“I’m not a girl,” Heather raged. “I’m a woman! And I can live my life as I want.”
Under the wagon, Becky had stopped struggling. Flavius relaxed his grip, but he did not release her, just in case. From their vantage point, he could see booted feet moving briskly about the village, going from hut to hut. So far no one had thought to check the shadows under the wagon.
From inside the wagon came a loud groan. Davy heard movement, and a thump. He was turning to investigate when the blanket parted.
Jonathan Hamlin was ghostly pale. Hands propped against the side, he stared outward. “Heather?” he croaked. “What’s happening? Are you all right?”
Alexander Dugan snickered. “Lazarus rises. It’s too bad you’ve lost your vision, Hamlin. You can’t appreciate how pathetic you look.”
“Dugan!” Jonathan gasped and took a step forward. Unknown to him, he was inches from the loading gate. He tripped and fell.
Davy tried to catch him, but succeeded only in snatching Jonathan’s arm. Hamlin crashed onto the ground and lay stunned, his mouth working silently.
“Jon!” Heather screeched.
Spurred by her shout, Jonathan attempted to rise, but he was much too weak.
Chuckling, Alexander Dugan squatted and placed a single finger on Jonathan’s back, holding him down. “Pitiful. Why my stepdaughter has always been attracted to weaklings, I will never know.” Cuffing Jonathan lightly on the temple, Dugan began to rise, then paused, his gaze drifting under the wagon. Triumph lit his features.
“My, my. What do we have here?”
Chapter Ten
“I hate this,” Flavius Harris declared. When it did not elicit a response, he said it again, only louder. “I can’t tell you how much I hate this.”
Davy Crockett sighed. They were bound at the wrists and ankles, lying in the gloom of a small Kanza lodge. They had been there for a couple of hours, by Davy’s reckoning. His legs were stiff and cramped, his forearms nearly numb. He wriggled them every so often to keep the circulation going, but it was a losing proposition. Benchley had taken perverse delight in tying the ropes especially tight.
“This is a fine how-do-you-do,” Flavius lamented. Just when his hopes had been raised that they would soon return to their canoe, everything had gone to hell in spectacular fashion.
“It’s not as if I planned it this way.”
“I’m not blaming you personally,” Flavius said.
“The Lord knows, you were only doing what you thought was right.”
Davy could not be certain whether a note of biting sarcasm underlay the statement. “Crying over spilt milk won’t get us anywhere. We need to get free.”
“No fooling?” Flavius said, and laughed without warmth. “What I wouldn’t give for the chance to wrap my hands around that high-and-mighty bastard’s throat! Just like he did to me!”
It had happened after Alexander Dugan discovered Flavius and Becky. At gunpoint, they had been ordered to crawl out. Becky had tried to go to her mother, but Dugan swept her into his arms and gave the girl a big hug. She had to break loose, calling him mean. When Dugan held her at arm’s length and gave her a rough shake, Flavius had gone to her aid.
He should have thought twice. It had earned him a rifle stock in the gut, courtesy of Benchley. And while he writhed and sputtered on the ground, Alexander Dugan had towered over him. Fingers made of ironwood locked on his throat. He had been lifted as if he were an infant.
Dugan’s eyes had blazed into his. “And who might you be, fat man?” he had snarled. “No. Let me guess. You’re another meddler. Another fool who doesn’t know his place.”
Flavius could not have answered if his life depended on it. He had scarcely been able to breathe, and the world around him had spun dizzily.
“Don’t hurt him!” Becky had cried. “He’s my friend.”
Flavius was convinced her appeal had saved his life; there had been murder in Dugan’s blazing eyes.
Now Davy shifted to relieve a cramp in his left leg. “It’s been awful quiet outside,” he said.
Initially, loud weeping and singsong laments had risen in a mournful dirge as the Kanzas grieved for the fallen. Apparently, their highly vocal sorrow had grated on Alexander Dugan’s nerves. Dugan had hollered at them to quiet down—or else. Rickert translated, and the level of sound had dropped off. But total silence had not descended until a short while ago.
“I wonder what Lucifer is up to,” Flavius said.
Raw worry ate at Davy’s innards. Worry for Heather and Becky, for Hamlin, and for the poor Kanzas, whose kindness had reaped tragedy on a terrible scale. Fully one-third of the band had been slain or severely wounded.
A shadow filled the opening. Into the lodge came two burly cutthroats in buckskins. They cut the ropes that bound the Tennesseans’ ankles, brusquely hauled them erect, and shoved them through the opening.
Tottering, Davy blinked in the bright sunlight. His legs were sluggish, hardly able to support his weight. A rifle barrel gouged hard into his spine and pain seared from his hips to his neck.
“Move it, mister. The boss wants to see you.”
Flavius was worse off. His legs would not support him. Again and again he attempted to stand and always his knees buckled. He was kicked and jabbed and slapped until, in indignation, he fumed, “Do you think I’m doing this on purpose? You’re the ones who tied the rope too damned tight!”
One of the men yelled. Two more appeared. Flavius was hoisted up and propelled none too gently toward the wagon.
Alexander Dugan was seated on a log that had been dragged into the village just for him. On his right was Heather, downcast. On his left was Becky, streaks from dried tears staining her cheeks. Ten or so of Benchley’s men stood in a group, waiting. The rest ringed the Kanzas, who were huddled to one side, many bandaged, some groaning and moaning. Of Jonathan Hamlin, there was no sign.
Davy was pushed violently. Stumbling to his knees in front of Dugan, he slowly unfurled and matched Dugan’s icy stare. “It must be nice, thinking you’re God.”
Benchley and some of the others glanced at their employer as if expecting him to lash out. Alexander Dugan surprised them.
“I would keep a civil tongue were I you, Mr. Crockett. I’m inclined to be merciful. My stepdaughter has told me what you did. How you tracked them all the way from the Mississippi because you were worried about the dangers they would encounter. Quite remarkable, if true.”
Flavius took offense at the implication. “Oh, it’s true, all right. I tried to talk him out of it, but he can be a stubborn cuss once he’s put his mind to something.”
Dugan’s brow knit. “Does your friend always go around doing good deeds, Mr. Harris?”
“It’s sort of his life’s work.”
“Amazing,” Dugan said, and smirked at Davy. “Haven’t you heard, Mr. Crockett? Living by the golden rule will make a martyr of you.” Dugan idly brushed at a speck of dust on his sleeve. “As for my presuming to act like the Almighty, I remind you that great wealth offers certain rewards. Among them is great power. I have senators and congressmen at my beck and call. The ear of the president is mine whenever I need to speak with him.” His chest swelled. “I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. With impunity.”
“Are you trying to impress me?” Davy said. “You’re wasting your breath. I generally hold a low opinion of polecats who grind blind people into the dirt.” Davy gazed at the bodies lined up near the river. Crows and buzzards had gathered, but were keeping their distance for the time being, hungrily watching from the trees. “To say nothing of butchers who slaughter women and kids.”
“I do what I have to, and make apologies to no one,” Dugan said sternly.
Heather stirred and sneered. “That’s right, Davy. He’s perfect. He doesn’t ever need to say he’s sorry because he never does anything wrong.”
“You’re catching on at last,” her stepfather said. “And speaking of apologies, I trust you will have one to offer th
e judge when you’re hauled before him?”
“What judge?” Davy asked.
“Didn’t she tell you?” Dugan leaned back. “I took her to court, Mr. Crockett. It was my contention that she is an unfit mother. That she has no business rearing Rebecca. And the judge agreed. He awarded custody of Becky to me.” He paused. “But Heather and Hamlin whisked her away. Evidently they had the whole thing planned out in advance, in case she lost the case. Hamlin had a wagon waiting, stocked with supplies. But I wasn’t about to let them steal Becky away from me.”
“Wait a minute,” Davy said. “Heather is a fine mother. How could you get away with claiming otherwise?”
“Fine, is she?” Alexander Dugan bestowed a look of sheer contempt on his stepdaughter. “Perhaps I should tell you the whole story.”
Davy looked at Heather, who averted her face as if in shame.
“The truth of the matter, Southerner, is that Heather has always been headstrong. Even as a little girl. Whenever I would ask her to do something she didn’t want to do, such as tidying up her room, she would say that I had no right, that I wasn’t her real father.”
“A lot of children go through a rebellious spell,” Davy said, thinking of the years he had been on his own after he ran away from home.
“Hers wasn’t a spell,” Dugan said. “When she grew into young womanhood, she became worse. She always had to do things her way.” He counted off her faults on his fingers. “She associated with the wrong people. She stayed out to all hours of the night. She visited establishments no self-respecting lady ever would.”
Heather turned. “It was only a year or so. I stopped when I came to my senses.”
“Too late, I’m sorry to say. By then you had met Tom Fitzgerald. A man with little schooling and no social standing. As I recall, he had about a hundred dollars to his name when the two of you wed.”
“I loved him.”
“Love doesn’t put food on the table or keep you clothed on a cold night.” Alexander Dugan frowned. “It wouldn’t have hurt you to show an interest in some of the men I preferred.”
Tingling had developed in Davy’s forearms, followed by pain. His blood was flowing again. He flexed both arms a few times, remarking, “If you felt that way, why did you give her husband a job?”
“You know about that?” Dugan dismissed his act of kindness with a gesture. “I had to do something. Fitzgerald was always talking about going off to New York or Philadelphia or somewhere or other to make his fortune. A typical dreamer.”
Davy understood. “You gave him the job so he wouldn’t leave St. Louis?”
“Precisely. I paid that fool twice the going rate.” Dugan put a hand on Becky’s shoulder. “I would do anything to keep Rebecca near me.”
“And Hamlin?”
Alexander Dugan’s lip curled in disgust. “What needs to be said? He’s worse than Fitzgerald, if that’s possible. The man is an accountant, for crying out loud. What kind of life could he give them?”
Heather was growing angry. “Jon loves me,” she declared.
“There you go again. Love is vastly overrated.”
Davy gave voice to the question uppermost in his mind. “So what now?”
“What now, indeed?” Dugan rose and scrutinized the assembled Kanzas. “I doubt that those pathetic scum will give me any more trouble. Neither will Hamlin. Heather can raise a fuss all she wants after we get back, but the judge has ruled in my favor and there is nothing she can do about it.” Dugan stared down at Davy and rested a hand on a pistol. “That leaves you and your partner.”
Flavius did not like the thinly veiled threat. “We’re no danger to you. Let us go our own way and that’ll be the end of it. No hard feelings.”
Dugan rubbed his chin. “If only I could be certain ...”
“You can!” Flavius said. “Why should we care what you do? All we ever wanted to do was help out. We didn’t know about the judge, about you having custody. So just let us go on our way and everyone will be happy all around.”
Benchley took a half step forward. “What about Sontag, Mr. Dugan? They have to answer for him, don’t they? He was a good man, after all.”
“Yes, he was,” Alexander Dugan agreed. Clasping his hands behind his broad back, he paced in front of Davy. “I always stick up for my employees, Mr. Crockett. Harm one and you answer to me. I realize there are extenuating circumstances here. You were only protecting Heather and Becky. But that does not excuse what you did.”
“He was trying to kill me,” Davy explained. “You would have done the same.”
“Possibly. Probably, even,” Dugan admitted. “But I’m not you and you’re not me. I must satisfy my men that justice has been done.”
Heather jumped erect. “Harm a hair on his head, and I swear that I’ll see you punished.”
Dugan made as if to slap her, but did not. “You try my patience, woman. Who would you go to? There is no law west of the Mississippi. Out here, we make our own.”
Benchley aimed his rifle at Davy. The click of the hammer was unnaturally loud. “Just say the word, Mr. Dugan, and I’ll send this bastard into the hereafter.”
“Why waste a bullet?” Alexander Dugan said. “Apply your imagination, Rufus.”
“Sir?”
“Bring him away. Mr. Harris, also. And the log that I was sitting on.” Dugan walked away. “Not my stepdaughter or Rebecca, though. They must stay here.” Heather took a few steps towards him but Rickert seized her, holding her wrists. “What are you planning to do?” she demanded.
“Make an object lesson of him,” Alexander Dugan said.
Davy was gripped by a pair of burly men who half dragged, half carried him northward. Four others brought the log. He was at a loss to explain what Dugan was up to until he saw where they were headed. Digging in his heels, he sought to free himself. But the pair of underlings were not to be denied. One got behind him and applied a stout shoulder to his back while the other pulled him by the elbows.
They filed past the slain Kanza. A warrior gaped blankly skyward. Curled in a fetal position was a young woman who had been heavy with child. In another spot lay a girl of five or six, her features oddly serene.
Alexander Dugan halted at the edge of the river and declared, “This will do nicely.”
Flavius was thoroughly confounded. For a minute he thought the man intended to throw Davy in. Then Dugan commanded that the log be rolled into the water and held fast so that it could not drift down the river.
“Bring rope,” Dugan added.
Comprehension filled Flavius with dread. “You can’t!” he said. He was helpless to intervene, though. For when he tried, one of the men who had seized him sharply twisted both arms.
“Behave yourself, Mr. Harris,” Alexander Dugan said, “or you’ll be accorded the same treatment. As it is, I’m only sparing your life because I need someone to drive the wagon.”
Davy was pushed toward the log. He resisted strenuously, forcing more men to lend a hand. They lifted him bodily, positioned him over the log, and lowered him so he lay on top of it, face up.
The short pieces of rope binding his wrists were untied. His arms were roughly jerked back and down, flush with the rough bark, and the same with his legs. In moments, he had been bound again, this time by longer ropes that were fed underneath the log to link both wrists and both ankles.
Benchley tittered as he finished tying. Poking Davy in the ribs, he said, “This ought to give you plenty of time to regret what you did. Sontag was a good friend of mine.”
Alexander Dugan stepped closer and grinned. “This river isn’t very wide or very deep, but it should suffice.” He pushed on the log, making it bob. “The trick will be to hold your breath long enough.”
Davy had nothing to lose by saying, “If I get out of this alive, I’m coming for you. You’ve crossed the line one too many times.”
“What line?” Dugan bantered. Pushing harder, he chuckled when the log dipped and water rose as high as Davy’s waist.
“Be thankful for the few extra minutes of life I’ve granted by not having you shot.”
From the wagon rose a strident shout, “Alex! For the love of God! No!”
“Please, grandpa!” Becky added.
“Females,” Dugan said wearily, and stepped to the end of the log. Bending, he placed both hands flat. “It has been interesting,” he said. “Keep in mind that I bear you no personal malice. What I do, I do because my men expect it of me.”
Fear welled up in Flavius. The Irishman was the best friend he’d ever had, as dear if not dearer to him than his own brothers. Besides that, without Davy he stood as much chance of surviving to reach Tennessee as a snowflake had in an inferno.
Suddenly ramming his shoulders into the men holding him, Flavius launched himself at the log. He had no clear idea of what he would do, should he reach it. He only knew he must stop Dugan. But he had taken just three steps when a leg caught him across the shins. Down he crashed. As he rose, fingers entwined in his hair. Others clamped onto his shoulders and neck.
“Enough of that, Mr. Harris,” Dugan warned. “Unless you would rather I had another log brought over?”
Davy glanced at his friend. “Do as he wants. I’ll be fine.”
“Think so?” Dugan said. To emphasize his point, he pushed the log out toward the middle of the river. In moments the current caught hold and it hurtled eastward.
“Nooooooo!” Heather screamed.
Davy twisted for a last glimpse of the village. It was an error on his part. The movement upset his critical balance on the log. It rolled, rushing him toward the water. He had a mere heartbeat to suck air into his lungs, then he plunged under the surface. The chill water blurred his vision and seeped into his nose, into his ears.
Davy gagged. He could not help himself. Air gushed from his mouth, water gushed in. In trying to expel it, he swallowed more. It filled his mouth, his throat. Unable to control himself, he coughed, which allowed in even more.
He was drowning.
Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 11
