Davy struggled to turn the log, throwing his shoulders and hips into a right-hand spin, hoping it would add to the momentum of the log’s turn. It did. The log spun up and around, raising him out of the river.
Sunlight splashed his face. Water spewed from his mouth. Davy broke into a fit of coughing. Almost too late, he realized that the log was going into another turn.
Davy tensed his arms and legs so the ropes were pulled tight, then froze. The log steadied, with him on top. He had gained a respite, but for how long?
Davy gingerly craned his neck for a look behind him. The village was already gone. The log had sailed around a bend and was on a long straight stretch. Did he hear faint mocking laughter, or was it his imagination?
The log bounced and swayed. So long as it did not spin, he would be safe. But he soon learned that whenever it hit a submerged rock or another obstacle, it tilted erratically and begin to rotate in either direction, depending on the angle.
He had to counteract the effect by tugging on the ropes in the opposite direction, which in itself entailed risk. Because if he tugged too hard, then the log would roll completely over, submerging him again.
His only hope was to free himself. The only problem was that any movement on his part, however slight, would also set the log to spinning. He was damned no matter what he did.
Willing himself not to panic, Davy tentatively tested the loops binding his wrists by lifting both arms and pulling. He thought that if he applied equal pressure to both ends at the same time, it would have no effect on the log.
He was wrong. It lurched to the left. Davy attempted to right it, but gravity worked against him. He saw the water rush at his face and took a deep breath before he went under. This time only a little got into his mouth and nose. Marshaling his strength, he heaved to the right.
As before, the log rotated, raising him up out of the river. As before, he stopped it when he was directly on top. Relaxing, he racked his brain for a means of breaking his bonds without perishing.
Davy heard bubbling sounds. The current was going faster. So was the log. It barreled into another bend, careened off a large rock or boulder, then canted wildly back and forth. Davy surged against the ropes, first in one direction, then another. His left arm slipped under. The log rolled upward, though, sparing him. When it steadied, he exhaled.
He could not go on like this for very long. Something had to be done. Beaching the log was his best bet, but how to do it when he couldn’t steer? Or could he?
Carefully shifting, Davy peered ahead. The river was ten to fifteen feet wide on average. To reach either shore he must divert the log at a sharp angle. Holding his breath, he tried by wrenching on his legs, not his arms. The log moved, but not as he wanted. Instead of slanting toward the north shore, it rotated again.
Swirling water enclosed him. Davy heaved to right himself, but nothing happened. He heaved again, in vain. Anxious that he was taking too long, Davy threw himself against his restraints. He sensed that the log was traveling sideways instead of end-on, as it had been. Something had gone dreadfully wrong.
Davy exerted every ounce of strength in his body. He might as well have tried to upend the moon. Muscles bunched, he surged to the right, then to the left. His lungs were in torment, his throat ached. He could not last much longer.
That was when the log was jolted by a jarring impact. Davy’s breath whooshed out, water whooshed in. Gagging, he braced for the end. Another impact sent the log lurching upward. Air brushed his face, and he heard a grating noise. When he blinked and cleared his eyes, he saw that the log had come to ground on the south shore, on the tip of a gravel bar. He was safe!
A new sound was the first inkling Davy had that his thinking was premature. A rumbling grunt warned him he was not alone.
Lumbering toward the log was a shaggy grizzly.
Chapter Eleven
Flavius Harris was shattered. He stared after the log bearing his best friend until a bend hid it from view. The laughter of Benchley and some of the others barely registered. Too dazed to resist, he was hauled from the river to the wagon.
When Rickert produced a Green River knife and sawed at the rope that bound his wrists, Flavius stirred to life. He girded himself to bolt past Dugan’s cutthroats and make for the woods. If he could shake them, he would follow the river eastward in the hope of saving Davy.
His plan was foiled when Benchley shoved a pistol against his ribs and snapped, “Climb on the wagon, mister. You’re driving, remember?”
“What?” Flavius said, confused. Then he remembered Dugan’s comment earlier. A jab of the flintlock goaded him into obeying.
The oxen were being hitched. Hoofs clopped as some of Dugan’s bunch led horses from the trees. The big man himself escorted Heather and Becky to the rear of the wagon. Twisting, Flavius saw everything.
“Up you go, my dear,” Dugan said, offering a hand to his stepdaughter.
Heather slapped it aside. “What if I refuse?”
“I will leave you here with your Indian hosts. And you will never see Rebecca again.” Sliding his hands under Becky’s arms, Dugan swung her up and over the loading gate. “So what will it be?”
“God, how I despise you,” Heather said. Defeated, she joined her daughter.
A low groan from within drew Flavius around. Jonathan Hamlin was lying on the left-hand side. Dugan’s men must have thrown him in when Flavius wasn’t looking. Heather and Becky scurried to turn him over and cover him with a blanket.
Flavius turned just as Alexander Dugan walked by. “You’re taking Hamlin back too?” he said in surprise.
Dugan paused. “Of course. If I left him here with the savages, they might take him under their wing. Look out for him. Treat him as one of their own.” Dugan’s features contorted into a mask of hatred. “I want him to suffer, Mr. Harris. He helped kidnap my granddaughter, didn’t he? A certain judge who owes me favors will see to it that Hamlin spends the rest of his days rotting in prison.”
“But he’s blind,” Flavius said. “Hasn’t he endured enough already?”
“Not by a long shot.” Dugan flared his nostrils like a bull about to go on a rampage. “You have a forgiving nature, Mr. Harris. I don’t. It probably won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve made more than my share of enemies over the years. And the only reason none of them have ever brought me down is because I’ve ground each and every one under my boot heels.”
“So much for forgive and forget,” Flavius said.
“A precept for weaklings. My own motto is, ‘Get them before they get me.’ And I always do.”
Dugan walked off. Flavius debated jumping down and making a break for the trees until he saw two riders flanking the wagon, rifles across their thighs. They were there expressly to guard him. “Damn,” he said.
The Kanzas were totally ignored. They observed the proceedings with transparent relief, warriors glaring their spite, mothers holding small children close, a few recent widows still weeping over lost loved ones.
In short order Dugan’s men were lined up in a column of twos, about half in front of the wagon, half behind it. Alexander Dugan was at the head, astride a splendid white stallion. Swirling his cloak, he hiked an arm and bellowed, “Move out!”
Flavius cracked his whip when the riders in front of him were in motion. The oxen grunted and forged forward. He tried not to think of Davy, adrift on the river, helpless and doomed. Yet he could not avoid it. His heart heavy with sorrow, Flavius mechanically guided the wagon out onto the prairie.
At long last, his partner’s extraordinary string of good luck had run out.
~*~
Davy Crockett was inclined to agree.
He stiffened as the enormous grizzly shuffled up to the log and sniffed loudly. It had caught his scent, but seemed puzzled. To the bear, he must have seemed part of the tree. Its twitching nose lowered until it was inches from his own. Eyes locked wide, he stared into the grizzly’s dark questing slits. Its lips curved upward, exposing wicked teeth that coul
d sever a man’s arm or leg with a single bite.
Again the bear sniffed. Its nose dipped and brushed against Davy’s chin. Davy held himself as rigid as the log. The grizzly snorted and stepped back to cock its head and study the situation from a new perspective.
In a perverse manner, the predicament was almost comical. The behemoth did not know what to make of a tree trunk that smelled like a human. Davy could only pray that it wasn’t smart enough to deduce the truth. Strapped down as he was, he’d be ripped to ribbons without being able to lift a finger to protect himself.
The bear slowly circled the log. It swiped a massive paw at one end, causing the log to slide toward the river. For a nerve-jangling moment Davy feared the current would catch hold and sweep him out into the river, but the log lurched to a halt shy of the water.
Rumbling deep in its barrel chest, the grizzly completed its circuit. Moving nearer, it sniffed at Davy’s legs, at his groin, at his midsection. Then it sniffed the log.
Davy’s blood ran cold when the bear raised a paw and pried at the bark. Claws over four inches long peeled the bark away as easily as scissors sheared paper. The bear put its nose to the spot and sniffed some more.
Go away! Davy mentally screamed. Sweat beaded on his brow, despite the chill of the water that had not yet dried. He had an urge to swallow, but suppressed it. Any movement might spark an assault.
The grizzly roved its nose upward, to Davy’s arm, to his face. Saliva dripped onto Davy’s cheek, onto his lips. Suddenly growling, the bear slashed at the log again. Not once, but three times. When it provoked no reaction, the bear lost interest. Wheeling, it shambled off across the plain, its bulging shoulder muscles and huge hump rippling with raw power.
Davy watched it out of the corner of his eye. When the monster was lost in the distance, he let out a breath and laughed in nervous release. Without thinking, he almost raised his right hand to brush the perspiration from his brow.
You’re tied to the log, remember? Davy scolded himself in amusement, then gasped when his arm rose. He gawked at the severed rope that dangled from his wrist. Gradually, the incredible truth dawned; the bear had sliced through the hemp when it clawed at the log.
Davy did not lose another moment. Shifting, he reached down and pulled on his left arm until the rope slid out from underneath. Untying the knots on his wrists and ankles took longer. Freed, he hopped down and pumped his limbs to restore full function.
Without delay, Davy hastened toward the village. His best estimate was that he had traveled half a mile, not much more. Soon he came on a well-used trail leading in the right direction. Moccasin tracks revealed who used it regularly.
Davy had gone half the distance when the nicker of horses alerted him to figures out on the prairie, to the south. Veering through the belt of vegetation for a better look, he was startled to see Alexander Dugan at the head of a long column of riders. Dugan had not wasted any time in leaving for St. Louis.
About to run on, Davy checked his intent when he spied a familiar figure on the wagon. Flavius was handling the reins of the oxen. Davy had a hunch that Heather and Becky were inside.
Davy sprinted the last quarter of a mile. His normally rosy cheeks felt flushed and hot and he was badly winded when he reached the village.
It bustled with activity. Some Kanzas were tending to the dead by cleaning the bodies and wrapping them in blankets. Others were grouped in animated clusters, discussing something or other. In the center stood White Feather. For once, the red blanket was absent.
The Kanza leader spotted Davy and beckoned.
“My heart happy you alive,” White Feather signed as Davy dashed up.
“I follow bad men,” Davy signed urgently. “Question. Give me gun?”
“Have no guns.”
“Bow? Knife? War club?”
“Give all. And horse.”
White Feather pointed. To the west of the village was the bay belonging to Jonathan Hamlin. It had been overlooked by the cutthroats, or else they had not wanted to be burdened with an animal they had no use for.
Davy ran to the horse. It shied and jerked on its tether. He spoke quietly, soothingly, drawing closer slowly until he could place a hand on its neck. Stroking gently, he undid the tether, gripped its mane, then vaulted onto its broad back.
White Feather and four warriors were waiting. One warrior held a bow and quiver, another a war club, a third man had a long knife in a beaded sheath.
Extending both hands, held flat with the backs up, Davy swept them out and down, toward the warriors. It was the sign equivalent of thank you. Without comment, they gave the weapons to him. After slipping the quiver over his back and wedging the knife sheath under his belt, Davy placed the bow across his legs and signed, “I bring future.”
“Keep,” White Feather responded. “You own now.”
Leaning down, Davy clasped the chief’s hand. In English, he said, “You’ve been a mighty fine friend. I’m sorry about the killing. All the trouble you’ve had, and all because you were doing us a favor and saving us from the Pawnees. It isn’t right.”
White Feather grunted, pointed to the north, and said, “Pawnee. Pawnee.” In his own tongue he elaborated, but Davy had no inkling of what the Kanza was getting at.
“Take care,” Davy said. In sign, he added, “Be happy always.”
A slap of his heels, and Davy was off. The last he saw of the Kanzas, they were going about their business—except for White Feather. The leader stood and waved until Davy could not make him out any more.
Ahead lay the open plain. The rich green grass and the colorful wildflowers had lost their luster. Davy had one thing on his mind, and one alone.
The drum of the animal’s hoofs and its heavy breathing were the only sounds. So fresh were the tracks that Davy could have trailed the column blindfolded. He held to a gallop until the bay showed signs of being winded.
No sooner did Davy slow to a walk than figures appeared on the horizon. Reining up, he ducked low over his horse.
The column’s rear guard consisted of two men who rode a hundred yards in its wake. As near as Davy could tell, given the range, the pair did not take their position very seriously. They chatted and joked, paying scant attention to the surrounding countryside. Not once did they look back.
Davy let the column meander from sight. Reining to the north, he paralleled the wagon ruts and churned earth. Every so often he would urge the bay into a canter until the figures reappeared, to verify that the cutthroats had not altered course.
Hunger gnawed at him. Thirst, too. In his haste he had neglected to ask for pemmican or a water skin. Stoically enduring the discomfort, he marked the hours that passed by trying to come up with a surefire means of spiriting Flavius and the others from Dugan’s clutches without being caught.
The bay’s shadow lengthened. Davy was tired and sore, his throat raw. His buckskins had dried out and were stiffer than before. Along about the time the sun balanced on the brink of the world, he came to a low rise, a break in the monotony of flat terrain. It was no more than ten feet high, yet it seemed higher.
Drawing rein, Davy slid down and padded to the top. Lying flat just below the rim, he peered above it. For once, fickle fortune smiled on him.
A quarter of a mile away, beside a narrow creek that had to be a tributary of the river, the column had halted for the night. The horses had been picketed on the north side. The wagon was parked between the picket line and four fires that Dugan’s men had going. Some of the rowdies were gathering wood from a sparse strip of trees that bordered the creek. Others were collecting extra grass for the horses and oxen. A few lounged about near one of the fires, with Dugan himself.
Only two men had been posted as sentries. Davy figured that more would be posted once the sun went down.
The fires were much too big. They were beacons that could been seen from miles away at night. Advertising one’s presence in enemy territory was an invitation for disaster.
A swatch of gold
en hair pinpointed Heather. She was seated near the wagon, along with Becky. Someone lay on his back in front of them. Hamlin, Davy guessed. He did not see Flavius, at first. Then he spotted his friend returning from the creek, under guard. Flavius carried three or four filled water skins. The cutthroats were making him do menial camp chores, work they had no desire to do themselves.
There was nothing Davy could do until night descended. Rolling onto his side, he made himself comfortable. He would rest for a couple of hours, he decided, and be refreshed when the time came.
As it happened, he gazed northward and caught a hint of movement in the low grass a few hundred feet from the camp. It was so far off that he assumed it had been a trick of the eyes until an object rose up out of the grass, an object only he could see thanks to his vantage point.
It was a human head. Details were impossible to distinguish, but Davy was certain it was an Indian. The warrior watched the encampment a while, then the head sank and was gone.
Davy stared and stared, waiting for the warrior to reappear somewhere else. He scanned the prairie diligently as far north as the horizon, yet it was as if the ground had swallowed the man whole.
The incident troubled him. Who had it been? he wondered. A lone warrior out hunting? Even more important, which tribe was the man from?
White Feather had mentioned that Otoes lived to the northeast of Kanza territory, while some Delaware had recently settled to the southeast. Both were friendly to whites. So perhaps the lone warrior was no cause for worry.
Davy settled back and tried to relax. A near hopeless task. Fidgeting, he gazed northward and this time spied a lone horseman speeding due north. It shocked him. Was that the same warrior? And where had the horse come from?
A sense of foreboding seized his soul. Davy had never been a big believer in premonitions and such, but now a disturbing conviction came over him that something awful was about to happen. He could not wait. He had to rescue Flavius and the others, and get out of there.
Before it was too late.
~*~
At the very moment that the Irishman thought of his friend, Flavius Harris was thinking of Davy. The gurgling creek had reminded Flavius of the river, and of the sight of Davy being borne to his doom by the log.
Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 12
