davy leaned harder, using all his upper body weight to cut off the air the renegade was trying to inhale. When the knife arm loosened, Davy let go of the man’s wrist, turned his head until they were eye to eye, then hit the man in the side of the head as hard as he could. The renegade briefly arched before turning loose all over.
Davy got to his feet, sucking air, picked up his rifle, and pushed ahead in the direction of the road.
He wanted to sit down and catch his breath but kept going and was almost to the road when a rattle of musket fire made him stop.
Someone yelled. Davy could see the halted wagons and several of the soldiers. Others were either coming into the forest or were on the far side of the wagons.
One teamster was standing on the offside of his team to prevent a stampede. As far as Davy could see, this man was armed with a belt knife. He was an easy target
despite the fidgeting and lunging panic of his horses. There was abrupt gunfire behind Davy, a couple of yells, and more gunfire. Evidently the soldiers had infiltrated the gloom where dusk was settling although it was still daylight in the roadway.
What had bothered him from his first sighting of the encamped renegades bothered him now. The freighters, soldiers, and renegades were not only behind Davy; they were also between him and his horse.
He watched for movement in order to be sufficiently forewarned to glide around his tree if someone came his way, but, when it eventually happened, it was four men sweeping toward the deeper forest, two on each side of Davy’s tree.
He dropped flat and scarcely breathed, but the soldiers were looking ahead, not down or close by. Every time there was a gunshot, they pushed ahead seeking targets with rifles held at the ready in both hands.
After they passed, Davy got to his feet, brushed off dirt and leaves, and moved cautiously in the direction of the road where teamsters and a wounded soldier were on the far side of the wagons.
The horses were still in place, which they probably would not have been if that teamster hadn’t kept his lead team from stampeding. Now, as the fight continued westerly in the forest’s settling dusk, Davy reached the edge of the trees beside the road and called out.
“My name’s Crockett. I fired off the first round to warn you they were waitin’ to ambush you. You hear me?”
He got an answer but it was a long time coming. “What do you want an’ who’s with you?”
“Ain’t nobody with me. Hold your fire. I’m comin’ out.”
He saw gun barrels beneath the first wagon as he moved down to the roadbed, halted, and leaned on his rifle. “You gents satisfied?”
This time the answer ignored the question. “Walk over here an’ lean your rifle on a wagon wheel.”
Davy obeyed, leaned Betsy where he’d been told to, and waited until a white-faced, hatless man wearing a blue uniform came into view, holding a cocked pistol in his left hand. His right arm wore a bloody bandage and was tucked inside his tunic. This man looked long in the direction from which Davy had come until Davy said, “I told you I came alone. You got some whiskey?”
