by Lauran Paine
A peevish-sounding voice came from the tailgate end of the first wagon. “It’s Crockett for a fact, Lieutenant. I seen him at half a dozen shootin’ matches. I’ll get the whiskey.”
The officer was still not satisfied about the man in buckskin who had appeared out of the forest and whose sleeve was torn and stained with blood. He led the way behind the first wagon where a wounded man was lying on some blankets. There were four of them, five counting Davy whose presence was welcomed by only one of them, a thin, stooped older man who offered a bottle to Davy as he said, “You’re a far piece from home, ain’t you?”
Davy swallowed twice, handed the bottle back, and nodded. “I heard about the wagons coming from some raiders I eavesdropped on in the woods.”
The officer asked who the renegades were. All Davy could tell him was their numbers and that their leader wore a red sash.
The officer pointed toward some cloth and liniment. “Cain’ll bandage it for you. A red sash?”
“Yes.”
“Short, dark fellow with a scalp lock on his knife sheath?”
“That’s him. Who is he?”
“His name is Breaux.”
“Breaux? That ain’t Indian.”
“It’s a long story. He’s from French Canada an’ fought against us with the British. After the war he went to raidin’ and plunderin’. The government’s got a bounty on him. One hundred dollars.”
Davy’s eyes widened. In his country a man did not make that much in a year. “Ain’t he a long way from home?”
The officer made a sour smile. “He’s wherever he shows up. The army’s been after him since the war.”
“You carryin’ guns an’ powder in them wagons?”
This time the lieutenant looked steadily at Davy a long time before nodding curtly without speaking.
Davy said, “An’ some little bombs a man throws after lighting a fuse?”
This time the officer’s stare was unwavering. “Where did you hear that?” he demanded.
“From three white men who met some renegades. One of them wore a mighty fine beaver hat an’ a long buckskin coat.”
The officer nodded when the stooped, wiry man came up with a bottle and some bandaging cloth. “Give him another drink,” he told the raffish older man. “I’ve got to find out where they went in the forest.”
As the officer was turning away, Davy dryly said, “If you find them soldiers, you better get ’em back here. Renegades are natural ambushers.”
He watched the officer cross the road toward the trees. Cain, the old teamster, went to work on the wound as he said, “He ain’t as stiff as he acts. This ruckus caught him dozin’ in the saddle. He’s new to this part of the country.”
Davy saw the lieutenant disappear and said, “He shouldn’t have let them soldiers go scattering in the forest.”
The old man worked in silence. When he was finished, he made a little clucking sound. “Ruined a good shirt, but, if he’d aimed a tad to the right, you wouldn’t care about no shirt. Come along. That ain’t the only bottle we brung along.”
Davy went with the old man. One of the other teamsters had a bottle. After they’d all had a swallow, Davy said, “That officer’ll get himself shot. Don’t you have a bugler along?”
One of the teamsters pointed to the pallet where the wounded man was lying. “He’s the bugler.”
There was an occasional random shot. Otherwise the forest was quiet. Davy shook his head. He’d seen his share of officers but never any who’d leave wagons unguarded.
The fighting seemed to be diminishing as an occasional gunshot sounded southward. Davy was fed some cold beans and deer meat. He thought that the lieutenant must be as green as grass, not just for going into the forest with only a sword, but for not concentrating his soldiers around the wagons. Three teamsters, their swampers, and a wounded bugler would be no help if the wagons were attacked, and it was the wagons the renegades wanted.
Daylight was fading. Cain, as lead teamster, worried about the horses. He told the other drivers to grain the animals. He told Davy, if the lieutenant didn’t return directly, he was going to continue southward. He did not like the notion of being a sitting duck in the middle of the road.
The lieutenant returned with seven soldiers, all he could find. He was in a foul mood. When he saw Davy cleaning and reloading Betsy, he asked if there was any way to find men who would ride with the wagons.
Davy tipped in powder and stoppered the horn before answering. “A friend of mine went looking for some fellers. I got no idea where he is, whether he found ’em, or where they are, but except for them there ain’t no more until you get to the next settlement. An’ if you struck out right now, you wouldn’t reach no settlement until morning.” Davy leaned on his recharged weapon. He was half a head taller than the lieutenant. “I’ll tell you what I figure.”
“I’m listening, Mister Crockett.”
“I think the feller with the fancy sash is leading them soldiers you didn’t find as far off as he can.”
“They’re veterans, Mister Crockett. They can take care of themselves.”
“That’s likely,” Davy said. “That ain’t what troubles me. If that feller with the red bellyband’s as smart as I’m beginning to figure he is, he ain’t through with you. Not yet, Lieutenant.”
Several teamsters had drifted up to listen, old Cain among them. He said, “Spit it out, Davy.”
“Whether you get moving or camp here in the road for the night, the red-sash feller’s going to hit you again. There’s another band of renegades, mostly Choctaws. They’re with that feller I told you talked to that feller with the fancy hat. His name’s Charley Ben. I got no idea how he knew where to meet the feller with the beaver hat, but they sure enough met, an’ Fancy Hat told Charley Ben about them little bombs. That’s where I heard about them. Charley Ben’s coming upcountry, too. If them two bands meet, by my count that’ll make about forty renegades. How many soldiers you got?”
There was not a sound among the teamsters until the lieutenant said twenty, then one of the teamsters snorted, “You got seven here, Lieutenant, an’ one shot, lyin’ on some blankets. Where’s the rest of ’em? You sent ’em into them trees, that’s where they are.”
Before the lieutenant could answer there was a deafening bugle blast. They all looked around. The wounded man was sitting up, supported by a teamster. He had blasted out the call for retreat. Afterward the teamster eased him back down.
Davy went over to the pallet. The wounded man was very young. He had been hit in the upper right leg, and, although he had been cared for, blood showed through the bandaging. Davy called for whiskey, knelt, held the bugler’s head up until he had swallowed three times, then eased him back down. The bugler broke out into a sweat and smiled at Davy.
The officer came up frowning. “Who told you to sound retreat?” he demanded.
Whiskey worked fast on an empty stomach. The youth’s eyes held to the officer’s face as he replied, “The angel Gabriel, sir.”
Nine soldiers emerged from the forest, dirty, sweaty, and strongly silent as they reached the wagons. The officer asked if they had seen others, and a grizzled man with coarse features and a hostile stare answered gruffly, “Two missin’. Them renegades kept ahead until they could get around us in the timber.”
The old teamster named Cain made a blunt statement. “Ambushed you boys. You’d ought to have your damned heads examined for goin’ in there with daylight fadin’.”
The lieutenant turned, red-faced, toward the old man. Before he could speak, Davy said, “Lieutenant, it’ll be dark directly. If you set here in the road, they’ll have your hair by morning.”
The angry officer answered defiantly, “We’ll protect the wagons, Mister Crockett. That’s what we were sent to do.”
Davy considered the officer in silence for a moment. He had met off
icers he had thought deserved to be shot, but this one took the rag off the bush for being stubborn. He was as stubborn as oak and twice as thick in the head.
“Lieutenant, them Choctaws will reach here directly. Whether they hitch horses with your Canadian or not, have you any idea what the odds are going to be?” Davy leaned on his rifle, looking steadily at the officer. “About the same as the devil chasing a crippled saint.”
Two limping soldiers came out of the forest to the road. One had lost his rifle; the other one was using his weapon as a crutch. They came up in silence. One had been grazed across the shoulder; the other one had been hit in the lower leg. The teamsters took them away to be cared for. The others went with them, leaving the lieutenant and Davy alone.
Davy wagged his head. “Mister, except that they want rifles, powder, an’ them little bombs, they’d shoot into the wagons, an’ blow ’em up.”
The officer watched as someone lighted a small lantern back where the wounded soldiers were being cared for. When he returned his attention to Crockett, he said, “We’ll get to moving.”
Davy turned aside to expectorate before speaking. “You’ll be like setting ducks on a pond. By now I’d guess they’re on both sides of the road.”
“We could turn back, fight a withdrawing action, Mister Crockett.”
Davy blew out a ragged breath. Twice as thick as oak had been an underestimation. “Mister, it doesn’t matter which way you go or if you don’t move at all. By now …” Davy turned and raised his voice. “Blow out that light!” The lantern was snuffed. Davy finished what he had been saying to the lieutenant, “Go or set still, when they’re ready, they’ll attack. My guess is that Mister Breaux’s raiders have to be all collected after your soldiers scattered ’em. When he’s ready, he’ll attack from both sides of the road. An’ if them Choctaws come up, or if they’re close enough to hear gunfire, they’ll pile into you, too.”
The lieutenant’s expression reflected his inner foreboding. This was his first critical assignment. He turned slightly to regard the wagons and shadowy shapes among them.
Davy watched the officer; in the poor light he seemed to have aged. When he faced forward, Davy said, “Caught like a rat in a snap trap. What I learned in the Creek War was that defending yourself ain’t as good as offending someone else.”
The officer nodded slightly. “That’s why I sent the soldiers into the forest. The best defense is offense.”
“For a fact, Lieutenant, but only if you’ve got a chance, which you didn’t have during daylight an’ which you don’t have now.”
“I’ll blow up the wagons!”
“I got a notion, Lieutenant.”
“It better be a miracle, Mister Crockett.”
“Lend me that teamster named Cain, give him a rifle, a hatchet, an’ a knife if he don’t have one, an’ ask him to meet me here.”
The officer did not appear heartened, but he was curious. “I’ll send him. What do you figure to do?”
“We can talk later. I’d take it kindly if you send me that teamster.”
The lieutenant hesitated briefly, then went after the man named Cain. When the teamster appeared where Davy was leaning against a wagon wheel with a fresh cud of Kentucky twist in his cheek, the lieutenant was with him. Davy offered Cain some chewing tobacco that the old man accepted, but, when the same offer was made to the officer, he shook his head. He was waiting for Davy to speak, which Davy did, but not to the officer, rather to the old man. “You ever scouted, Mister Cain?”
“Well, only to hunt.”
“You scairt of Indians or renegades?”
“Yes, I’m scairt of ’em. I’d be a damned fool not to be.”
Davy smiled. “Let’s you ’n’ me see if we can both get scairt. Lieutenant …”
“I’d like to know what you got in mind, Mister Crockett.”
“I’ve got in mind seeing if I can get that miracle for you. Let’s go Mister Cain.”
They left the officer standing by the fore wheel, passed from sight the moment they reached the easterly forest, and somewhere a considerable distance southward an owl hooted.
Chapter Ten
The Wagon Fight
There was a puny moon, cocked up at both ends. It was the kind folks said meant rain because a man could hang his powder horn on it and it wouldn’t fall off.
Davy moved stealthily until he came to a thick stand of trees with underbrush. He had no illusions of them being alone. Whether Red Sash’s entire party was on the east side of the road or not, there certainly would be spies watching the wagons.
Cain shifted his shot pouch and that made the musket balls rattle. It wasn’t much of a sound but Davy scowled. Cain looked more embarrassed than apologetic.
Davy made a hooting sound. When the response came, it wasn’t an owl; it was the mournful call of a night bird. Davy led off in that direction as soundless as a ghost. The old man followed, having to work at suppressing his fear.
Without warning, a buckskin wraith appeared in front of them as though he’d come out of the ground. He softly said, “Enos?”
Davy answered in a loud whisper, “Where’s the others?”
The dimly discernible ghost answered shortly. “Close around. Did you see the soldier with his arm inside his coat come back with them two crippled ones?”
Davy took two steps closer to the wraith as he answered, “What’s Breaux waitin’ for?”
The discernible man leaned on his rifle as he replied, “For them boys that led the soldiers south to get back.”
Davy halted. He could not see the man well, just his outline and it blended with his surroundings. “Breaux across the road?” he asked.
It was the wrong question. The buckskin ghost did not reply; he began to straighten up from his slouched stance. Davy held his rifle low in both hands. He cocked the gun. It made the kind of sound once heard was never forgotten, but in the forest it did not carry far.
Davy spoke to the old man behind him. “Get his rifle, Mister Cain.”
The old man moved cautiously around Davy. He did not act as though this situation was something he enjoyed, which it wasn’t. After thirty years as a teamster he was, as he had said before he and Davy reached the forest, scared of Indians and renegades. But he had sense enough to approach the renegade to one side, not directly in front, which would have blocked Davy’s view.
The renegade relinquished his rifle without looking at the old man. As Cain took the man’s hatchet and knife, Davy moved closer. The renegade said, “Crockett.”
Davy nodded. “You got a name?”
“Jackson.”
“President Jackson?”
The renegade showed worn-down teeth in a cold smile. “None other.”
Davy motioned with his rifle. “Lie down, President Jackson.”
As the renegade moved to obey, he said, “You ’n’ them soldiers won’t be around come daylight.”
Davy’s answer was directed toward the old man. “Tie his arms in back. Use his belt to bind his ankles. Do it, Mister Cain. Take the thong offen his powder horn. Tie his hands in back real good.”
As the old man put the weapons aside to kneel, the renegade looked up at Davy, wearing that same wolfish small smile. “You know how many of us there are?”
“About twenty.”
“Then use your head. Set me loose an’ join us. We’ll take them wagons when the screech owl hoots.”
Davy watched Cain do his work. When the old man arose, Davy moved close, swung the butt plate of his rifle, and at the horrified look he got from the old man he explained, “He’ll sleep for a spell. When he comes around, he’ll yell. We’ve got to be gone when he does that.”
They made their way ahead, halted once when they heard two men arguing, made a wide sashay around that place, and continued easterly until Davy finally halted near a rough-barked
old tree. He gave the old man time to rest before striking out again, but this time due southward.
Not a word passed between them. If Cain was troubled by their change of course, he said nothing. Davy still moved with caution, but, although he was certain the forest on both sides of the road was inhabited by enemies, what he had in mind required risk, and haste.
The next time they halted, the old man got a fresh cud of Kentucky twist into his cheek and sat on a wind-downed log. Davy stood, listening. The only sound was of running water somewhere eastward. When they resumed their walk, Davy went farther south, half a mile or so, then changed course again, this time going westerly toward the road. Cain followed without a sound.
The road looked gray as a corpse in the night. Davy pressed as far as the final fringe of forest, halted, leaned on his rifle for a long few moments, then jerked his head, and walked out to the road, crossed it, and kept moving until they were in more darkness with trees around them again. Twice he halted to listen, and twice he angled slightly southward until the last time he halted.
Cain’s heart was beating fast. He jettisoned his cud and started to speak. Davy held up a hand for silence. The old man strained to detect sound and failed. Davy leaned and said, “They didn’t make as good time as I figured they would.”
Because it was difficult to see, Davy moved slowly and cautiously. After some time he halted again, and this time the old man heard what sounded like men speaking in short bursts in a language he did not understand. He whispered to Davy, “Indians?”
Davy nodded, put his finger to his lips, and led off warily.
When they were closer and the sounds were louder, Davy suddenly stopped in midstride. Cain almost bumped him. He moved around where he could see Indians standing around a saddled horse. Davy leaned to whisper again. “They found my critter.”
The Indians spoke gutturally. One man asked a question in English. “Where is he?”
The answer came from a dark, sullen-faced Indian. “Maybe it is Beaver Hat’s horse.”
