by Lauran Paine
The wolf was growling. Even in daylight it was a sound to make the hair stand up; in darkness the sound was capable of making blood run cold in brave men.
Davy edged up to the window. There was a steely tint to the sky. Dawn was coming. The wolf’s growl became deeper, more like a snarl.
Mitchell dropped the doeskin pouch and stood like a statue. “It’s somethin’ more’n passin’ varmints,” he said quietly.
Baldridge struggled to rise up on his pallet. “Indians! I can feel ’em.”
Davy got his rifle and returned to the scraped-hide window. If Baldridge was right, if indeed it was Indians, were they men who had been near his clearing when Mason had shot Jesse, or was it some of Red Sash’s renegades on a prowl?
The bear of a man quietly said, “There’s more’n one out there.”
Davy leaned beside the window, watching the sky brighten. There was another possibility; perhaps both bands of renegades, at least some of both bands, were out there. Renegades were notorious for changing sides. Whoever they were, they wouldn’t wait until full daylight, and, when they brought the fight to the cabin, there would be only Mitchell and Davy to fight them off. The cabin was like a fort, which was an advantage, but if there were very many attackers …
Davy jerked straight up when the gun went off, not outside, but inside the house. He spun in time to see the big man withdrawing his rifle from a loophole in the wall. Mitchell said, “That’ll teach the varmint to try ’n’ knife my dog.”
From the pallet Baldridge said, “Indian?”
Mitchell looked around without answering. He went to work recharging his rifle. As he did this, he addressed Davy. “White feller in buckskin. Who’d that be?”
Davy’s answer was brief. “Charley Ben’s renegades were Choctaws with some Creeks among ’em.”
“That warn’t no tomahawk, Davy.”
“Red Sash, Mister Mitchell.”
“Who’n hell is Red Sash?” Mitchell asked, leaning his reloaded rifle aside.
Baldridge was struggling to get clear of his robes. Mitchell turned on him. “Lie down, you fool. You’ll start that arm to bleedin’ again.”
Baldridge seemed deaf. He looked at Davy. “Help me up.”
Mitchell crossed to the pallet, put a ham-sized hand on Baldridge, and forced him back down. Baldridge protested. “It’s not my rifle arm. Just the two of you can’t …”
“Lie still!” the large man exclaimed, increasing the pressure on Baldridge’s chest.
“I can help! Let me up!”
“All you’ll do,” growled the large man, “is get in the way. Now lie still or I’ll crack your skull. Lie still!”
Where Davy was standing to one side of the window, an arrow came through, tore the scraped hide, crossed the room, and embedded itself in the far wall. Mitchell was regarding the arrow shaft when he dryly said, “Mister Red Sash don’t just have whites, does he?”
Davy did not answer. Through the tear in the window’s hide he could see trees, underbrush, and a man lying face down just out of reach of the chained wolf. Otherwise he could see no one, or any movement.
It would be a while before the sun climbed high enough to shed light above the trees. Even then, as dense as the woodland was, sunshine would be spotty.
The big man crossed to the door leading to his smokehouse, disappeared, and Davy heard steel sliding over wood as Mitchell used a gun hole.
Davy braced for the gunshot, but there was none. Baldridge distracted him by saying, “I can shoot. It’s my left shoulder that got hurt.”
Davy considered the gray face in poor light. Baldridge was frightened enough to ignore pain and bleeding. Davy took the jug to him, waited until the wounded man had swallowed three times, then returned the jug to the table, all without a word.
Baldridge subsided but not quickly. When he did lie back, he was breathing loudly. It was the only sound until two gunshots, erupting almost simultaneously in the rear of the house, brought Davy to the smokehouse door.
The big man was standing to one side of his gun port, reloading. It was impossible to make out much in the small room with no windows. Mitchell said, “He was sneakin’ along, bent over with a firebrand in his hand … the danged idiot. I could see him when he come out of the trees. Mister Crockett, maybe Red Sash is experienced, but that idiot warn’t, tryin’ to sneak up close, holdin’ a lighted torch.” Mitchell snorted, leaned to peek out his rifle hole, straightened back around, and sighed. “They can’t burn us out.”
Davy returned to the main room. Baldridge’s breathing was loud, and now uneven. Davy looked down as he passed. Baldridge shouldn’t have taken that last big pull from the jug. Or maybe he should have, because for a fact however the fight ended, he wouldn’t know.
Someone fired a rifle on the south side of the cabin. There were no windows in the south wall. Davy went over and listened. Outside someone was hurriedly reloading. Another man spoke but Davy was unable to distinguish much except that the language was English.
Some distance from the cabin a man threw back his head and howled like a wolf. Mitchell’s dog did not reply. Maybe the howl was good enough to fool men but it was not authentic enough to earn a reply from Mitchell’s wolf.
Another gun fired, this one from around front. The slug tore more hide from the window and ricocheted, striking fireplace stone about where Baldridge lay passed out, inert.
Mitchell appeared soundlessly. “They’re around the house,” he told Davy. “They got to be figurin’, because they ain’t shootin’ very much. Tell me, how seasoned is this Red Sash feller?”
That was an easy question to answer. “He fought with the British during the war. He’s some kind of Frenchman from Canada. He’s as seasoned as you’d expect.”
Mitchell looked around at Baldridge. Davy said, “Passed out.” Mitchell ran bent fingers through his mass of gray thatch. “I got a way outen here, but not until we got no choice.”
Davy waited for more but Mitchell did not explain. Two guns fired on a slanting angle from the southeast corner of the cabin, where those renegades Davy had heard talking had been. One slug went wild but the second one came through the window and buried itself in the northern wall.
Mitchell was scornful. “They got to do better’n that.”
Davy said, “They will. We’re forted up, but they got all the time they’ll need.”
Mitchell sidled close to the window with the shattered hide, leaned carefully to look out, and someone opposite the cabin saw movement by the window and fired from the forest.
A sliver of wood gashed the big man’s cheek. He got away from the window with one hand to his bleeding face. In the sickly light Davy said, “That’s the one place you don’t want to hover, Mister Mitchell. That’s the only place they can see in. They’ll have riflemen amongst them trees.”
Mitchell held a blue cloth to his face. Acting as though he hadn’t come within an ace of getting his head shot off, he said, “I’m hungry, Davy. You? I got some smoked bear meat an’ wild turnips, an’ I got coffee.”
They moved the table clear of random bullets coming through the window and the big man fired up his corner hearth stove made of stone. While holding the bloody cloth to his face, he got a fire going, went to the lean-to for meat, returned, and, while passing the table, scooped up the jug, took a long pull, set it down, and returned to his cooking area. If two men were ideal for situations like this, it was Davy Crockett and Carl Mitchell. With killers around their log house and an occasional bullet coming through the window, they ate heartily. For the time being with poor but increasing visibility there was little else to be done and both men were hungry.
For a long time there was no gunfire, no sounds of any kind before the man who had howled like a wolf made the same call again.
This time Davy arose from the table, took Betsy to the south wall, and leaned to listen. W
hen he faced Mitchell, he said, “Digging.”
The big man arose, belched, and came to the wall also to listen. He straightened up, wagging his head. “They’ll be all day gettin’ under the fir logs set deep. Davy, we can make it hot for ’em.”
They went to the dark smokehouse where Mitchell gently eased aside a greasy log that slid soundlessly. Mitchell said, “It’s how I vent out smoke. If a man leans out, he can see along the south wall.”
Davy did not lean. “There’ll be watchers, Mister Mitchell.”
The large man nodded agreement, twisted to lift a round, small, rough-wood cask from a shelf, and said, “When I pitch it out, you watch for ’em to run.”
Davy raised Betsy. When the cask struck the ground, a startled man squawked, jumped up, and ran. Davy shot him but not badly enough for the man to fall. While Davy was reloading, Mitchell eased his rifle through the opening, tracked another fleeing individual, and fired. The fleeing man threw out both arms, dropped his rifle, and stumbled as far as a tree before collapsing.
Someone yelled and within moments guns fired in the direction of the opening in the smokehouse wall. Davy was flattened on one side; Mitchell was flattened on the other side.
This time the attack was concerted and fierce. Neither Davy nor the large man was able to leave their protective logs until Davy heard something and yelled for Mitchell to follow as he ran into the main part of the cabin. Something struck the door with resounding force. Mitchell started for the window that would allow him to look northward where the door was. Davy shouted at him, and Mitchell stopped at the exact moment when riflemen in the opposite trees fired through the window.
The door was struck again. The force of the blow made the entire massive front wall quiver.
Mitchell called to Davy, “They’ll bust it loose!”
He was right; the forged-iron hinges were loosening as the wood cracked.
In the midst of this peril Baldridge came out of his stupor, twisted as the door was struck a third time, saw the wood crack, and cried out.
Neither Davy nor Mitchell heeded Baldridge. They took positions on both sides of the shattering door with their rifles.
One length of slabwood broke. Through the gap Davy saw the men using their log ram. He stepped around where he had good aim and fired. At the same time Mitchell gave a yell and also fired through the gap.
The log ram fell as its handlers fled. Two of them did not flee.
Now the only sound was Baldridge. Davy got the jug, told him to swallow four times, put the jug back on the rickety table, and went to the door to reload.
Mitchell said, “That ain’t a natural way to fight. Indians’d never do somethin’ like that.”
Davy nodded as he said, “It ain’t just Indians out there,” and risked a peek through the gap. He caught a fleeting glimpse of men with rifles coming together where another man stood. Davy called to Mitchell, “Look across to the trees! You see the feller with the red sash? Now you know who we’re standin’ off!”
Mitchell looked so long, Davy tapped his shoulder before the big man moved clear of the broken door and looked at Davy without saying a word.
Davy returned to the table, picked up a scrap of meat, put it in his mouth, and wiped greasy fingers on the outside of his leggings. The meat was tougher than leather. The longer he chewed it, the bigger it got. He spoke around it to the big man. “Now they got two holes to shoot through.”
Mitchell placed his reloaded rifle against the wall as Davy asked why the wolf wasn’t raising Cain. “He’s scairt of gunfire. He’ll be in the hole he dug by now. Davy, I expect it’s time to leave.”
Davy got rid of the bear meat before speaking. “How?”
“I got a tunnel. Come along, I’ll show you.” As they approached the lean-to door, Mitchell said, “Livin’ like I do, with all sorts of critters willin’ to get inside my fort, I figured someday they might. So I dug a tunnel from the lean-to westerly to the forest. Took six, seven months.”
As the large man paused to push aside a set of wooden meat-drying racks, he said, “If they ain’t found the other end.”
Davy had seen other such tunnels. In places where settlers were isolated they were fairly common. Mostly they were simply deep earthen cellar-like dugouts close to or beneath cabins. Tunnels of the kind Carl Mitchell had dug were not unheard of, providing there was cover at the exit end, but they required considerable back-breaking labor, more labor over long periods of time than many settlers undertook.
When Mitchell had pushed the drying racks aside, Davy saw the moth-eaten bear hide that Mitchell kicked away to reveal a dark opening. Mitchell handed his rifle to Davy. “I’ll go first. It’s dark down there an’ the ground is wet.”
The big man went feet first below the floor. When he looked up, Davy could barely make out his features. Mitchell held up a hand for the rifles. Davy passed them to him, and, as Mitchell moved deeper into the tunnel, Davy lowered himself. Mitchell was right, the ground was dank, the tunnel was darker than the inside of a boot, and smelled of rotting vegetation.
They had to crawl, but because of Mitchell’s size a slighter man like Davy had plenty of head room.
They halted once for Mitchell to grope along a ledge until he found a small tin box from which he removed a candle and a flint.
The light helped but only marginally as they resumed their crawl.
Chapter Fourteen
The Tunnel
Davy could not see around the large man and had no idea how long they had been in the tunnel until Mitchell leaned and, with the candle held close, placed a finger to his lips.
When they resumed crawling, the large man moved more slowly and occasionally paused, things that made Davy suspect that they were nearing the end of the tunnel, and he was right.
A further indication that he was correct was when he could dimly see daylight up ahead, and finally Mitchell stopped as though listening.
Davy heard nothing.
Mitchell twisted and softly said, “Horses. You hear them?”
When Davy shook his head, Mitchell resumed crawling, barely moving up to the moment he blew out the candle.
Davy finally heard a horse stamp. Around the large man he saw more light and smelled fresh air.
The last time Mitchell stopped he pushed his rifle ahead, and made a slight sound when his powder horn brushed against the gun.
Mitchell stopped moving for some time, then got belly down and inched ahead. Now Davy saw where daylight reached into the tunnel.
Mitchell stopped, crawled a yard more, stopped again and did not move. He was listening. Davy heard a horse squeal, probably a horsing mare, and gave his head a slight wag. No one in his right mind rode mares, especially if they were stalking or hiding. Every twenty-eight days mares horsed. For three days they bit other horses, kicked people, squealed, and were unpredictably obnoxious.
Mitchell inched ahead with his rifle in both hands. Davy followed. Heat reached him along with the scent of trees and underbrush.
Mitchell was lying flat out with his head and neck extended like a turtle. Davy heard him suck back a deep sweep of breath. Mitchell did not move, seemed to be scarcely breathing.
Davy’s hackles rose. He did not have to be warned that there was danger outside the tunnel.
Mitchell inched back, twisted to look over one shoulder, and whispered, “Three of ’em.”
“Indians?”
“Whites. One shot’ll bring their friends.”
Davy said, “Let me by.”
Mitchell pulled away so that Davy could pass. It was a tight squeeze. Davy saw the men in buckskin, thought one looked familiar but did not dwell on this. They had rifles and knives and hatchets in their belts. The tunnel’s opening had layers of autumn leaves covering most of it, which limited Davy’s view, but the men standing together and gazing in the direction of the cabin were
visible from the knees up.
Mitchell hissed. Davy twisted back. The large man said, “They’re inside the house. I heard talk from the lean-to.”
Davy faced forward. He had heard nothing. If the big man could hear in the lean-to the length of the tunnel, he had to have to hear as well as a wolf.
What Davy did hear was a muffled gunshot from somewhere far behind. Mitchell whispered, “Baldridge. I’ll bet new money they shot Baldridge.”
Davy inched ahead to watch the three renegades. Evidently they had heard the shot. They also heard something neither Davy nor his companion heard—a screech owl. Two of them muttered to the third man and started in the direction of the cabin.
Davy watched the remaining renegade, evidently told to watch the horses because, although the man strained ahead to look and listen, he did not follow the other two men.
Davy twisted and whispered to Mitchell, “One left,” and slithered past the leafy exit hole, cupped his hands, and waited for the renegade to move, which he eventually did, and Davy made the unmistakable hiss of a cotton mouth, the viper inhabitant of swampy country for which there was no antidote when he struck.
The moving renegade froze as he twisted, looking for the snake. When the man’s back was to the exit hole, Davy got clear and sprang to his feet. The renegade heard leaves rustling and came around with his rifle held low. He clearly thought it was the snake. He did not raise his eyes until Davy launched himself.
Without enough time to raise and cock his rifle, the renegade dropped his gun and with the upsweep of one hand drew the tomahawk from his belt. Davy hit him head-on before the renegade could raise his hatchet.
The renegade was sinewy, tough, and fought for his life with the fury of a catamount. Davy blocked the slashing hatchet, tried to roll the renegade face down, but the man arched his back in an effort to dislodge his adversary. It partially worked. Davy was pitched to one side. He used both hands to grip the renegade’s hatchet wrist. When he had the arm bending earthward, he freed his right arm and struck the renegade on the jaw. The man went limp for seconds, but he was a fighter. Davy hit him again, got his own knife out, reversed it, and struck the renegade on the forehead with the weighted handle.
