by Lauran Paine
That brought a comment from another Indian. “Beaver Hat went west to the settler town.”
“Maybe it is a hunter’s horse.”
That brought a derisive answer. “Horse been tied a long time. Hunter wouldn’t leave horse.”
There was more speculation. Davy waited until he had heard enough to understand that what had delayed Charley Ben’s raiders had been this unexplainable mystery of a saddled horse tied to a tree in the forest with no one around.
He took Cain deeper into the forest, found a place of concealment, and said, “How good a shot are you, Mister Cain?”
As with all frontiersmen this question impinged on a man’s pride. “Good enough. Fair to middlin’. You ain’t crazy enough to fight all them Indians, I hope.”
Davy cocked his head. The Indians were arguing, by this time loudly. Cain frowned at his companion, “I know you’re a crack shot. I’ve heard stories of your shooting, but there’s at least fifteen, twenty buck Indians back there.”
Davy waited until the argument diminished, then said, “How good a runner are you?”
The old man set his back to a tree and spoke sharply when he replied, “I’m seventy-four years old. When I was forty years younger, I couldn’t outrun no twenty fightin’ Indians. We’d best just go back an’ leave them tomahawks alone.”
Davy jerked his head northward as he said, “You start running. I’ll catch up. But be right careful because Red Sash’s men ain’t more’n a mile upcountry.”
“What’re you goin’ to do?” the old man asked.
“When you hear a rifle shot, stop an’ I’ll be along.”
Cain looked straight at Crockett. “You’re crazier’n a pet coon,” he said, picked up his rifle, and walked northward.
Davy’s last words to him were, “Run, don’t walk. Run.”
The old man broke into a run, and, although he went up and down a lot, he didn’t really cover much ground.
Davy waited until he could neither see nor hear the old man, then stalked the Indian camp. His horse had been tied where there was tall grass and was eating as though he hadn’t done that in quite a while, which he hadn’t.
The Indians were squatting in a rough circle, using knives to cut meat as they ate and talked. Davy missed Jesse, who understood some Indian languages, although maybe not Choctaw.
That derisive Indian who used English told Charley Ben it didn’t make much difference whether they attacked the wagons now or waited until dawn when targets were better.
Several others grunted agreement as they ate. One wary buck, who was still spooked about the saddled horse they had found, said, “Maybe wagons got scouts. Maybe horse belonged to one of ’em. Maybe he’s scouting us up right now.”
The derisive Indian had an answer to that. “Good. He sees how many we got an’ tells the soldiers, they’ll run back the way they come.”
The dark, sullen-faced Indian was too busy eating to take part in the discussion. Just once did he growl around a mouthful of meat. He addressed the derisive man. “We get closer and wait. We get within shooting range and wait for light.”
The only reason Davy had made his long stalk was so that something like this wouldn’t happen. He had sent Cain away because he had wanted to hear what Charley Ben had just said.
He found a tree that suited his purpose, placed Betsy in a crotch, waited until Charley Ben was raising a piece of meat, and fired.
Charley Ben jumped with a howl. The other Indians were too surprised to move for seconds. Davy didn’t wait for them to jump up. He ran as swiftly as he could northward, almost ran past where Cain was hiding because he heard noisy and angry pursuit. He paused to yell at the old man to run for his life.
Behind them Indians howled. One or two of them, uncertain where that shot had come from, ran in slightly different directions. One of them went toward the road.
The old man kept up with his longer-legged and younger companion but he was sucking air like a fish out of water by the time Davy veered into a flourishing thicket. Davy told the old man to stay there, and resumed his northward course but no longer running.
Charley Ben’s howls were loudest. That musket ball that had knocked the hunk of meat from his hand had also caused his wrist to be violently wrenched. Pain as much as fury drove him.
Davy reloaded his rifle, lengthened his stride, gauged the distance of the pursuing renegades, and broke over into a trot. Visibility was bad, otherwise he might have been hit when a man fired at him from the direction of the road. He ducked behind a tree but could make out neither shape nor movement where the other man would be reloading.
He eased deeper westward, went back for the old man, and took him northward but on an angling westerly course until Cain squawked and grabbed Davy’s arm.
The man Cain saw was in the direction of the road, too far eastward to see a pair of wraiths westerly. He was leaning and listening. Charley Ben’s Choctaws were still yelling but not as furiously as they had when they had started in pursuit.
Davy pushed the old man to the ground, got down beside him, and waited.
The man who could hear yelling Indians coming toward him turned and yelled through cupped hands. Belatedly he made the cry of a screech owl, the nighttime signal of alarm.
Somewhere southward a gun fired. The ball did not hit the man who had shouted but it caused him to run.
Davy tugged at the old man who resisted, saying, “I want to see this.”
Davy lifted him to his feet with one hand and growled, “They’ll scatter an’ we ain’t going to be here when they come.”
Cain dutifully followed Davy. They went west for more than a mile, then changed course, went at least that far north, and halted to listen to the fight where Charley Ben’s Choctaws had met Red Sash’s renegades and were now waging war in a dark forest.
Davy went warily and slowly. When he thought they were far enough northward, he changed course again, and headed directly toward the road.
The fighting did not slacken. Neither side knew who their adversaries were. All they knew was they were being attacked in force. Casualties would be few unless the opponents fought hand to hand. The best sharpshooter on earth could not rely on his accuracy if targets were moving in a forest in the middle of a dark night.
When Davy and the old man came to the final tier of trees bordering the roadway, they were too far upcountry to see wagons, so they skirted southward until they could make that distinction before leaving the forest.
Every man who was able was standing by the wagons with their full attention on the gunfire and shouts not too distant southward on the west side of the road.
Davy and Cain walked toward the tailgate of the last wagon, went around the near side, and almost got shot by three teamsters as jumpy as cats who saw them come from behind the wagon. Cain swore. “Jenks, you half-wit, it’s me! Button, aim that gun somewhere else. You danged idiots!”
Davy ignored the startled teamsters, walked down where the lieutenant was standing stiff as a ramrod, and touched his shoulder.
The officer whirled. One of the soldiers said, “I’ll be damned. Where’s Cain?”
“Back yonder where his friends liked to have shot us. Lieutenant, there’s your miracle. Them renegade Indians came onto Red Sash’s friends.”
The officer was silent for a long time before he said, “You did that?”
“All we did, mister, was get them two bands to find one another. One musket ball got it started.”
The old man came up. “Them damned fellers back yonder went an’ drunk all the whiskey.”
A soldier using his rifle as a crutch so that his bandaged leg wouldn’t touch the ground held a bottle toward the old man, who accepted it, swallowed several times, handed back the bottle, and said, “Mister Crockett liked to got me killed.” He turned, went toward the first wagon, climbed up, and disappeared
under the covering.
The lieutenant listened a while longer to the gunfire before using his uninjured arm to produce a crooked cigar, as black as original sin, and offer it to Davy, who declined.
Several men drifted away. The soldier who had been grazed over the shoulder asked who was fighting Breaux’s outlaws. Davy told him about the Choctaws under the Creek called Charley Ben. The soldier then wanted to know how those two bands had got to fighting.
Davy accepted the bottle a man offered, drank deeply, handed back the bottle, and said, “We ain’t out of the woods yet. No matter who turns tail first over there, there’ll still be the other fellers to worry about.”
A teamster gruffly spoke. “At the way they’re goin’ at it, hammer ’n’ tongs, won’t be many left.”
The gunfire did not slacken for an hour, then it seemed to be scattered, as though the combatants were hunting, stalking one another.
Davy told the lieutenant Charley Ben’s Indians most likely wouldn’t stop fighting unless they either ran out of ammunition or targets.
The officer looked for something to sit on, found an upended small barrel, sat down, and wagged his head at Davy. “After you left, they told me stories about you, but, Mister Crockett, if you live to be a hundred, I doubt you’ll ever do anythin’ like this again. When I get home, I’ll write in my report how you came up with the only idea that could’ve saved the wagons.”
Chapter Eleven
Moving Wagons
The fight did not end for another hour, and, although Davy was restless, he remained with the wagons. After the last shot had been fired, he told the lieutenant it might be a good idea to get the wagons moving. At the protest this brought, Davy said, “Whoever comes out on top ain’t going to set down an’ lick his wounds. If we set here another day, they’ll gather what they ain’t lost and hit us as sure as I’m standing here.”
The lieutenant said, “At least we can fort up here, an’ if we get strung out on the road …”
“Mister, you keep the drivers. I’ll divvy up what’s left, half on one side of the road, other half on the other side. It may not work, but setting here another day will be worse. There’s no relief coming. Moving, we got a chance, setting here like ducks on a pond we got no chance.”
The injured arm that the lieutenant kept inside his tunic was throbbing, and had been doing so since the day before. The pain was demoralizing.
He looked back where men were standing, shrugged, and called out, “Line ’em out! Cain, you ’n’ all but the drivers come up here. Fetch your weapons.”
Counting soldiers and swampers there were twelve men able to scout. Davy divided them, six to the easterly woods, six to the west, put Cain in charge of the east side scouts, told the men he would take to the west. They would not penetrate any farther into the forest than he thought there might be ambushers. As he finished speaking, he looked at the officer, who nodded understanding that he would stay with the wagon. Davy said, “Them drivers will be sitting ducks.”
The officer nodded. If the drivers could be shot off their high seats, the renegades could take over farther down the road when the horses would not be restrained by strong hands on the lines.
There was nothing the lieutenant could do about this except put a soldier atop each wagon. Two of them were wounded but in a desperate situation they could fight. The only man put inside a wagon was the wounded bugler.
Davy considered Cain. “Be careful,” he said, and the old man snorted.
Davy took his men to the west side of the road, not confident they would not be shot at, although the fight had gone southward until there was no longer any gunfire. It was still dark and now it was getting chilly as well.
Scouting was done Indian fashion. No man showed himself except when he passed from tree to tree. In darkness this was difficult to discern.
Davy heard the wagons moving, and gauged his southward progress to their sound in order to be in a position to locate ambushers before the wagons came into sight.
One of his men squawked as he nearly stumbled over a corpse. The man nearest to him was a soldier. He stopped to take the dead man’s tomahawk and sheath knife. Someone else had taken his rifle.
They found Davy’s horse and beyond it, where the Choctaws had palavered, a dead Indian. Again, someone had already gleaned his rifle, but no one had taken his hatchet or knife.
Davy’s companions proved to be fair stalkers. He thought this arose from the fact that they were green at this kind of scouting and fearful. A little fear under these circumstances was a good thing.
Davy was sashaying from the roadway back into the forest. His companions followed this example. One of them was moving toward the road when an Indian dropped on him from a tree. The wagoner did not have time to cry out. He only had time to bend low and buck like a horse. Even though the Indian was flung off, his slashing knife cut half the ear off the scout. Few parts of the body bleed as copiously as an ear.
The scout tried to bring his rifle to bear, but the Indian was as lithe as a panther. He caught the barrel in both hands and wrenched as hard as he could. Now, finally, the scout yelled.
The Indian swung the rifle like a club, knocked the scout down, and dropped the gun to lunge with his knife when a gunshot dropped him almost atop the scrambling man with the bloody ear.
Davy appeared, saw the bloody shirt of the wagoner, and told him to go find the wagons and get patched up.
The man who had shot the Indian moved out of shadows, jaws slowly moving, considered his victim, spat aside, and, without looking at Davy, faded back into the gloom to continue scouting.
For a mile neither band of scouts had encounters. On the east side they had not even come across dead men. On the west side Davy was scouting ahead when he came across a wounded Choctaw. The man was sitting propped against a tree, his rifle lying nearby. When he saw Davy, he remained expressionless. They exchanged a long look before Davy kicked the rifle out of the man’s reach and left him. A few minutes later a swamper came up, asked if Davy had seen the wounded Indian, got a nod for a reply, then said, “You should’ve shot him.”
Davy answered matter-of-factly, “There are more somewhere southward or around. If I’d shot him, they would have heard it.” He eyed the swamper, who was young. “Did you look at him?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s something you may have noticed. When he blinked his eyes, he did it real slow.”
“I didn’t pay him that much heed.”
“Animals that know they’re going to die do that. Next time you wound something, watch its eyes.”
He left the swamper looking after him, came to a clearing where horses had cropped the feed right down to the ground, and leaned on his rifle, looking out into the clearing. He could clearly hear the wagons.
If there had been ambushers, they should have at least attempted to shoot the team horses by now.
He angled toward the road. The wagons were moving without haste. Southward the forest thinned out on both sides of the road.
He was turning back into the trees to find his companions when a flurry of gunfire erupted southward. Not close, but not far either.
He went searching for his companions, who had also heard the gunfire and were seeking Davy. Where they came together, one of the swampers said they’d better halt the wagons. That had sounded like a big band of riflemen down yonder. Davy did not agree that the wagons should be stopped. When he turned back to find the wagons, the men followed in his tracks like hunting dogs.
Dawn had come and passed. Humidity was high and the sky had a thin, unbroken overcast from horizon to horizon. That powder-horn moon had been right; it was going to rain.
Davy stayed within hearing distance of the road without going close enough to it to have a sighting. Whoever had been involved in that southerly gunfight would either be coming back after scattering whoever they’d b
een shooting at, or coming together farther down the road to attack when the wagons appeared.
He did not speculate about the fierce, brief exchange of gunfire beyond the location. His primary concern as he went northward was finding the wagons.
The forest’s gloom had brightened slightly. It would not get much brighter but visibility was fair when a man’s eyes were accustomed to the gloom.
Davy found a saddled horse, reins dragging as it browsed along. He did not approach it, but from that spot on he watched the area with heightened interest.
He did not find the man who owned the horse, which did not have to be significant; a free animal would graze and browse for a considerable distance.
He hadn’t passed the horse by more than a few yards when he saw a slouched man sitting on a log. At his feet was a rifle with a shattered stock. He thought the man had been wounded and watched him from shadows for a long time. He was whittling a green twig with his sheath knife. Davy got the impression the man was totally detached from his surroundings and his peril.
Davy approached the man from the rear. If the whittler heard him, he gave no sign of it. He sat slouched and whittling right up until Davy spoke to him.
“You been hurt, mister?”
The man acted as though he had heard nothing; long green slivers of soft wood continued to peel off the twig.
Davy tried again. “There’s a horse back yonder. If it’s yours, I’ll fetch it.”
The slouched man continued to whittle. Davy briefly wondered if he was deaf. He stepped over the log and sat down. The man continued to whittle. Davy leaned his rifle aside. The man finally stopped whittling. Without looking around or speaking, he pointed with his knife.
About thirty feet ahead, partially covered with leaves, was a facedown body with an arrow shaft protruding from the back up high. The stranger went back to whittling. Davy went to the body, leaned to lift it until he could see the face, before easing it back down.
The man said, “My boy,” and raised a weathered face with tears on both cheeks. “My only boy. I told him to stay back, but he come anyway.” The man went back to whittling.
