Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  His dislike of Alexander Dugan had mushroomed into hatred and a thirst for vengeance. So when he deposited the four water skins near the fire where Dugan was seated, it taxed Flavius’s self-control not to snatch a knife from one of the men guarding him and seek revenge. Only the certitude that he would be slain before he took two strides stopped him.

  Dugan glanced around and smirked. “You make a fine beast of burden, fat man. Maybe we should hitch you up with the oxen tomorrow.”

  The coarse jest resulted in rowdy mirth. Some of Dugan’s men made crude remarks about Flavius’s parents. Benchley roared loudest of all.

  “I didn’t think jackasses and oxen ever got along, Boss!”

  Flavius spun and tramped to the wagon, shutting out the snickers of his guards. Heather was spoon-feeding hot broth to Hamlin. Becky had her legs tucked to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. The girl had not uttered a word in hours. Flavius couldn’t blame her. Just when the promise of a new life had brought joy to her heart, Alexander Dugan had brought her world crashing down around her.

  “I heard what they were calling you,” Heather said as Flavius hunkered. “They’re animals. The whole lot of them.”

  Flavius glanced at the pair hovering close by. “Vultures is what they are,” he said loudly. “No-account buzzards. Vermin who should be exterminated.”

  One of the men gripped his rifle as if to swing it and started to take a step, but the other man snagged his arm.

  “Let it rest, Bly. He’s just trying to provoke you. And remember our orders. Mr. Dugan doesn’t want him touched. Not yet, anyhow.”

  Bly lowered the rifle, then sneered. “Our turn will come, Harris. It’s no secret. Mr. Dugan has plans for you, mister. Plans that’ll make you think your friend in the funny cap got off easy.”

  Becky stirred. “I wish they were all dead, mom! Every last one! Even grandpa!”

  The girl’s vehemence stunned Flavius almost as much as it did her mother. Heather put down the bowl and spoon. Moving to Becky, she placed an arm over her daughter’s slender shoulders. “There, there. Everything will work out, sweetheart. I promise.”

  “Don’t treat me like I’m five years old,” Becky said. “And don’t lie to me.” She stifled a sob. “Grandpa says I’m going to be his, all his. That Jon is going to prison and you won’t be allowed to see me anymore.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Heather said, but her expression and her tone belied the statement.

  Tears moistened Becky’s eyes. Throwing her arms around her mother, she cried softly.

  Bly snickered.

  Something snapped deep within Flavius. He was on his feet and whirling with no conscious thought of doing so. His balled fist smashed into Bly’s smirking mouth.

  The buckskin-clad cutthroat spilled onto his back, blood seeping from his pulped lower lip.

  Fists cocked, Flavius closed in. He landed a solid right as Bly tried to rise, connected with another left to the ribs that doubled Bly over. Arms encircled him from behind, but Flavius would not be denied. A short jab to Bly’s cheek opened it like a rotten melon.

  Bly sank to his knees, groggy, sputtering. He groped for his knife.

  Shouts and pounding feet buffeted Flavius’s ears. Ignoring them, his temples hammering from the beat of his own hot blood, he sought to hit Bly again. But more arms wrapped around him. His wrists were clamped onto and held securely.

  Flavius heard Heather yelling. Then Becky. He blinked, and discovered Benchley in front of him, about to bash out his brains with a rifle stock.

  “Enough!”

  Alexander Dugan strode onto the scene. Shoving Benchley aside, he wrapped his fingers in the front of Flavius’s hunting shirt. “Do you have a death wish, fool? Is that it?”

  From out of nowhere hurtled Becky. She tore into Dugan like one possessed, her small fists beating on his leg, on his stomach. Dugan was so astounded that he stood there gaping blankly. Releasing Flavius, he tried to seize Becky’s arms, but Heather reached the girl first and pulled her back.

  “Don’t you touch her, bastard!”

  Dugan’s features twisted with outrage. His eyes seemed to bulge. “I’ve about had my fill,” he growled. “Another incident like this, and I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

  “How convenient,” Heather said, baiting him. “But then, you’ve always been an expert at making excuses, at justifying your heinous acts.”

  “Damn you—” Dugan rasped, quaking from the intensity of his emotions.

  Heather stepped in front of Becky and thrust her chin toward her stepfather. “Go ahead. Hit me. It’s what you want to do. So what if I’m a woman?”

  One of the cutthroats was too bloodthirsty for his own good. “Do it, boss,” he urged. “Punch the bitch.”

  Thunder and lightning clouded Alexander Dugan’s features. He swung around, planting a blow on the man’s temple that felled him where he stood. “Anyone else have something to say?” he bellowed. When none of his men responded, he stormed off.

  Benchley wagged a finger under Flavius’s nose. “You get off easy this time, fat man. But don’t give us grief again. Or else.”

  The ruffians drifted toward the fires. Heather clasped Becky, and both mother and daughter shed quiet tears.

  For his part, Flavius Harris made up his mind not to go to the slaughter meekly. First chance he got, he was going to grab a weapon and go down fighting. He would take as many with him as he could. Maybe if he timed it right he could take Dugan down, too. That alone would make his death worthwhile.

  Flavius smiled grimly.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was close to midnight when Davy Crockett parted a cluster of grass with both hands and studied the camp. He was only twenty yards from a bored sentry who leaned on a rifle, struggling to stay awake.

  For the better part of an hour, Davy had been working his way from the rise, snaking across the prairie flat on his belly. When he had commenced his approach, only a handful of cutthroats were still up. The majority had turned in early to be rested for the long day of hard travel ahead.

  In every outfit were a few individuals who never seemed to need much sleep, who would rather swap tall tales or play cards or whatnot until all hours. Dugan’s small army was no exception. Rufus Benchley and five others had been rolling dice and sipping from a silver flask until just a short while ago.

  At last, though, everyone other than the jackleg sentry and three other guards were sound asleep. Or so it appeared. Davy suspected that some of those who had turned in late had not yet dozed off, so he decided to wait a while before going in.

  Three of the four fires had been allowed to die low. The fourth was maintained by the sentries, one of whom drifted over even as Davy watched to add fuel to the dwindling flames.

  That fire posed a problem. It happened to be thirty feet from the wagon. Dancing light bathed the nearest side, enough to make whisking the captives to safety a doubly perilous proposition.

  Davy would not let that deter him. He had to do it, and after fifteen minutes elapsed, he angled toward the picket line. Most of the horses were dozing. He did not give the oxen a second look, since they posed no threat. Only the horses would kick up a fuss if he was not especially careful.

  It amazed Davy that Dugan had not seen fit to post a man at the string. Some Indians, like the Blackfeet and the Lakotas, were outstanding horse thieves. A few of them could slip into Dugan’s camp and make off with every last animal without any of the whites being the wiser.

  Arrogance would be Dugan’s undoing. The man was too cocksure, too plain overconfident. Maybe it stemmed from being so wealthy and powerful. Or maybe Dugan’s attitude had spurred him to become the man that he was.

  Davy gave a toss of his head to dispel such musing. He had to buckle down, had to concentrate on what he was doing to the exclusion of all else. Senses primed, he circled eastward, well shy of the bored sentry, whose eyes were shut.

  The other three guards were at cardinal c
ompass points: to the east, to the south, and to the west. Vague inky silhouettes in the night, none paced or patrolled the perimeter, leading Davy to believe that they were just as tired as their companion—which worked in his favor.

  The east end of the horse string was cloaked in darkness. Davy crawled to within a few feet of the foremost animal, then slowly rose, so as not to startle it into nickering or fidgeting. The sorrel never so much as raised its head.

  Davy quickly untied it, and three others besides. As he turned to lead them off, further down the line a dun pricked its ears and uttered a low whinny.

  Crouching, Davy surveyed the camp. None of the sleepers had stirred. The guard to the north continued to doze on his rifle. Those to the west and the south had not moved. But the man to the east had turned.

  Davy fingered the hilt of the knife tucked under his belt. The bow and war club were lying in the grass, out of ready reach. He dropped lower when the east guard walked slowly forward, scanning the picket line.

  Did the man suspect? The four horses Davy had released were bunched together slightly apart from the rest. It might strike the sentry as odd.

  The guard kept on advancing. Davy could have cussed a blue streak. After crabbing backwards until he was on the other side of the animals, he rose into a crouch and palmed the bone hilt of the Kanza weapon.

  Among the sleepers, someone snored loud enough to rouse the dead. Davy cast repeated glances at the sprawled forms, but nobody stirred.

  Now the east sentry was near enough for his bushy beard and beaver hat to be apparent. This was no wet-behind-the-ears river rat. Buckskins and moccasins identified him as a frontiersman, a savvy badger not likely to make many mistakes. Rifle leveled, he slowed.

  Davy could tell the man was staring at the four horses he had untied. No gambler worthy of the name would give a shovelful of chicken tracks for his chances should the man let out with a holler. His sole hope was that the frontiersman would come closer still.

  The man did. Whispering, “What’s going on here, you dumb critters? How in tarnation did you get all tangled up like that?” the man walked right up to them.

  Davy was ready. Spearing the cold steel upward between two of the horses, he buried the knife to the hilt in the sentry’s chest. He struck in the blink of an eye, as slick as a peeled onion.

  The guard had lowered his rifle. Now he attempted to bring it up, but he was dead on his feet. It was child’s play for Davy to snatch it. He yanked his knife out as the sentry dropped to the ground.

  All had gone well. Retrieving the rope, Davy rotated to get out of there while the getting was good. He would stash the horses, then return for Flavius and the others. By morning they would be miles away. Dugan would never catch them.

  “Grover? Is that you?”

  Davy drew up short and glanced back. Rufus Benchley had sat up. Hair disheveled, blinking drowsily, Dugan’s right-hand man scratched an armpit.

  “Didn’t you hear me? What in the hell are you doing over there?”

  A bluff was called for. Imitating the dead man’s inflection and tone, Davy answered, “Everything’s fine, Rufus. I was just checkin’ on the critters.”

  Benchley sleepily nodded, yawned, and started to lie back down.

  Davy did not dally. He had taken about half a dozen steps when the crack of doom pealed in the strident challenge of someone he had overlooked.

  “Hold it right there, mister! You ain’t Grover!”

  It was the north sentry, the one Davy had assumed was still dozing. The man was midway along the string, rifle wedged to a shoulder.

  The shout brought many of the cutthroats up out of their blankets. In a rush, some made for the horses. Benchley was in the lead, completely awake, a pistol in each hand. In the gloom, he did not notice the body. Tripping over it, he stumbled but caught himself by grasping one of the animals for support. “You!” he roared on seeing Davy.

  The jig was up. The Irishman lashed out, his fist smashing into Benchley’s jaw. As the ruffian staggered backward, Davy bolted for the open prairie and safety. He paused just long enough to grab the rifle and the war club.

  It proved to be his undoing.

  From out of the darkness hurtled burly figures. Human battering rams slammed into him, burying him beneath an avalanche of smelly, sweaty, cussing foes. Davy connected with a right, but absorbed punches to his gut and cheek. For a brief instant, he thought that he might shake them off and escape.

  “Hold him, you simpletons!”

  Alexander Dugan’s command was obeyed to the letter. Another four underlings piled on. Their combined weight was enough to pin Davy flatter than a pancake. Helpless, he submitted to having his arms seized and to being pawed erect. A vicious slap made his ears ring.

  “Enough, Rufus,” Dugan scolded.

  “But he killed Grover,” Benchley reported, pointing. “Let me skin the polecat alive.”

  Dugan looked and scowled. “That’s two good men I’ve lost on your account, Mr. Crockett.” Stepping in front of Davy, he clasped his hands behind his back. “I thought we had seen the last of you. How in the world did you manage to free yourself from that log?”

  “A grizzly cut me loose.”

  Benchley snorted and flourished a knife. “Don’t listen to his bull, boss. Just say the word, and I’ll make you a new tobacco pouch out of his hide.”

  Dugan held a hand up, quieting his subordinate. “When I want your advice, Rufus, I will ask for it.” Dugan gripped Davy’s chin and turned Davy’s head back and forth, as if studying a creature that mystified him. “You puzzle me, sir. Were you born under a lucky star, or are higher powers at work? It seems you merit more interest than I supposed.”

  “You’ve brought the bloodshed on yourself,” Davy said. “Release me and the others and we’ll go our separate ways with no hard feelings.”

  Dugan sighed. “Now you are being childish. And tedious. I hold the upper hand, and I have no intention of relinquishing it.” Gesturing, he ordered, “Bind him, then toss him into the wagon with the rest. Rufus, double the guard. And see that Grover is buried.”

  “That’s decent of you, boss.”

  “Decent, hell. I don’t want the smell of blood to lure in bears or wolves.”

  Only Davy’s wrists were bound. Four men propelled him to the wagon. Like a sack of grain, he was bundled over the loading gate and thrown inside, with no regard for his well-being. His elbow lanced with agony, and he hit his head on a plank.

  “Pard? Is that you?” Flavius Harris asked in astonishment. A commotion outside had awakened him, but he was slow in regaining his full faculties. Exhaustion had the others in the grip of heavy slumber.

  “None other,” Davy said. Forcing a wan grin, he declared, “I’ve come to rescue you.”

  Flavius was so elated, he let out with a Cherokee war whoop. He regretted it when Becky screamed, and Heather and Jonathan Hamlin both sat bolt upright in a panic.

  “Mom! Mom!” the girl cried. “Indians are on us!”

  “No, no, no!” Flavius said. “It was me! Everything is fine! Crockett’s here!”

  “Davy?” Becky said, twisting. Scooting across the pile of possessions, she rested her forehead against the Irishman’s arm. “Grandpa Dugan gloated that he killed you.”

  “He nearly did.”

  Heather rose onto her knees and came closer. The excitement on her features died, dismay taking its place. “You were our last hope. And now you’re in the same boat we are.” She stopped and sagged, her spirit broken. “Alex has won. We don’t stand a prayer.”

  “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” Davy intoned. Turning his back to Flavius, he wriggled his bound wrists. “Time’s a wasting. Do me, then I’ll do you.” Flavius glanced at the blanket over the opening. “Didn’t they tell you? Dugan promised to shoot me in the leg if so much as one of us gets loose.”

  “Dog my cats,” Davy said. “He aims to rub us out anyway. Wouldn’t you rather go down fighting instead of trussed up like p
iglets waiting to be turned into a holiday dish?”

  “Since you put it that way,” Flavius said, chuckling. His friend always did have a flair for a colorful turn of words. And for the first time since the attack on the Kanza village, he entertained the notion that they might actually survive.

  The Irishman always had that effect on folks. Flavius had seen it that time Davy bolstered the morale of the starving troops who were slogging through treacherous swampland in search of the elusive Creeks. He’d seen it when Davy inspired the farmers not to give up on account of drought. And he’d been there when Davy helped rally the Chippewas during bloody battle.

  But as Flavius soon learned, being fired up with enthusiasm was one thing. Being able to translate that enthusiasm into results, quite another.

  Try as he might—and Lordy, how he tried—Flavius made little headway. For over an hour he pried at the knots with his nails, but to no avail. In desperation, he bent and applied his teeth, like a beaver to a tree. He gnawed until his gums and tongue were sore, but all he succeeded in doing was loosening one measly loop. “Who the hell tied you?” he said, straightening to soothe a kink in his lower back.

  “Benchley.”

  “The man is a wizard. I can’t get these undone for the life of me.”

  Jonathan Hamlin had laid back down, but Becky and Heather were still awake, waiting anxiously. “Let me try,” the mother proposed.

  “Why not use the axe head?” Becky asked innocently. “Jon cut some roots with it once. It would work.”

  Davy and Flavius both swung toward the corner. The implements were right where they had always been. Flavius could not help himself and swore in the presence of the females. Embarrassed, he apologized, saying, “Bless me if’n I’m not as smart as a box of rocks. I plumb forgot.”

  The Tennesseans moved to the corner. Flavius gripped the long handle and tried to swivel the axe around so the edge of the head was at the right angle. But, bound as he was, the heavy handle was difficult to manipulate. It swung down and cracked Davy across the forearms.