Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  “Maybe we should switch,” Davy suggested. Taking the handle, he gingerly lowered the head until it rested on the thick ropes around Flavius’s wrists. “Don’t move. I wouldn’t want to open a vein.”

  Eagerly, Davy sawed. And sawed. And sawed. Pausing, he bent to examine the rope. The axe had cut less than a quarter of an inch into the hemp. “I’ve had a run of bad luck before, but this is enough to swear a parson off the Bible.”

  “What’s the matter now, pard?”

  “It’s as dull as a butter knife,” Davy lamented.

  “Jon’s been meaning to sharpen all our tools, but he just hasn’t had the time,” Heather disclosed.

  Davy resumed sawing. Every ten minutes or so he had to take a break. The pain in his wrists and shoulders became too much to bear.

  Another hour went by. Davy was beginning to think he would still be at it when the sun came up, when abruptly the last of the loops parted and fell.

  “You did it!” Flavius crowed, then wanted to smother himself for being such a fool. He listened for shouts and the drumming of feet, but no outcry was raised.

  “Hurry,” Davy urged. “My turn.”

  Even with the use of his fingers, it took some doing. Flavius finally loosened the Irishman’s restraints, and did the same for Heather, her daughter, and Hamlin, who sat up as he finished.

  “What will you do now?” Hamlin asked.

  “Make a break for the horses,” Davy answered. He reached for the hanging blanket.

  “You’d never make it with me along. I’d be too much of a burden.” Hamlin slid against the side, his knees pressed to his chest. “Go without me. I won’t hold it against you.”

  Heather scrambled to her beloved. “Don’t be silly. I could no more leave you than I could leave Becky. We’re in this together. Just hold onto my hand and I’ll guide you.”

  “I’d only get you killed,” Hamlin persisted, launching the two into an emotional argument. Hamlin absolutely refused to endanger them, and Heather was equally insistent that he go.

  Davy listened with half an ear while easing the blanket aside a few inches. The four horses he had untied were back on the string. But they were not what interested him the most. For standing a dozen feet from the wagon were two husky cutthroats, both wide awake and armed to the teeth.

  A hunch motivated Davy to go to the front of the wagon and peek out. As he feared, two more of Dugan’s men had been posted near the end of the tongue.

  Heather and Hamlin continued to spat. Davy motioned, saying, “Save your breath. It’ll be a long day in January before we can sneak off.”

  “What do you mean?” Jon asked.

  Davy told them about the extra guards, ending with, “Dugan isn’t the sort to make the same mistake twice. We’re stuck here for certain sure.”

  Depression seized them. Flavius cradled his head in his hands and wished he had listened to Matilda, for once, and not gone on the gallivant.

  Becky timidly snuggled next to her mother, who sorrowfully stroked her hair, and Hamlin’s.

  Davy leaned his temple against the cloth cover and closed his eyes. To be frustrated now, after so much effort, was profoundly upsetting. He had given his all, and it had not been enough.

  Hindsight made a mockery of his rescue attempt. He should have thought up a distraction, maybe by setting the grass ablaze, or stampeding the horses. Anything to keep Dugan’s band busy while he freed the captives.

  Time weighted by millstones crawled past. Idly, Davy observed an omen of impending dawn; the sky changed from stark black to royal blue. Gray streaks appeared. Soon the cutthroats would be roused from sleep, and within an hour they would be on the march.

  Sitting up, Davy saw the north sentry stamping back and forth to ward off the morning chill. Davy blinked— and the sentry was nowhere to be seen. Perplexed, he scoured the vicinity. Other than the two men near the tongue, who had their backs to the prairie, no one else was around.

  Where had the sentry gone? Davy wondered. A splash of red in the low grass gave him a clue. Beyond, shadowy specters flitted toward the encampment, converging from all different directions.

  Electrified, Davy dashed to the rear, prodding Heather, Becky, and Hamlin as he passed them. “Get set. Our string of luck hasn’t quite run out.”

  “How’s that?” Heather said.

  Flavius had been dozing. But something in his friend’s tone sliced through his fatigue like a hot knife through wax. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  All hell broke loose.

  From every quarter rose wavering war whoops, hoarse shrieks, and fierce exultation. The tumult was punctuated by yells and curses and a random smattering of shots.

  “To the horses!” Davy declared, yanking the blanket wide. “Don’t drag your heels or you’ll be pushing up grass come spring.” He forked a leg over the gate. “I’ll go first.”

  Dropping, Davy alighted like a cat to find he had landed in the midst of bedlam. Into the camp streamed a fiery horde of painted warriors. Arrows buzzed like a swarm of bees. Lances and war clubs were being wielded with deadly efficiency. As he pivoted toward the horses, one of the attackers reared in front of him.

  No timid Kanzas, these. The warrior was tall, muscular, almost stately. A hooked nose and thick lips dominated a crafty face crowned by a head that had been clean shaven except for a thin strip of spiked hair down the center, the hair held in place by a bone roach. The warrior’s face, shoulders, and chest had been splashed with red pigment. In his right hand was a war club.

  Pawnees, Davy guessed, just as the man delivered a blow that would have fractured his skull, had it landed. Sidestepping, Davy drove his left fist into the Pawnee’s nose. The man tottered backward, recovered, and whipped the war club overhead.

  Davy heard a thwack and a sickly rending of flesh and bone. A slug cored the Pawnee’s head from left to right. The man fell, scarlet spurting from his mouth.

  Lead was flying thick and fast. The defenders had rallied, the din of their rifles and pistols eclipsing the war whoops of the Pawnee. Added to the confusion were the panicked whinnies of the terrified horses and the screams of the dying and the wounded.

  Flavius jumped to the ground. He was scared to death, but determined not to succumb. Shutting his mind to the carnage, he offered his hand to Becky, who clambered from the wagon with the agility of a monkey. Next came Heather. Last, and slowest, was Jonathan Hamlin, who hesitated with his hands on the gate.

  “Come on!” Flavius urged. When Hamlin did not move swiftly enough to suit him, he grabbed the man’s wrists and pulled him out bodily.

  Davy scooped up the fallen war club. As yet, none of the others Pawnees had shown any interest in them. The rest had their hands full with Dugan’s men, a third of whom were already down, either wounded or dead.

  Davy saw Rickert, on one knee, snap off a shot. The next moment three feathered shafts imbedded themselves in Rickert’s chest.

  A river rat met the rush of a Pawnee holding a lance with nothing but a knife. The lance sheared through the riverman’s sternum and burst out his back.

  “Stay close!” Davy warned. Holding Becky’s hand, he hurried toward the horses, stepping over the bodies of Pawnees and cutthroats alike. One of the guards had been slit from ear to ear.

  Flavius was pushing Hamlin. Heather helped out as much as she could, but whenever a gun blasted close at hand, she would flinch and duck, slowing them down. “Hurry, damn it!” Flavius railed.

  To Davy, the horses seemed to be miles away. Through choking gun smoke he sped, a continuous medley of inhuman cries attesting to the ferocity of the struggle.

  A Pawnee spotted them and spun to contest their flight. The man held a bow, and as he snapped a hand to his quiver for an arrow, Davy hurled the war club with all the force in his sinews. It was a lot like throwing a tomahawk, which Davy had practiced countless times. The club smashed into the warrior’s face, felling him instantly.

  Unarmed now, Davy pressed on. Most of the fig
hting swirled in the middle of the camp, where Alexander Dugan and ten to twelve men were resisting to their utmost. Fully twice that many Pawnees ringed them, unleashing shafts and thrusting with lances and knives.

  Davy reached the string. Untying a mare, he hiked Becky onto its back, had her clutch its mane, and swiveled to aid Heather and Hamlin.

  Flavius spied a pile of supplies nearby. “I’ll be right back!” he hollered, and darted toward it.

  “What the—?” Davy exclaimed. He had no time to dwell on what his friend had done. Seizing Hamlin’s wrists, Davy steered him to a buttermilk horse and bent to boost Hamlin up. A thud above him preceded a scream of mortal anguish from Heather. Davy started to straighten and bumped his head on something.

  It was an arrow. The barbed point had sliced into Jonathan Hamlin below the left shoulder blade, passed completely through him, and ruptured the flesh outward high on his torso.

  “Noooooooooooo!” Heather flung herself forward, holding him up and shielding him from additional shafts with her own body.

  Davy whirled but did not see the Pawnee responsible. He turned to help Heather, and together they succeeded in pushing Jonathan onto the horse. But as Hamlin sat hunched over, spitting blood, a second arrow transfixed him low on his left side.

  Stiffening, Jonathan Hamlin flicked glazing eyes at the empty air. “Heather?” he cried. “Oh, Heather! I loved you so!”

  Heather screeched as Hamlin toppled. She would have knelt and cradled him had Davy not grabbed her by the arms and compelled her to mount. For a long moment she resisted, wailing, “Let me go to him! Please! Please!”

  Shock accomplished what strength could not. Heather succumbed, and practically swooned. Davy had no trouble shoving her up. As he untied a third animal and forked its back, Flavius rushed out of the acrid smoke bearing a bundled blanket. “Hurry!” Davy coaxed.

  Flavius was going as fast as he could. Hunkering, he unwrapped the blanket, revealing the contents. “Our guns!” The day before, he had seen Benchley wrap them up, and recognized the blanket among the supplies.

  Now Flavius passed Liz and the Irishman’s flintlocks to Davy, then claimed Matilda and his own pistols. Their knives were gone, but Davy’s tomahawk had not been taken. Flavius handed it up as well.

  “Let’s ride!” Davy said.

  The melee had resolved into frenzied personal combat. Each cutthroat was hemmed in by two or three Pawnee. Their guns spent, the defenders resorted to knives and rifle stocks.

  Rufus Benchley was on one knee, his shirt ripped, his left thigh spurting his life’s blood. As Davy looked on, a Pawnee brought a war club down on the crown of Benchley’s head.

  Davy slapped his legs against his mount. At a trot they fled, Flavius leading Heather’s horse, Becky behind her mother. They covered fifty yards. Sixty.

  Slowing so the others could pass him, Davy looked over his shoulder. The sight that met his eyes brought him to a stop.

  None of the Pawnees was in pursuit. In the camp, all the defenders were down, save one.

  Alexander Dugan was the sole survivor, battered and bruised but otherwise unhurt, a broken rifle clutched in both hands. For some reason, the warriors were not closing in on him. Instead, when Dugan straightened and moved toward the horses, the Pawnees parted.

  Davy was flabbergasted. Were they honoring his courage? His fighting ability? Or was the uncanny power of his personality having the same effect on them that it had on everyone else?

  Shifting from side to side, Dugan passed the last of the painted bronze figures. Stepping to his white stallion, he gripped the reins. A smirk spread across his face. He glanced out over the plain, saw Davy. The smirk widened.

  Davy lifted Liz. He cocked the hammer as Dugan mounted. He took deliberate aim as Dugan reined the stallion around. And he fired just as Alexander Dugan was on the verge of riding out of the encampment.

  The ball drilled Dugan above the left eye, catapulting him from the stallion. He tumbled, rolling twice. His body came to rest beside that of another, a lean young man whose dreams of a new life in a new land had been shattered by the cruelty Alexander Dugan spread with casual disdain.

  Wheeling his mount, Davy Crockett galloped into the bright shining of a new day.

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