Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  It was shortly after the meal, after the sun had gone down, that Davy strolled to the wagon. He rapped on the bed. The blanket was pulled aside by Becky.

  “Mr. Crockett!”

  “It’s Davy, remember? Just plain Davy.” Crockett peered past her at a lantern suspended from the frame that supported the cloth cover. “How’s Jonathan faring?”

  Heather came from the front, saying, “Better. Much better. His fever has broken, but he’s still weak as can be.” She bit her lower lip. “He still can’t see, though. I keep a compress on his head, like the old squaw told me to, but it hasn’t helped any.”

  The old squaw was a kind elderly woman versed in herbal remedies and other treatments. Most tribes, Davy had found, knew how to make medicine from a variety of plants. So extensive was their knowledge of what each and every plant could do, it bordered on the remarkable.

  And in every tribe there was one or two who were more adept than most. Among the Lakotas, it had been a wizened man. Here among the Kanza, it happened to be a woman called Red Flower. She was spry for her age, always smiling and carefree, not minding one whit that three of her front teeth were missing. She had been kicked by a buffalo cow, Davy learned, back when she was young.

  “Give it time,” he told Heather. “We can stay as long as it takes.”

  “I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be better to head for St. Louis? The doctors there might be able to do a lot more for him.”

  Davy was blunt. “I doubt it. Even if they could, Jon is in no shape to travel. He’ll need a week or more just to get his strength back.”

  “Another week,” Heather said forlornly. Davy turned to go, but she leaned down and grasped his shirt. “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done. If you hadn’t come along when you did, I shudder to think what would have happened.”

  “We were happy to be of help,” Davy said, and walked off. He had not gone six feet when Flavius seemed to pop up out of the ground.

  “Did I just hear correctly? One more week?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “At the rate we’re going, I’ll have white hair before I set foot in my cabin again.”

  “They say white hair makes a man look distinguished.”

  “Who says it? Those with white hair?” Flavius puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily. “Maybe I should learn the Kanza tongue and build me a lodge.” He adopted a wry grin. “Some of the younger women ain’t half bad. I could always marry one and settle down to a life of deer meat and dirt.”

  Davy headed for a fire, his friend falling into step. “Goodness gracious. You’d be a bigamist. One wife per customer is the general rule, as I recollect.”

  “I used to wonder about that,” Flavius said. “I always figured the women came up with that brainstorm so there would be enough men to go around.” He paused. “Now I think the men made the rule out of self-preservation.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Being hitched to one woman is enough to drive a man to drink. Being wed to two or more would drive a fellow plumb mad.”

  White Feather, half a dozen prominent warriors, and twice as many women and children were in a circle, listening to an ancient man relate a story. Davy had picked up a smattering of their tongue, a few words here, a few there, but not enough to get the gist of the old man’s tale. He sank cross-legged beside White Feather, who wore the red blanket over both shoulders as if it were an oversize shawl.

  The old man talked on. White Feather translated using sign talk. The tale had to do with the old days, back before the coming of the whites, back when the Kanza lived far to the southeast in a country where the weather was always warm and they could grow crops every month of the year.

  The tribe had always been small, always weaker than their neighbors. In those days, they had been under the protection of a mighty tribe that built great mounds and wore masks that shone like the sun.

  These mound builders had been giants, claimed the ancient Kanza, twice the size of normal men and five times as strong. Mighty fighters, time and again they staved off incursions by other tribes into their territory.

  For generation upon generation, the Kanzas had tilled the soil, giving part of each harvest to the giants who protected them. The Kanzas prospered, and were content.

  Then one day the giants began to die off. The invincible warriors who could not be defeated in combat were slain by a mysterious sickness that killed them with chilling suddenness. It was rumored that the sickness had been spread by a captive, a strange paleskin who wore garments no one had ever seen and spoke in a tongue no one understood.

  With the mound builders gone, the Kanzas were on their own. Hostile tribes raided them with impunity. Their situation became dire, so much so that their leaders decided to leave their homeland and seek somewhere safe to live.

  The trek had been long and hard. Many perished along the way, from want of food and drink, or from the arrows and lances of roving war parties.

  Decimated, the Kanzas arrived at the river that now bore their name. The region appealed to them. Game was abundant, the soil rich. They broke into bands and claimed the territory as their own. For a while, all had gone well.

  The Kanzas always preferred to live in peace with their neighbors. Unfortunately, it turned out that some of their neighbors did not have the word peace in their vocabulary.

  To the south dwelled the warlike Comanches, master horsemen, undisputed lords of their domain. To the northwest were the Pawnees, who, like the Kanzas, cultivated the soil. But the Pawnees were warriors first and foremost. They plagued the Kanzas, raiding at will. Horses gave them an advantage the Kanzas could never overcome.

  Davy asked White Feather why the Kanzas did not have horses of their own. Two reasons, the chief said. For one thing, the only way the Kanzas could obtain them would be to raid the Pawnees or the Comanches—which was certain suicide. For another, the Kanzas were intimidated by horses.

  The first time the tribe had seen a man on horseback, they had thought it was some bizarre new creature, some strange fusion of human and monster.

  Once, many moons ago, a band of Kanzas had found two horses wandering on the plain. They had tried to tame the pair, but the horses proved too wild. One man broke a leg, another an arm. To add insult to injury, the horses were later stolen by the Comanches.

  So now the Kanzas did without. They wanted nothing to do with Hamlin’s bay. Where the Lakota or Cheyenne would have taken the horse right off, the Kanzas gave it a wide berth. Davy had to see that it was fed and watered himself.

  The ancient Kanza came to the end of his recital. The thrust of his story had been that while times were hard for his people, they had been a lot harder long ago. The Kanzas should be thankful, he said, for a river that never dried up, for game that never died off, and for the coming of the whites, whose trade goods were keenly sought.

  White Feather turned to Davy, hands flying. The Kanzas would always welcome their white brothers with wide arms, the chief said. And they hoped that their white brothers would be equally open.

  Everyone looked expectantly at Davy. Nervous under their scrutiny, he started to assure them that whites were always ready to deal honestly and peaceably with Indians. But it was a lie, of course. Any number of whites would as soon slit an Indian’s throat as look at him. So Davy compromised. He told them that he was glad to be their friend, and that whenever he was in the area, he would stop by to trade.

  As a rule, the Kanzas turned in early. By eight o’clock, most had retired to their lodges.

  Davy rose and stretched his leg muscles by taking a stroll around the village perimeter. He came to the river and stood on the bank. Reflected on the surface was the full moon, the image distorted by the current. Craning his neck, he gazed skyward.

  So many stars! Davy thought. City-dwellers had no idea what they were missing. Out here on the plains, the heavens swarmed with a myriad of twinkling pinpoints, too many to count, so many that it made a body’s head swim to contemplate the eno
rmity of Creation.

  Davy had heard tell that with a telescope, ten times as many stars were visible. He had never looked through one, himself, but he believed it. Ten times! And there were those who believed that if a powerful enough telescope could be made, the stars would been seen to go on forever and ever.

  It dazzled the senses. It made a man feel as if he were a mere speck in the giant scheme of things. As if he were a dot of dirt in the middle of the prairie, or a drop of water in the river flowing by.

  A twig crunched behind him.

  Automatically, Davy whirled, leveling Liz. He must have scared Becky out of two months’ growth. “What are you doing out so late, young lady?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I saw you walking around and decided to join you.”

  “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  “She’s asleep. Passed out on Jon’s chest, she was so tired.” The girl stepped to the water’s edge, squatted, and dipped a finger. “Cold, isn’t it? Mom says I need to take a bath tomorrow. I’m liable to catch my death.”

  “I could use one myself,” Davy said. In contrast to Flavius and most of his other backwoods friends, he was partial to bathing. He liked to feel clean. Just as he liked to be clean shaven. His friends could jest about his quirks all they wanted, but at least when he was upwind of someone, that someone wouldn’t gag.

  Becky swirled the water. Out of the blue, she asked, “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

  “You mean Jon?”

  She nodded. “He’s a nice man, Mr. Crockett. He always treats me decent, and treats my mom like she’s a queen.” Becky rose. “Why did he have to be shot? Why did he have to go blind?”

  “It’s just life, princess.”

  “Shucks. That’s no answer.”

  Davy propped Liz against his side and held out both fists. “Pick one.”

  “What for?”

  “Humor me. Pick one.”

  The girl selected his right. “What does that prove?”

  “Why did you pick that one?”

  “I don’t know. No special reason, I guess.”

  “The same with life. Things happen sometimes for no special reason. We might trip and bust a finger. Or we’re sharpening a knife and we cut ourselves. Or maybe our horse goes wild and throws us. Any number of things can happen to us each and every day. Some of those things are good, some not so good. Like Jon being hit by the stray slug. No one planned it. It just happened.”

  “Like my father dying?”

  “Same, same.”

  “You think a lot, don’t you?”

  “I try. My grandpa liked to say that if we used our brains half as much as we do our backsides, we’d all be as smart as Solomon.” Davy held her hand. “Enough questions, little one. Let’s get you to the wagon. Your ma will throw a fit if she wakes and finds you gone.”

  “Awwww.”

  All but one fire had died out. Two old warriors were the only Kanzas up. The village was tranquil, quiet. Davy led Becky to the tongue and boosted her up. “Sleep tight.” To his surprise, she pecked his cheek. Then she was gone.

  Warm and mushy inside, Davy sauntered to the river and resumed his stroll. In the distance, coyotes yipped. A wolf howled and was answered by another. To the northwest, a painter screeched, sounding for all the world like a woman in labor. An owl voiced the eternal query of its kind.

  Davy was northeast of the village when a tiny speck of light caught his eye. It was due east, so small that he could not be confident it wasn’t a star, low down on the horizon. Yet it could also be a campfire. He strained his eyes, but could not make up his mind.

  Shrugging, Davy walked to the wagon. From under it fluttered loud snoring, reminiscent of a saw chewing into cedar. Davy lay on his side, covered himself, and plugged his ear with a finger. It did no good. Flavius made more noise than a riled grizzly. Davy lightly pushed him, but all that did was cause Flavius to sputter and snort. Finally Davy shoved him, hard.

  Flavius opened his eyes. Blinking sluggishly, he looked around. “What happened? Was that you?”

  “You’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

  “Thanks. Think I will.”

  In a moment, Flavius was sound asleep. But he had stopped snoring. Chuckling, Davy stretched out, making himself comfortable.

  A gust of wind brought with it the sounds of night life, the yips and howls and bird cries Davy had heard a while ago.

  Like the emerald hills of Tennessee, the prairie abounded with wildlife. During the day, the grass-eaters held sway, foraging to their heart’s content. Predators ruled the night. Big cats and bears and wolves and more. Some were as deadly to man as they were to the four legged quarry they hunted.

  Davy drifted into sleep. Disturbing dreams troubled him. In the first, he arrived back at his cabin only to find it burned to the ground and charred skeletons scattered about. It woke him in the middle of the night. A cold sweat chilled him as he rolled onto his other side and pulled the blanket up against his chin.

  The next dream was no better. He was on a sunny prairie, running for his life, being chased by a shadowy form that growled and rumbled and drummed the earth with heavy paws. Just as the thing was about to catch him, he awoke again, perspiring heavily.

  “Land o’ Goshen!” he breathed. “What brought that on?”

  Throwing off the blanket, Davy crawled out from under the wagon and rose. The brisk morning air cut through him like an icy knife, clear down to the marrow. His dreams, the sweating, his unease, they reminded him of a time during the Creek War, of the night before the most savage battle of the campaign. He’d had bad dreams then, too. And sweats.

  Were they omens? Or coincidence?

  Davy surveyed the village. A few dogs roamed at will. Several women were already at the river, filling water skins. The healer, Red Flower, was starting a fire. Another typical day among the Kanza, he mused, and walked to the vegetation.

  More activity was taking place when the frontiersman returned. Many of the warriors were now up and about. Some were preparing for a hunt by sharpening knives and stringing bows. Children were scampering among the lodges.

  And it was only sunrise.

  Davy checked on the oxen and the bay. They were tied at the northwest edge of the village to deter raiders. There, the trees and undergrowth were thinnest. The river was close by, so the animals could quench their thirst.

  The team and the horse were fine. But in the soft earth near the river, Davy found large cat tracks. A cougar had caught their scent, investigated, and decided not to attack. Perhaps the man-smell had scared it off. Or the smell of the dogs.

  A golden crown perched atop the shoulders of the world when Davy turned his steps to the wagon.

  Becky was filling a pot with water from the barrel. It was her job to fill the barrel each evening so her mother need not go to the river every time some was needed for Hamlin. “Good morning, Mr. Crockett,” she said warmly.

  A mongrel padded up to her, a brown and black dog with a slight limp. It belonged to a warrior named Six Toes. As a pup, it had been attacked by a bobcat, and its leg had never been the same.

  In the past couple of days, the girl and the mongrel had grown fond of each other. Davy suspected their condition had something to do with it. Other dogs had shown an interest in her, but Becky had only taken a shine to the one that limped.

  “Morning, Achilles,” she said, patting its head.

  “What did you call him?”

  “Achilles. It’s the name of a famous warrior my mom read about. He had a bad ankle.” Becky ladled more water into the pot. “She’s real fond of books. We have a box of them inside. Some she got back when she was in school. Greek stuff, she calls it.”

  Davy had no idea Heather was so well educated. One of his keenest regrets was that he had equated schooling with slavery when he was young, and resisted learning anything.

  “My mom went to a real fancy school,” Becky said. “She had to wear a special uniform every day, and
always be polite.” Becky made a comical face. “I don’t see how she stood it.”

  “Schooling does everyone good,” Davy said. “You’d learn about those Greeks, and such.”

  “All I care about is our new home in Oregon. All I want is to be a family again.”

  Achilles had stopped nuzzling her and was staring intently into the woods. Davy pivoted and saw sparrows frolicking in the brush.

  White Feather emerged, the red blanket over his head and shoulders. Only his nose, mouth, and eyes were visible. He smiled and gave a little wave, then headed for the river.

  Golden beams lit the eastern sky. In the misty haze of early morning, the sun seemed larger somehow. A blazing orb, a fiery furnace, a harbinger of the hot day to come.

  Becky finished filling the pot. Davy took it from her and walked to the rear. She reached up, then stopped and giggled when Flavius stuck his head out from under the bed and grunted like a discontented bear.

  “You should see yourself, Mr. Harris. Your hair is sticking up every which way. What little hair you have, anyway.”

  Flavius frowned at the world. “What a way to begin a new day,” he lamented.

  A low growl reached Davy’s ears. The mongrel was staring into the trees again, the hackles of its neck bristling, its lips curled back. He looked and spied the sparrows, taking wing. Something had spooked them, evidently. “What is it, boy?” he asked softly.

  The answer came in the form of a thunderclap. Not a thunderclap spawned by nature, but the collective blast of rifles being fired simultaneously. A lot of rifles, to judge by the din.

  The village was under attack.

  Chapter Nine

  The first volley was devastating. Davy ducked and yanked Becky down beside him as slugs ripped into the wagon and sent sharp slivers flying.

  Around them bedlam swirled. Warriors, women, even children were hit.