by Lauran Paine
Mitchell came up, hatchet in hand. The renegade was bleeding and unconscious. As Davy stood up, he heard a yell. Without seeking its source he and Mitchell ran through the trees to the place several horses were tied. The animal Mitchell caught was high-headed and frightened. He had to use all his considerable strength to prevent the horse from jerking free. When he could get alongside the animal on the left side, he pulled the left rein hard enough to make the animal twist his head around. When Mitchell landed in the saddle, the horse stood dead still, little ears back.
Mitchell looked where Davy was freeing a horse. He said, “What’n hell you been doin’? They’ll be after us like devils after a crippled saint. Get on the damned horse!”
When Davy was astride, Mitchell led off in a rush. They dodged trees, low limbs, and tangles of flourishing undergrowth. For a mile Davy kept pace, then he eased his mount down to a slogging trot, and again Mitchell yelled at him, “Run fer it!”
Davy did not gig the horse.
Mitchell reined up, red in the face. “What’s ailin’ you? They’ll be after us.”
Davy’s answer was tersely given. “They ain’t going to catch us on foot.”
Mitchell’s face contorted. “On foot?”
“While you was rassling with that horse, I cut the girth buckles on the other horses. First man that sticks his foot in a stirrup to rise up, the saddle will fall off atop him.”
Davy offered his twist of Kentucky-cured tobacco. Mitchell was staring at him. When he eventually reached for the twist, he broke into laughter.
From this point on they favored their animals. It was still cool in the forest. Occasionally where lightning strikes had caused fires, there were clearings that the sunshine reached.
Davy held to a southerly course. He and Mitchell said very little. The big man was not entirely satisfied the renegades would not be in pursuit. Every man jack he had ever known had started life riding bareback.
When muggy warmth brought sweat, Davy’s calculation put them somewhere east of the Crockett clearing and maybe five or six miles from the Shoal Crossing settlement.
Finally Mitchell had time to reflect on his loss. He particularly felt sadness over the fate of his wolf. Davy put in a hopeful suggestion. “They want us. Likely they won’t go back to your house an’ the dog.”
Mitchell did not sound encouraged when he said, “If they kill him, I swear I’ll find who done it if it takes the rest of my life. Me ’n’ my dog was real close.”
Somewhere ahead where the country opened up and sunshine brightened the world, a gunshot sounded. Davy continued riding until the trees thinned and southward visibility was better. Then he dismounted. It was difficult to place one unexpected gunshot. He stood with his animal, waiting for the second shot. If it came, he would be able to place its location, but there was no second gunshot.
Mitchell said, “Pot hunter.”
Davy led the horse until they were passing stumps. From here on they would be visible, particularly since they were moving. When Davy began edging westerly, Mitchell said he thought they should make for the settlement. Davy continued on his new course without comment; his clearing was westerly and southerly.
They heard another gunshot. Davy continued through thinned timber. Mitchell followed, alert and beginning to suspect that his companion had a reason for going in the direction of that second gunshot. He led his animal with one hand, gripped his rifle in the other hand, and constantly watched ahead and on both sides.
Davy changed course again, northward this time back into the forest. Mitchell did not say a word.
Davy finally halted. Through humid forest gloom he could see his clearing with the cabin on the east side. Across from it westerly was where the man called Mason had shot Jesse.
Mitchell stood beside Davy and jutted his jaw Indian fashion. “Yonder I expect.”
Davy led off going north. He had done the same thing after Jesse had been shot—hiked northward until he was satisfied, then turned westerly, kept going in this direction until his earlier moccasin tracks veered due southward, and changed course once more.
Mitchell walked, sweated, and did not make a sound. When a third gunshot sounded, he tapped Davy’s shoulder, but Davy had already seen the smoke. It came from one of the gun holes in the front wall of his cabin.
Mitchell said, “He warn’t caught nappin’, whoever he is.”
Davy replied as he led the horse southward. “My wife or maybe my oldest boy.”
“That’s your place?” Mitchell asked. This time the reply was a curt nod of the head.
Where Davy finally stopped to tie the horse, Mitchell said, “It can’t be them renegades we run from. They couldn’t have got down here any faster’n we done.”
Davy moved southward with his rifle in both hands. He did not make a sound or expose himself. He used tree cover the full distance of his stalk. Behind him the large man did the same. The fact that he was able to move without a sound and fade from sight without effort indicated that he was thoroughly accomplished at what he was doing despite being oversize in all directions.
The third gunshot came from the same fringe of forest opposite the cabin that Jesse’s ambusher had used. Mitchell saw gun smoke and grunted. They were getting close. He stopped to speak softly. “How many?”
Davy said, “He ain’t alone. Scout around.”
Mitchell disappeared as Davy continued forward, but only a few feet at a time from here on. When he scented dispersing gun smoke, he stepped into a clump of underbrush, grounded his rifle, and blocked in sections of the onward gloom a square at a time.
When he saw movement, he could discern only that it was a man reloading his rifle. He was looking across the clearing in the direction of the house. Not until two more men appeared near the reloading man did Davy think this was simply one of those frequent and random attacks on an isolated homestead. One of the men who moved into view was thick, hairy, dressed like an Indian but with characteristics that meant he was white.
Davy thought he had seen this man before, but it was the second ambusher that held his attention. He knew of only one man who wore a red sash. The only way he could have come this far south so fast was if he had left the fight at Mitchell’s cabin at least an hour earlier.
How the French-Canadian knew where the Crockett clearing was located was less important than the clear fact that he had known.
Baldridge had said Beaver Hat had known. Evidently what had been no mystery to Beaver Hat was no mystery to Red Sash.
Another gunshot sounded from the cabin. Davy saw the gust of burned powder smoke erupt past the gun hole.
Red Sash flinched as did the hairy man beside him. The slug must have come close. The rifleman had reloaded his piece when Davy clearly heard Red Sash say, “Fire! We go behind the cabin an’ set it afire.”
The kneeling man looked around from aiming. “I tol’ you we’d ought to do that.”
Red Sash exploded. “You don’t tell Armand Breaux nothing! What do you men know? Nothing!”
The big hairy man beside Red Sash looked at the ground. It was impossible to discern through his facial hair what his reaction was to Red Sash’s anger.
The rifleman got to his feet, grounded his rifle, and looked steadily at the shorter, thicker man with a brace of pistols in his sash. Davy suspected what was coming. Men like the rifleman did not like anyone different from themselves, and they would fight at the drop of a hat. The rifleman said, “You got us shot up by them Indians at the wagon fight. If you’re so smart, why didn’t you know them Choctaws was after the wagons, too?”
Red Sash reached for a pistol but the hairy, large man beside him knocked his hand away. He said, “Settle what we come for first. You ’n’ him can settle things later. I’d like to get this done an’ get clear. We’re too near that settlement. By now they know what happened at the wagon fight. There’ll be men s
warmin’ all through here.”
The rifleman had one last remark to make before turning his back on Red Sash. “We started out fifteen strong. We’re what’s left. The others got a bellyful of you gettin’ us caught and shot up.”
The rifleman knelt, rested his rifle across a low limb. “What if Crockett ain’t in there?”
Before Red Sash could reply, the rifleman fired, smoke rose, and Davy raised his own rifle, but, before he could find a rest and aim, a bear roared from the forest.
The buckskin-clad man beside Red Sash whirled with is rifle rising. Red Sash did not move, did not raise his rifle, did not even reach for one of the pistols in his sash. He seemed petrified.
The bear roared again. No small bear made that kind of sound. The men with Red Sash faced the forest, guns ready.
Davy settled Betsy over a limb and aimed. When he fired, Red Sash went down in a writhing heap. His companions crouched, seeking burned powder smoke. They faced in Davy’s direction. Davy moved to his right, got behind a tree, and started reloading. He was ramming the ball home when the bear roared for a third time. Red Sash’s companions had shot their share of bears. Both knew if the first musket ball did not penetrate the heart or brain, the bear would tear them to pieces. A bear was a very difficult animal to kill; no experienced hunter aimed for the head. A bear’s skull was thick and sloping.
Davy was ready to fire again when the pair of renegades fled southward in a wild run. He only caught an occasional glimpse until they were lost amid the trees and the gloom.
Carl Mitchell called from the west. “I don’t think you killed that one with the red bellyband!”
Davy almost smiled. “You’d have fooled me.”
Mitchell called back. “Don’t feel bad. I’ve fooled real bears!”
They went to the place where Red Sash was moaning and holding both bloody hands over a high leg wound. He did not look at them. He was in a sickening kind of pain.
Davy took the pistols. Mitchell took the rifle. Then they each caught hold of Red Sash and began dragging him across the clearing toward the cabin. Someone yelled from over there. Davy raised his rifle in the air to wave.
Behind them Red Sash screamed in pain. They continued to drag him until they were close to the porch, then dropped him.
Bess opened the door, rifle in hand. Behind her their children peeked like chicks behind a mother hen. Reno Knight was the last to appear. It had required time to reload Jesse’s rifle that he held in both hands. He was as solemn as an owl. He pushed forward with the rifle. Without showing relief that Davy had appeared, he said, “Is he the one killed my folks?”
Davy shook his head.
Bess also moved for a closer look at the bloody man with the red sash. “Who is he?” she asked her husband.
Davy ignored the question. “Let’s get him inside. Maybe you can tie off the bleeding.”
Jesse appeared, pale and weak with a big girl on each side. Before he could speak, Bess turned on him, “Get back to the pallet, Mister Jones!” She faced her husband. “Why was he shooting at the house?”
Chapter Fifteen
Settling Up
Red Sash ground his teeth as Bess worked over him. The wound was ragged so she snipped off shreds of meat, compressed the injury until she could sew it, and the oldest girl helped, white to the hairline with lips pulled flat. The bleeding would not stop.
Jesse lay nearby watching. The only comment he made was when he said, “Miz Crockett, be better if you just let him bleed out.”
Davy and Carl Mitchell went outside with chunks of cooked meat in their hands. Davy said, “That big ’un. I’ve seen him somewhere.”
Mitchell spat bone aside before replying. “Owens.”
“You know that for a fact, Mister Mitchell?”
“No, sir, not for a fact, but Baldridge told me enough about him. You see, that beaded black bear paw on the back of his shirt? Baldridge told me about it. Some Indian woman put it on for him.”
Davy chewed, swallowed, and gazed across the clearing. If Mitchell was right, then Owens had indeed changed sides after the wagon fight. There was nothing unusual about that. It happened every few days during the chaos of the frontier. He said, “They’d ought to be showing up directly.”
Mitchell shrugged massive shoulders. “Without Red Sash I figure they’ll scatter like quail.” He paused in his chewing. “Them Choctaws will scatter, too. Do you know who their headman was?”
“A Creek called Charley Ben.”
“The army’ll be along. They’ll sweep Creek an’ Choctaw country with rifles an’ hang ropes.” Mitchell finished his meat, wiped greasy fingers on his britches, and said, “I’ll be gettin’ back, Davy. I want to find my dog.”
Bess came to the doorway to speak to her husband. “He’s out of his head. You might want to hear.”
Both men followed Bess inside and over near the fireplace where Jesse had been propped up by Reno. Nearby, Red Sash’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling where children’s heads crowded around the crawl hole. He said, “Masson … I heard he was after the wagons. I sent a scout to find him. He never come back. Masson was comin’ from the north. I had to get there first. Them wagons would make all the difference.”
Davy leaned. “You knew Mason?”
“Masson, not Mason. Him ’n’ me come from the same country in Canada. He paid someone to know about what was in the wagons the same as I did. I don’t know who he paid or how much, but Masson always had money. I had to get down here an’ get hostiles to help me beat Masson to the wagons.”
Davy straightened up. Bess was gently shaking her head. Mitchell leaned to ask a question. “Did you shoot my dog?”
Red Sash’s breathing was coming in short bursts. “Don’t know. I left to come over here.”
Mitchell turned away to get some water from the dipper bucket. Davy joined him, leaving his wife kneeling beside Red Sash with Jesse Jones watching from his nearby bear-skin pallet. Red Sash continued to ramble. He occasionally spoke in a language his listeners thought was French.
Reno Knight stirred the coals, tossed on some wood, and flames flared. It was hot enough to bake bread but no one commented.
Davy went outside with Mitchell, who said he’d scout up the horses Red Sash and his companions had used. He didn’t cherish the idea of the walking that would be required to get back to his cabin.
They parted with strong handclasps. Davy’s final words were, “Mind, Mister Mitchell, the country’s got renegades behind every tree.”
Mitchell nodded as he struck out across the clearing.
The day was moving along. Davy did not return to the cabin until he’d taken Betsy on a far-around scout. What he had told Mitchell was true, with Red Sash’s routed renegades, Charley Ben’s wandering tomahawks, as well as other renegades passing ghostlike in all directions, Davy’s country was indeed a dark and bloody ground.
When he returned to the cabin with the sun slanting away, Reno met him outside to say Red Sash had died.
Davy felt neither pity nor elation. He told the lad come sunup they’d bury him, but the following morning, as they all finished breakfast, John Wesley whistled from the porch, then ducked inside.
There were three armed men coming across the clearing from the direction of the Shoal Crossing settlement. They rode slowly and waved when Davy came outside with his rifle.
One of them was that old firebrand with unkempt hair who had got on a chair at the tavern to put forth the idea of a local militia. His name was Mike O’Brien, but he had dropped the “O” many years before. As he reined up in front of the house, one of his companions, who Davy did not know, solemnly untied something from his saddle and tossed it at Davy’s feet. The way it landed, the beaded black bear paw was visible.
The old man said, “We never asked his name. Some fellers caught him stealin’ a horse. He put up a fight. They knoc
ked him senseless. We poured spirits into him. He said him ’n’ two other fellers was fixin’ to kill you. They figured you was in the house. He said you come behind them an’ a feller they called Breaux was shot. They run for it.” The old man shifted in the saddle, gazing at the buckskin shirt. “We hung him. You got some idea who he was, Colonel?”
Davy nodded. “His name was Owens. Him ’n’ some other renegades sold lead, powder, an’ guns to the Indians. There was another one run off with him.”
The old man seemed less interested in Davy’s explanation than he was about Davy’s safety. “Did they hurt anyone, Colonel?”
“Their leader was a feller who wore a red sash. He died in my cabin. Bled out. Red Sash an’ a feller named Mason tried to beat each other to the army wagons. I got between ’em, got both sides fighting one another. Do you know a Creek called Charley Ben?”
The old man shook his head.
“He was headman of some Choctaws ’n’ others who met Red Sash’s renegades. Him ’n’ his Indians got run off.”
The old man said, “That lieutenant soldier’s got reinforcements from New Orleans. They’re goin’ to set outen to scour the country. They got a canon with ’em, an’ somethin’ I never seen before, a little round thing no bigger’n a ball that’s full of powder. They light a fuse an’ throw them things. I ain’t seen one, but I’ve heard plenty about ’em, an’, if they work, that ought to take care of renegades, red or white. He’ll be comin’ upcountry directly. He sent a man ahead to ask if our militia will join him as scouts. He don’t know the country roundabout an’ we do. Colonel, we’d be right proud if you’d join us.”
Davy heard a rustling sound behind him. Bess was standing in the doorway, looking steadily and impassively at him. Frontiersmen developed powerful instincts. Davy reddened slightly as he addressed the old man. “Been gone a long spell.”
