“And whites slaughter Indians for the same reason. But that doesn’t make either side right.”
Flavius exaggerated a sigh. “And the Good Lord knows that a member of the Crockett clan would never want to do anything that is wrong, now would he?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re grumpy in the morning?”
“Grumpy, hell. I’m mad enough to spit nails. Being taken captive does that to me. Call it a silly trait of the Harris clan.”
Flavius saw that his sarcasm had hurt his friend, and regretted being so callous. But Davy had brought this down on them by being too trusting—once again. Flavius despaired of Crockett ever learning that some folks just couldn’t be trusted—never, ever. Blood would tell, as the old saw had it. Not all the wishful thinking in the world could change a killer into a saint.
Davy spied a flock of sparrows winging westward. They perked his interest. Sparrows were partial to trees, and trees generally grew along brooks and rivers. They were low on water, very low. Unless they found some in the next day or so, the oxen would begin to falter.
Small fingers brushed his hand. Davy looked down into Becky’s grinning features. In her hand was a blue flower which she held up.
“For you. I just picked it.”
“Thank you, princess.” Davy angled the long slender stem through the hair above his ear, then pressed his coonskin cap down to hold it in place. “How do I look?”
“Dandy,” Becky said, giggling. “You’re the prettiest man around.”
“A word of advice, little one. Men aren’t pretty. They’re handsome.”
“What’s the difference? They both mean good-looking.”
Davy was hardly an expert on definitions. His limited schooling barely enabled him to read and write—if you could call the scrawls he put on paper writing. His letters always contrived to resemble the scratchings made in dirt by chickens inebriated on corn mash. “It’s a convention, is all,” he lamely explained.
“What’s that?”
“Conventions are the normal way folks do things. For instance, men wear pants and women don’t. Some men grow beards and women don’t. They’re conventions.”
“I’ve seen women wear pants.”
“Well, so have I. But not many.”
“So conventions can be changed, can’t they?”
“I reckon. They’re not ironclad.”
“Then if I want to call a man pretty, I can.”
Davy chuckled. “Too bad there aren’t any women in politics. When you grow up, you’d make a right fine congressman or senator.”
“Why aren’t there any women?”
How should he answer? Davy asked himself. With the truth, or sugarcoat it? “Think of life as one big wagon. Men have hogged the reins for so long, they don’t want to give them up.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No one ever claimed life would be, princess. It’s a growing process. Just like trees and the grass grow, so do we. But where they send their roots deeper, we get smarter. Or we should, if our thinkers haven’t turned to fat from never being used.”
Becky laughed. “You talk funny at times, Mr. Crockett. You know that?”
The Irishman and the girl made small talk until noon. Mainly she talked and he listened. He learned that her father had worked at a number of jobs before going to work for Alexander Dugan, and that it had bothered Becky, because the family never lived in any one place for very long. She would no sooner make a friend or two than the family would up and move again.
The impression he had was of a deeply unhappy childhood. “I’m sorry it was that way,” he commented.
Becky shrugged. “So was I, for the longest while. But now my mom and Jon are together, and we’re going to go to the Oregon Country and live in a wonderful house forever and ever. I’ll have all the friends I could ever want.” Clasping her hands, she cast glowing eyes to the heavens. “I’ll be so glad.”
The sun was directly overhead when one of the Kanza warriors pointed straight ahead and said something that excited the others.
Davy looked, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. However, in another few minutes, a ragged line of objects appeared on the horizon, objects that grew in size and clarity to become a belt of trees.
Flavius slid off the lazy seat. “Must be water,” he declared. Like Davy, he had been concerned about their dwindling supply.
White Feather sent the youngest warrior on at a brisk trot. That left four, and two of them were carrying the bundled weapons.
Davy dragged his heels, drifting toward his companion. “This is our chance,” he whispered. “If we can get our hands on our guns ... ”
The thought did not need to be finished. Flavius glanced at the pair with the bundle, then at White Feather and the fourth warrior, who were on the other side of the oxen. “How do you want to play it?”
“We could use a distraction,” Davy said, and was as surprised as Flavius when Becky blossomed at their side. “I can help.”
Flavius motioned her away. “No. It’s too dangerous. Go inside with your ma.”
“You’re both spoilsports,” Becky said. Sticking her tongue at Flavius, she skipped toward the front of the team, her limp barely noticeable. Humming merrily, she went past the lead oxen.
White Feather called out. The Kanza had made it plain that no one was to stray far from the wagon. When Becky did not heed him, the chief hurried to catch her. The other warrior trailed along.
The pair carrying the bundle slowed to watch. They were smiling, amused at the child’s antics, and neither seemed to care that Davy and Flavius had strayed behind the wagon and were close to them.
Davy saw Becky zigzagging to elude White Feather, who was grinning. The Indians were being playful, not threatening. Bending, he whispered urgently, “Now!”
Flavius pounced on the nearest Kanza. In order not to open his wound, he lashed out with a leg rather than a fist, catching the warrior across the shins. Yelping, the man crashed down.
The second warrior had the reflexes of a panther. Releasing his burden, he skipped aside, dodging a fist Davy threw at his jaw. Davy closed in, anticipating stiff resistance, but the Kanza danced backward, holding both hands out and saying the same word over and over.
In another moment, Davy had the bundle undone and was holding one of his pistols. Cocking the hammer, he pointed it at the Kanza on the ground, who yipped and scuttled off.
The yell brought White Feather and the last warrior. They hastened back, neither attempting to unlimber their bows or draw a knife. Halting ten feet away, White Feather signed, “No quarrel! No quarrel!”
Flavius claimed his rifle. Checking it, he turned it on the leader. “I should blow a hole in him, the ornery polecat.”
Davy grabbed the barrel. “No. They didn’t harm us. We’ll let them go if they back down.”
White Feather came forward, gesturing frantically. “Peace! No fight! Indian friend.”
“What’s he flapping his fingers about?” Flavius asked.
“He doesn’t want any trouble.”
“Then tell him and the rest to skedaddle.”
The two warriors who had been responsible for the bundle had joined their fellows. A heated exchange erupted, White Feather against the other three. At last the leader prevailed, but the others were none too pleased. White Feather faced around. “Gun grass. We no injure.”
Davy signed an emphatic, “No!” He was not going to put the weapons down. “Go,” he added. “No friend. You no true.” He had accused the leader of not speaking with a straight tongue, of being deceitful. “You bad heart.”
A lanky warrior gripped White Feather’s arm and motioned for them to leave but White Feather was stubborn. Taking another step, he signed, “Give me gun. Go with us.”
Davy signed that he would not. White Feather came closer. Violence was on the verge of breaking out when a shrill cry intruded.
“Mr. Crockett! Help me! I’m stuck!”
All this while, t
he wagon had continued westward, the oxen lumbering dumbly onward, since no one had commanded them to halt. In their path was Becky, desperately tugging at her left leg.
“She’s caught in a prairie dog hole,” Flavius said. Until that moment, Davy had overlooked the telltale earthen mounds that dotted the area. Prairie dog villages were a common sight, best avoided, since the oxen or the bay might step into a burrow and break a leg. “Pull harder!” he yelled.
Heather appeared at the back of the wagon. “What is all the shouting about?” she hollered. “What’s going on?”
Becky had gripped her ankle and was yanking with all her might. The oxen were less than ten feet from her, narrowing the gap with each ponderous stride. “Ma! Ma! Help!”
Davy couldn’t believe the oxen would trample her. They were dumb brutes, but surely not that dumb. He bolted to her rescue as Heather swung over the gate and dropped.
“Where’s my daughter? What’s wrong?”
Davy flew past, not wasting a second. The team was eight feet from the girl. Then seven. He passed the rear animals and bellowed for them to stop. The oxen obeyed, but they were too massive and slow-witted to halt very quickly. The lead pair were six feet from Becky. Five. Four.
In a long leap, Davy slanted beyond them, seized Becky under the arms, and literally tore her from the prairie dog hole. She cried out as they tumbled and rolled, Davy cushioning her with his body. As they rose, he discovered that the team was standing on the exact spot she had occupied.
“Thank you,” the girl said softly. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Heather was beside herself. Sweeping the child into her arms, she blurted, “Are you all right? What was that all about? You scared me half to death.”
The wagon blocked Davy’s view of Flavius and the Kanzas. Hurrying around to the other side of the team, he saw Flavius on the ground, the four warriors on top. They were endeavoring to pin his arms and legs, but he was putting up stiff resistance in spite of his wound.
Davy sprinted toward them. Venting a Creek war whoop when he was close, he joined into the fray. Two of the warriors rose to meet him, but he bowled them over as if they were scarecrows. Spinning, he planted a solid fist on the chin of a warrior who had hold of Flavius’s right arm. He was cocking his fist for another swing when the first pair piled onto him. In a whirlwind of hands and feet, they went down.
Grunting and heaving, Davy dislodged one. The other clung to him like glue. When he tried to rise, the man wrapped sinewy arms around his legs, hampering him. He punched the warrior’s back, to no effect.
Somewhere, someone screamed. Davy thought it was Becky, and struggled again to regain his feet. Another Kanza smashed onto him. Driven onto his stomach, Davy felt knees gouge into his spine, into his legs. His arms were clamped in twin vises and he was roughly hoisted erect.
Nearby, Flavius was already upright, similarly held by the warrior who had been with White Feather and another warrior whom Davy did not recognize. The significance of that eluded him until he looked up and saw that a ring of Kanzas surrounded them, some with arrows nocked to curved bows, others with drawn knives or war clubs.
White Feather was brushing off his new red blanket. Ruffled but dignified, he aligned it over his shoulder, then raised an arm aloft.
“What the hell!” Flavius fumed. “Where did these new ones come from?” He was peeved at himself for being taken by surprise when he had them covered, and even more so for allowing Davy to persuade him not to shoot every one when the chance presented itself.
There were seventeen, all told, various ages, attired in virtually identical loincloths and moccasins. At White Feather’s insistence, their weapons were lowered. Davy and Flavius were released, the guns were gathered up, and in due course they were on the move again, now guarded by six warriors apiece.
Heather and Becky had been escorted to the wagon. Becky was peering out the front. “I tried to warn you,” she said. “They came out of nowhere.”
That was not quite the case, as Davy and Flavius were to learn when they reached the trees. Verdant vegetation lined a shallow river, and along its bank had been erected over forty small lodges, crafted from slim willow poles layered with hides, straw, and dirt.
“Hovels,” Flavius branded them.
Davy had to admit that the huts were a poor excuse for human habitation. Flimsy and filthy, they were utterly unlike the regal, picturesque buffalo-hide lodges of the Lakotas and the sturdy wigwams of the Chippewas. His hunch that the Kanzas were a poor tribe had not done them justice; they were miserably poor.
They were also crop growers. Plots of beans, pumpkins, corn, and other vegetables had been sown. Narrow irrigation ditches diverted water. Poor though they were, the Kanzas were clever and resourceful.
Men, women, and children gathered in the center of the village. The women were stouter than the men and scantily clad, when they were clad at all. The way the children frolicked and gambled about reminded Davy of painter cubs. They would not stop running up to him and plucking at his leggings, as if to assure themselves that he was real.
The wagon proved a marvel to the Kanzas. The entire tribe circled it, running their hands over team and bed alike.
When Heather threw back the blanket she had draped over the back and climbed down with Becky, the Kanzas were awestruck. Her blond hair shimmered in the sunlight like burnished copper, and the Kanza women could not stop feeling it and rubbing the ends between their fingers.
White Feather stood in front of a lodge slightly larger than the rest, the red blanket adorning his chest in a grand splash of color. Two older women fawned over him as he preened with head held high.
The bundle of weapons had been deposited near White Feather’s hut. Davy considered trying to reach his pistols, but the hopeless odds dissuaded him. His best estimate was that the village contained three dozen warriors, another dozen older men, perhaps seventy women, and a score of children.
Flavius simmered with resentment. It wasn’t bad enough being taken captive. Now he must endure the humiliation of torture and lingering death.
Visions of horrid torments filled Flavius’s head, of having his ears and nose hacked off, his tongue ripped out. Of having his fingers chopped off, or his gut sliced open and his intestines used to strangle him. It had happened to others. Such gory tales were common fare at taverns in the East, tales of the barbaric heathens who occupied the uncharted West and preyed on unwary trappers, traders, and travelers.
Flavius had never figured it would happen to him. He’d looked forward to dying in his rocking chair or his bed. Peacefully, preferably painlessly.
A trio of young boys were shyly studying him. One stuck out his stomach and waddled like a dog, eliciting gay mirth. Flavius snarled at them, but they only laughed harder.
At that point a warrior dashed into the village from the east. Most of the Kanzas were too preoccupied to notice. Davy saw the warrior run to White Feather, point at the prairie, and ramble on at length. White Feather acted pleased by the report. Clapping the warrior’s shoulder, the chief came to an open space near the wagon and got everyone’s attention by yipping loud and long.
The tribe listened attentively. At the conclusion of White Feather’s address, the leathery Kanza walked over to the frontiersmen. “Be glad. I think hard. Trouble over.”
Davy did not understand, and signed as much. The Kanza responded at length, shocking Davy.
“What is it?” Flavius coaxed.
“We’re not their prisoners.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“We’re honored guests.”
“Tell this geezer his people have a mighty peculiar way of being friendly.”
“That’s just it. They did all this for our benefit.” Davy elaborated. “A small party of Pawnees found our camp and were spying on us. The Kanzas were afraid that the Pawnees would ambush us if we went on by ourselves, so White Feather brought us here for our own protection.”
Flavius was i
nclined to rate the story as sheer cock-and-bull if not for the sincere expression of relief worn by White Feather.
“They were watching the Pawnees this whole time. The man who just arrived reported that they’ve gone north. The danger is over.”
“Well, now,” Flavius said, and coughed. “See? You shouldn’t have made such a fuss when they took our guns. I knew all along that everything would turn out just fine.”
Chapter Eight
Davy Crockett liked the Kanzas. They were a simple people. Not simpleminded, as some whites would have it. Simply—simple. They delighted in the small pleasures life offered: eating, conversation, fellowship. Laughter bubbled from them as naturally as foam in rapids. A ready smile was on everyone’s lips, young and old alike.
By the second day, Davy felt right at home. The Kanzas went out of their way to make him feel welcome. For example, all he had to do was express hunger and he was offered more food than he could eat. Not lavish fare, by any standard. Deer meat and rabbit were common. Vegetables were abundant.
In the evenings, the whole tribe would gather around. White Feather would ask questions of their guests, and the answers sparked mirth as often as awe. When Davy mentioned that white men floated on rivers in enormous lodges that belched smoke and steam, the village pealed with gaiety. They believed he was telling a whopper of a tale, and he couldn’t blame them. Some things had to be seen to be believed.
Flavius Harris did what Flavius always did best; he sulked. He was eager to return to their canoe and resume their journey down the Mississippi. Begrudgingly, he grew fond of the Kanzas, especially the children. Many of the little ones became attached to him and would follow him wherever he went. The boy who had poked fun at his belly became a second shadow, imitating everything Flavius did, from how he ate to how he scratched himself.
It helped that Flavius was allowed to eat as often and as much as he wanted. The second day there, four warriors showed up with a large buck and a doe, hung from poles. As fast as you please, women had the deer skinned and butchered and roasting over several fires at once.
Flavius was personally handed a portion of juicy haunch. He dug into it with relish, ripping off great chunks with his teeth and chewing slowly to savor the taste. His second shadow mimicked every bite, every expression. Flavius laughed and clapped the boy on the back so hard that he nearly pitched onto his face.
Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 8
