A tall Kanza who had raised his arms to the sky in token greeting of the new day was smashed backward by a bullet that tore into his forehead and burst out the back of his skull.
A woman carrying a jug toward the river cried out as she was struck between the shoulder blades. Arms flung outward, she smashed onto her face.
Several women returning from the river were laughing and joking one second, sprawled lifeless on the ground the next.
Two small boys, playing among the lodges, were ripped asunder by multiple shots and slumped earthward in miserable crumpled heaps.
“What the hell!” Flavius bellowed. Clutching one of his pistols, he pointed it at the cloud of smoke that had billowed from the undergrowth, and fired. Whether he brought down one of the unseen raiders, he couldn’t say.
For a few moments, the firing died down. The Kanza lay everywhere, women wailing, stricken children crying, bloody warriors groaning.
Davy shoved Becky under the wagon beside Flavius. As he did, the blanket above them was thrown aside. Heather filled the opening, worry for her daughter rendering her careless.
“What is it? Who’s doing all the shooting?”
Davy hurled himself upward. He cleared the top of the gate and swung an arm around her waist, propelling her onto the pile of possessions a split second before the next blistering volley rang out.
“What are you—?” Heather squealed in astonishment, only to have her outcry smothered by the rending and shattering of wood as multiple slugs drilled through the sides of the wagon.
Davy held her down, an arm over both their heads. Outside, a man was roaring in what sounded like English, but Davy could not quite make out the words. Bullets stopped striking the bed. “Stay down,” he directed Heather, and snaked to the gate to see what was happening.
More Kanzas were down. The warriors were rallying, though. Those who had been in their lodges burst into the open with arrows notched to bows. A flight of arrows whizzed into the trees, and a shriek showed that at least one shaft scored.
Foremost among the defenders was White Feather, conspicuous in his red blanket. At his direction, the Kanzas formed a skirmish line, firing as swiftly as they could unleash their shafts. Thick as a swarm of bees, the arrows zinged into the growth. The firing of the attackers dwindled, as if the barrage was having an effect. But then, when White Feather gestured and the warriors advanced, another volley erupted, only this time it came from the north, not the east.
Davy divined the awful truth in a flash of insight. The raiders had split their force, positioning half to the north, to catch the defenders at just the right moment. In horror, he saw the Kanzas go down, fully half of the warriors writhing in torment or lying lifeless. Scarlet blood pumped from gaping wounds. Shattered faces and ruptured torsos testified to the marksmanship of the attackers.
The Kanzas wavered. White Feather valiantly tried to rally them, but many bolted for their lodges and their families.
It was then that a great yell was heard, coming from the woods. The language was Kanzan, spoken awkwardly, Davy noticed, as if the man who spoke it was not all that proficient. But proficient enough. Whatever was said had an effect. The warriors stopped milling and glanced at one another in confusion. White Feather faced the woods and responded.
From out of the bushes stepped a short, thick man in buckskins. Bearded and grungy, he wore a floppy hat and held a Hawken rifle. Smirking devilishly, he exchanged words with White Feather, whose countenance grew dour. Finally, the chief turned to his warriors and issued commands in a strained tone.
Davy was flabbergasted when, one by one by one, the Kanzas cast down their bows and discarded their quivers. Knives and war clubs were also put aside.
No sooner were the defenders unarmed than figures materialized among the tree trunks. About thirty of them, by Davy’s quick count. Half to the east, half to the north. Rifles leveled, they closed on the village, halting at the perimeter.
Next to the stocky man in the floppy hat was a tall, broad-shouldered individual who wore city clothes; a black suit, frilly white shirt, cloak, and silk hat. He looked as out of place there in the wilderness as the stocky frontiersman would look at an opera.
Yet no one would dare point it out or laugh at him, for the tall man radiated a potent presence, a force of will, so to speak, that set him apart from ordinary men.
Leonine head held high, hands resting on the silver-inlaid butts of expensive flintlocks tucked under the finest leather belt money could purchase, the tall man entered the village, and strode up to White Feather. The stocky frontiersman tagged along, a hyena in the wake of a lion.
White Feather squared his shoulders. Though defeated, his tribesmen wounded or dead on all sides, women and children pleading pitiably for aid, he jutted his chin in bold defiance.
The tall man stopped. In a voice that boomed like a brass bell, he said to his stocky companion. “Tell this wretch, Rickert, that no more of his people will be harmed if they do exactly as I say.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dugan, sir,” Rickert answered meekly. He opened his mouth, but Dugan touched his shoulder.
“I wasn’t done, cretin. Also inform these vermin that they will provide food and drink for my entire company, without complaint. After they have tended to their wounded, of course. We’re not heartless savages like they are, after all.”
“I understand, sir.”
White Feather listened impassively, then replied. Rickert translated as the chief went along. “He says that his people will do whatever we want. He begs us not to hurt any more of them.” White Feather paused and surveyed the slaughter. “He asks why we did this. He wants to know what his people ever did to us that we should cut them down without mercy. He says, what manner of men are we that we can shoot unarmed women and children? That we can—”
“Enough!” Alexander Dugan snapped, slicing the air with a gloved hand. “Who is this heathen to question my motives? Instruct him to see to those who were hurt. But he is to stay with us at all times. One wrong move by any of his followers, and you are to kill him—instantly. Be sure the cur comprehends.”
“White Feather, sir.”
“What?”
“His name is White Feather.”
“As if I care,” Dugan said, and brushing past the chief, he stalked toward the wagon. Half a dozen men flanked him, protecting him. Some wore buckskins. Others wore the garb of river rats. Among the latter was Benchley.
Davy was going to rise up and show himself when fingers clutched his arm. Heather was quaking, her lovely face as white as a sheet.
“He’s found us! Oh, God! Shoot him, Davy! Shoot now, before he sees us! While you still can!”
The Tennessean balked at the notion of shooting anyone—even a butcher like Dugan—from ambush. He had never killed an enemy who did not have a chance to defend himself. It went against his grain.
“Oh, hell!” Heather cried, and tearing Liz from Davy’s hand, she heaved up, taking aim at her stepfather, who stopped abruptly, eyes widening.
The men with Dugan reacted on impulse, elevating their own guns to cut Heather down. Davy lunged, batting the rifle aside with one hand while throwing his other arm around her and pinning her to the side of the wagon.
“No!” Heather protested. “Let me go! He must be stopped! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“I’m saving you from being killed,” Davy said, but it was no use. She kicked and battered him, seeking to break free.
Alexander Dugan composed himself and came on, a jerk of his arm sufficient to have his men lower their rifles. Smugly, he said, “Quit struggling, my dear. The fellow has done you a tremendous favor.”
Under the wagon, Flavius Harris had his own hands full. He had been holding Becky close the whole time, shielding her with his own body. When she heard her mother’s shout, she tried to cry out and scramble past the rear wheel. Flavius clamped a hand over her mouth and would not let go. Into her ear, he whispered, “Be still, girl. They might not spot
us under here.”
It was just possible. The wagon was wide enough that unless someone hunkered and peeked underneath, they’d escape notice.
Above them, Davy Crockett had taken Liz from Heather. Immediately, he was covered by the cutthroats who accompanied Dugan. Holding the rifle by the stock and the barrel, Davy carefully lowered it, leaning it against the wagon, well out of Heather’s reach.
Alexander Dugan wore an enigmatic smile. “I’ve always admired men with intelligence. It’s a mark of greatness when a person keeps their wits about them in a crisis.” He stepped to the wagon. “I should know. I always keep mine about me.”
Davy decided then and there that Alexander Dugan was as full of himself as a balloon was full of hot air. Any fuller, and Dugan might well burst at the seams.
Suddenly Benchley glided forward and said over Dugan’s shoulder, “That’s him, sir.”
“To whom are you referring, Rufus?”
“That guy, there,” Benchley said, pointing at Davy. “He’s the bastard I told you about, the one who killed Sontag.”
Dugan’s dark smoldering eyes focused on the Tennessean. “Do tell. Well, we will resolve that issue later. Right this minute, I want to see my granddaughter. Where is she, Heather?”
Under the wagon, Becky attempted once again to slip from Flavius’s grasp. She was an eel, slippery and clever, and it was all Flavius could do to hold on.
Davy was holding his hands out from his sides, making no attempt to unlimber his pistols. Benchley eyed him as if he were a piglet fit for butchering; the river rat wanted revenge for Sontag, Davy guessed.
“I’m waiting,” Alexander Dugan said when Heather did not respond promptly.
“I don’t know where she is, damn you.” Leaning down, she shook a fist at him. “Did you ever stop to think that one of us might have been hit when you fired on these poor, peaceful Indians? Isn’t it bad enough that Jon may never fully recover from the other day?”
“The other day? What are you talking about?”
Heather lanced a thumb at Benchley. “Rufus and his friends. They opened fire on us. Nearly killed Becky and me. Jon took a bullet.” Her words were choked off by commingled rage and sorrow. Coughing, she spat, “I knew you were a monster, Alex. But I never figured you would stoop so low as to endanger Becky.”
Alexander Dugan flushed. His craggy features as flinty as quartz, he pivoted. “Is this true, Rufus? You fired on them after I gave specific instructions to the contrary?”
Rufus Benchley’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Hamlin fired on us first, Mr. Dugan.” He shrugged. “Besides, we aimed high so as not to hit anyone. All we wanted was to scare Hamlin into turning Heather and the girl over, like you ordered.”
Dugan’s hand lashed out and clamped on the river rat’s chin. Thick fingers squeezed. Although Benchley was bigger and broader, he gulped and did not lift a hand to protect himself.
“Rufus, Rufus, Rufus,” Dugan said, in the manner of a parent scolding an overzealous child. “How many times must I make myself clear? My directions are always to be carried out to the letter. When I told you that I did not want you to open fire on the wagon, I damn well meant it!”
Alexander Dugan had to be immensely strong. With a short flick of his arm, he threw Benchley to the ground. A pistol sprang into his hand. Cocking it, Dugan pointed the weapon at the river rat’s face, the muzzle nearly brushing the tip of Benchley’s wide nose.
Benchley froze, petrified. A tiny squeak escaped him and his hands trembled uncontrollably. The other men held their collective breath, not one rash enough to interfere.
Slowly, the redness in Dugan’s features faded. Pursing his lips, he let the hammer down and jammed the pistol back under his elaborately tooled belt. “Never let it be said that Alexander Dugan can’t be merciful,” he announced. “You’ve been a competent, loyal employee for many years now, Rufus. This is the first time you’ve ever let me down.”
“True.” Benchley grasped at the straw. “Honest, boss. I’m sorry for the mistake. I was only trying to get them back for you, to make you happy.”
Like someone patting a dog that had earned a bone, Alexander Dugan patted the bearish river rat’s head. “Relax, Rufus. No real harm was done. In fact, you’ve done me a marvelous service.” Dugan faced Heather. “Is there any prospect of Hamlin dying?” he asked hopefully.
Heather was out of the wagon before anyone could think to stop her. Fingernails bared, she tore into her stepfather, a female fury gone berserk. Her first swing raked his cheek. Then Dugan grasped her wrists, holding her at arm’s length until her struggles ceased.
“There, now. Is the childishness out of your system?” Dugan pushed her against the wagon, straightened, and smoothed his jacket and cloak. “Honestly, Heather. There are times when you act half your age.”
Heather sagged, defeated, tears streaking her cheeks. “You miserable son of a bitch.”
“Is that any way for lady to talk?” Dugan rose onto the tips of his toes to see into the wagon. Studying Hamlin, he said offhandedly, “He was hit in the head? How bad is it?”
Davy answered. “He’s blind.”
“You don’t say?”
“The Kanzas have helped us treat him, but he’s shown no sign of improvement.”
Over the years, Davy had learned that sometimes a single act or expression could reveal a lot about a person. Alexander Dugan’s next act disclosed all there was worth knowing about the most powerful man in St. Louis. It bared his true nature to the world. It illuminated the vile depths of wickedness to which human beings could sink: Alexander Dugan smiled.
“How fitting. He tried to steal my granddaughter from me, and fate repaid him. Justice has been served.”
Heather heaved upright. “ Justice? Was it just of you to forbid me to see Jon? Was it just of you to threaten to take me to court if I didn’t obey?”
Dugan was unaffected by her outburst. “I didn’t merely threaten, my dear. As you’ll recall, I carried through on my promise. It’s the reason I’m here. You defied me. You defied the judge. You defied the law. Blame yourself, if you must blame anyone. Hamlin’s condition is on your shoulders, not mine.”
Heather coiled as if to tear into him again. With a lithe bound, Davy Crockett vaulted from the wagon and landed in front of her just as she pounced. He held her back, braced for a frenzy. Instead, Heather collapsed against him, sobbing pitiably.
Alexander Dugan sniffed, then commanded, “My granddaughter! Find her, gentlemen! Half of you search the village. The other half keep an eye on the heathens. Be quick about it!”
Dugan’s lieutenants, Benchley and Rickert, barked orders, dividing the men. Benchley’s half stood guard while Rickert’s bunch fanned out to poke their heads into every lodge and check behind every tree.
This whole time, the Kanzas had been ministering to the wounded and carrying the dead to a grassy tract adjacent to the river. Grief-stricken wails and shrieks rose in a steady, mournful chorus. Dogs had come out of hiding to lap at puddles of blood. One brazen canine commenced chewing on the corpse of a young woman. Her husband sprang on it with flying fists and pummeled it so severely that when it finally slid out of his grasp, blood poured from its mouth and nostrils. It staggered eight or nine yards, then keeled over.
White Feather was misery personified. Heartbroken by the suffering of his people, he stood with head bowed, shoulders slumped.
Alexander Dugan was unmoved by the carnage. Arms folded, he surveyed the scene without a hint of emotion.
When a woman who had been shot in the stomach writhed in the arms of those seeking to help her, and screamed so shrilly that the short hairs on Davy’s neck prickled, Alexander Dugan did not bat an eye.
When a warrior whose jaw had been blown off stumbled past, Alexander Dugan gazed at the Kanza in cold disdain.
When a little girl who had part of her leg shot away was borne past in the arms of her mother, Alexander Dugan stepped back so the blood dripping from the girl would not s
platter his polished boots.
Davy had never met anyone quite like him before. Dugan held himself aloof from the rest of the world, as if he were superior to the vast majority of humankind and all lesser beings were beneath his notice.
The Tennessean could not help himself. “Don’t you care?” he blurted.
“About what, pray tell?”
Davy encompassed the village with a sweep of an arm. “The bloodshed. The anguish you’ve caused.”
“They’re Indians,” Dugan said, as if that justified the deed.
“Indians are people, too.”
Alexander Dugan laughed gustily. “I overestimated your intelligence, it appears. Heathens are scum. Cattle, if you will. Stamping them out is the same as stamping on ants, or crushing maggots. It’s not worth troubling the conscience about.”
Heather stopped weeping. Dabbing at her eyes, she said bitterly, “Save your breath, Davy. My dear stepfather has a heart of ice, if he has a heart at all.”
“Oh, come now,” Dugan said. “Were I as callous as you claim, would I be so concerned about the welfare of my granddaughter?”
“Concerned?” Brittle scorn laced Heather’s tone. “All you care about is yourself. You want to take her from me to punish me for not living my life as you see fit.”
“Let’s not get into that again.”
Heather was on the verge of tears. “If only I were a man!” she snarled.
“It would be easier all around,” Dugan conceded. “A man would know better than to wed below his station. First you married that fool, Tom Fitzgerald. Then after he died, you fell for a worthless specimen like Jonathan Hamlin. Detect a trend?”
It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Or, in this case, Heather’s self-control. Venting a low, bestial growl, she threw herself at her stepfather. This time Davy was not quite fast enough. She clawed at Dugan’s eyes, at his neck. Dugan was driven backward, caught off-balance. Fortunately for him, Benchley and two others sprang to his defense and seized her.
Red streaks marred Dugan’s cheeks. Touching a forefinger to a furrow, he stared at the blood on his fingertip. “Any vestige of feeling I had for you, girl, is now gone. May God forgive you, because I never will.”
Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 10
