Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2)

by David Robbins

  Two-thirds of the way across the maze, Davy heard a peculiar cry from the bull and the thud of its gigantic form crashing to the earth. He was elated to see that it had gone down, a hoof snagged by a burrow. The bull heaved to its feet, evidently unhurt, but by then Davy had a comfortable lead.

  Reaching safe ground, Davy looped to the left. The bull had lost interest and was gouging the soil with its horns, almost as if it were taking out its frustration over losing him on the puny creatures that had caused it to trip.

  Davy did not slacken his speed, even though he was in the clear. He had Flavius to think of. Rushing toward the crest, he could scarcely hear the pounding of the sorrel’s hooves for the thunder of the onrushing herd. He estimated that he might have a minute to spare.

  But he was wrong.

  The sorrel was forty feet shy of the top when a brown wave rolled over it and spilled toward him. The roiling line extended hundreds of yards to the north and the south. Shoulder to shoulder, horn to horn, the living wall of steely sinew and bone hurtled forward.

  Davy had no recourse but to rein completely around and ride for his life. He shuddered to think what might have happened to his friend. If Flavius had been unable to mount, the buffalo would have reduced him to so much pulp and busted bone fragments in the time it would take a person to spit.

  That still might happen to Davy.

  The herd was an immense juggernaut. Nothing could halt it. Nothing could withstand it. Even grizzlies would be swept under and trampled if they were overtaken.

  As if to prove that point, from out of nowhere flashed three rabbits. Frantically racing for their lives, they bounded through the grass on either side of him, oblivious to his presence. A fox was next to appear, staring at the herd in abject fright before it, too, joined the exodus of the terror-stricken.

  Davy veered to the left as he rode, trying to swing wide of the buffalo. A flock of grouse took wing, zipping off in a beeline to the west. So did several sparrows. He envied them their wings.

  A shadowy shape lunged out of the grass, eliciting a nicker from the sorrel. Another shape joined it, then two more Davy had only a glimpse and decided they must have been wolves. The four of them ran into the open, enabling him to recognize them for what they were: coyotes. A male, a female, and a pair of cubs that would soon be on their own—if they lived long enough. Ordinarily they would have given Davy a wide berth. Under the circumstances, they paid him no heed. The herd was all that counted.

  Davy twisted in the saddle. Dust choked the air above the stampeding bison, dust so thick it blotted out the sky, dust so heavy that it caked the humps and shoulders of the herd. For as far back as he could see, the plain was a swirling morass of hairy coats and horns.

  Every second was a minute, every minute an hour. Davy tried not to think of what would occur should his horse go down. It would all be over in no time. His wanderlust could cost him his life, and might have already cost him the life of one of his very best friends.

  Presently, the sorrel drew even with the east flank of the herd. A few more yards and Davy would be in the clear. He went those yards, and a dozen extra, leaving nothing to chance. Slowing and turning to the north, he watched closely as the front ranks drew abreast of him. It was the moment of truth. Would they break formation to come after him, or would they stay bunched together?

  To say Davy was happy when the bison kept on going would be the understatement of the century. He slowed even more for the sorrel’s benefit, putting a hand over his mouth as the spreading cloud of dust enveloped them. Fretting that he still might bump into a stray, he faced front just as a dark figure loomed out of the grass.

  It was a horseman! Elated, assuming it to be Flavius, Davy uncovered his mouth and hollered his friend’s name. That was when the dust briefly parted. Bearing down on him was not his friend, but a bronzed warrior armed with a bow, an arrow notched to the sinew string. As Davy gawked in surprise, the warrior brought the bow up and prepared to let his shaft fly.

  Chapter Two

  Flavius Harris did not have much patience with animals. It was a trait that he inherited from his pa, although he never went to the extremes that his father had.

  Once, for instance, a horse had acted up when his pa was out plowing. It had refused to pull the plow and kicked his father in the leg so hard that the bone fractured. The doctor was called, and after he had applied a splint, Flavius’s father had taken his rifle, gone out into the pasture, and shot that horse plumb dead.

  Flavius never thought that had been right to do, even though the critter had acted up on him. He might take a switch to a dog that, say, chewed up one of his wife’s quilts. Or he might whip a horse that tried to cave in his noggin. But he had never wanted to shoot a domesticated animal.

  Until now.

  With his foot caught in the stirrup and the dun prancing around in circles as if it were putting on a show at the county fair, Flavius was mightily tempted to jam his rifle against its head and teach the dumb critter which one of them was the master.

  Two things stopped him. One, there might not be another horse to be had for hundreds of miles around. Some tribes in the plains country had them, but just as many did not. And he had nothing to swap for one even if they located a tribe that did.

  The second consideration was more crucial. Only an idiot would slay his sole means of salvation when a thundering herd of buffalo was bearing down on him.

  So for the umpteenth time Flavius grabbed at the reins, which dangled under the dun, but missed. His trapped foot ached terribly from the strain and his free leg hurt from all the jumping he had been doing to keep up with the horse.

  Meanwhile, the buffalo grew nearer and nearer.

  Flavius deliberately did not look at them for fear he would be paralyzed with fright as he had been the time an uppity steer came at him in a pen back home. The quick thinking of his pa had saved him that day. Now there was no one to bail him out. Davy was gone, with a bull in hard pursuit. It was up to him to pull his fat out of the fire.

  Mustering his strength, Flavius bent his leg and flung himself at the saddle. At last he was successful! He flopped across it, then shifted to sit up and stick his other foot in the other stirrup.

  The horse picked that moment to flee. Nickering, it bolted to the south, Flavius clinging to its mane for dear life. “Whoa, boy!” he shouted, but the dun was not inclined to obey, not when the leading edge of the stampeding herd was less than sixty feet away and sweeping toward them like a living avalanche.

  Flavius lunged at the reins. They swayed out of reach. That same second, the dun angled to go around the knoll. Flavius almost spilled off. Righting himself, he clamped his legs tight, tucked his rifle into the crook of his left elbow, and was content to let the horse do as it wanted.

  But not for long. The dun was running parallel to the herd rather than away from it. That would have been fine if the herd were small and the dun could get past the outer fringe before the beasts plowed them under. The front ranks of this herd, though, extended for over a quarter of a mile in each direction. There was no way in hell the dun could outflank it.

  His life hanging in the balance, Flavius made another stab at the reins. Somehow he caught hold. Smiling, he sought to turn the dun in the direction Davy had taken, but the stubborn horse refused to heed. He tugged harder. The dun finally turned, but by then it was too late. The herd was twenty feet behind them, gaining rapidly.

  A lump formed in Flavius’s throat. He was going to die! He knew it! It had been wrong of him to leave his wife and go traipsing all over creation, and now he was getting his just due.

  Suddenly a gully appeared. It was narrow, shallow, and short.

  Most men would have vaulted over and fled on. Flavius, acting on impulse, wrenched on the reins and jabbed his heels, compelling the dun to go down the side in a single bound. At the bottom Flavius leaped off, wrapped both arms around the animal’s neck, his hands over its eyes, and, kicking at its forelegs, bore it to the ground so th
at it lay flat on its side with him on top.

  Hardly a heartbeat later the herd reached the rim. Flavius glanced up. He nearly swooned at the sight of all those huge, hairy bodies, with their flying hooves, dilated nostrils, and wicked horns. Involuntarily, he tensed for the smash of heavy forms that were sure to rain down like hail.

  None did. With nary a break in stride, the foremost buffalo leaped the gully and were gone. Those behind imitated the example of those in front. Buffalo after buffalo flew over Flavius’s head, showering dirt and bits of grass upon him and filling the gully with so much dust that in short order Flavius could not see his hand in front of his face.

  The ground shook and rumbled. It was like the time a few years back that an earthquake struck Tennessee, only worse.

  A deafening din blistered his ears. Flavius licked his dry lips and tasted dirt. He hugged the dun, blinking against the dust, his heart hammering the walls of his chest as if striving to bust out.

  The nightmare went on and on and on. Flavius lost all track of time. He had about convinced himself that he would live through the ordeal when a colossal crash to his right made him jump. A cow had fallen into the gully. Squinting, he could barely make it out as it struggled upright, then scrambled up the slope to merge with the cascading torrent of its brethren.

  Afterward, Flavius was mortally afraid that another would smash down onto him and the dun. Every loud crunch, every spray of dirt, made him bite his lower lip to keep from crying out.

  How long is eternity? For Flavius, that is exactly how long the stampede lasted. The constant drumming, the constant trembling of the earth, the constant cloud of dust left him dazed and exhausted, as if he had just run ten miles without a rest.

  Abruptly, the thunder ended. It took Flavius a while to realize that the buffalo were gone. Sitting up stiffly, he listened in astonishment to the receding thud of hooves.

  “I lived through it!” Flavius declared, flabbergasted, and regretted it when dust swirled into his mouth. Coughing and sputtering, he slowly stood. The dun sat up but did not try to stand.

  Dreading that he might be mistaken, that more were yet to come, Flavius edged to the rim and took a peek. To the east roiled a gigantic brown cloud, dwindling into the distance. To the west the prairie was empty, a wide swath of grass laid bare, chewed up by thousands upon thousands of hooves.

  Flavius was beside himself with joy. Bursting into laughter, he led the dun out and stood sucking fresh air into his lungs. His elation was short-lived, though.

  “Davy?” Flavius said, pivoting three hundred and sixty degrees to scour the prairie. There was no trace of his friend. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he hollered, “Davy Crockett! Where are you?”

  Silence answered him. Profoundly troubled, Flavius hastily brushed off the saddle and climbed up. If anything had happened—! He could not complete the thought. The consequences were too grave to contemplate.

  Without Davy, Flavius knew he had scant hope of ever seeing his wife and kin again. He was not half the woodsman Davy was. His chances of reaching Tennessee alive by his lonesome were slim to none.

  Anxiety eating at his insides, Flavius rode in a wide loop, seeking sign. He passed the spot where the odd little critters had lived. Their burrows were gone, reduced to loose piles of earth, every last hole obliterated. He speculated that the dens had caved in, smothering the poor things.

  “Davy!” Flavius yelled. To the southeast, seemingly in reply, came a bawling cry. He trotted toward the source but saw no evidence of his companion or the sorrel. All he saw was a small mound of dirt. Dirt that unaccountably moved.

  Flavius moved closer to find that it was actually a buffalo calf lying on its side. It probably tripped, he reasoned, and had been trodden by its fellows. He lifted the reins to resume his search, but hesitated when the calf raised its head and bawled at him.

  The least Flavius could do was put it out of its misery. He hated to see anything suffer. He rode over, slid down, and hunkered. Not so much as a drop of blood smeared the earth. Not a solitary bone appeared to be broken. Flavius gingerly touched its flank. The calf did not recoil. He ran his hand over its back and sides, verifying that it was unhurt.

  Perhaps it had been stunned, or merely fallen victim to exhaustion. The poor thing looked barely old enough to stand, let alone run.

  “Well, you’ll live,” Flavius said. Relieved that he did not need to slit its throat, he rose.

  The calf lurched to its feet, then mewed uncannily like a kitten.

  Flavius chuckled. “Never knew buffalo could make that sound,” he remarked. “But then, I never would have thought that painters can scream like women or that deer can cry like children if I hadn’t of heard them with my own two ears.”

  He went to leave. The calf shuffled toward him and nudged his arm with its nose. Amused, he patted its head. “You’re a sociable cuss, ain’t you? But you’d better run along and catch up with your ma. Wouldn’t want a mean old bear to find you alone or you’ll wind up in its belly.”

  The calf stood there staring at him with wide dark eyes that were a lot like those of a puppy.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Flavius said. “I can’t hardly be bothered to tend to you when my best friend might be lying off on the prairie somewhere, busted to bits.”

  Once more Flavius made ready to mount. Once more the calf nuzzled him exactly as an affectionate dog would do. Annoyed, he pushed it, but the animal refused to budge. “Get along, now,” he said gruffly. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

  The calf licked his hand, its tongue thick and rough and coated with slobber.

  Flavius wiped his fingers on his leggings, forked leather, and swung the dun eastward. He had traveled a score of yards when the calf bawled one more time, stridently, like an infant afraid of losing a parent. “It won’t work,” he called back, and saw the animal doing its best to overtake him, its spindly legs pumping.

  “Go away!” Flavius commanded, slowing. In short order the calf was ambling along next to his horse, its head tilted so it could observe him.

  “I don’t know what you aim to prove,” Flavius said, common sense urging him to spur away and leave the young buffalo to fend for itself. “I’m not your nursemaid, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have more important things to do, you mangy idiot.”

  Flavius continued to ride, convinced the calf would tire after a while and he could get on with tracking down Davy unhindered. He tried to pay it no mind, but caught himself glancing down every few seconds. It was an adorable little cuss, he had to admit. Reminded him of a calf he had once taken a shine to on his uncle’s farm. Hickory, he’d named it after it developed the habit of following him everywhere. He’d taught it to eat out of his hand and had brushed it every day.

  “Foolishness,” his pa had branded their antics. Later, when Hickory grew up and was sold to a butcher in Knoxville, Flavius had to agree.

  “How about if I call you Little Hickory?” Flavius said, and then wanted to kick himself for what he had just done. Giving the buffalo a name was as stupid as allowing it to tag along, but he could not bring himself to gallop off and leave it. Not yet, anyway.

  Flavius followed the herd eastward. It was long since gone, the rutted earth mute testimony to the destructive power that had been unleashed. To the northeast lay another calf. He bore toward it but changed his mind on seeing a pale spike of shattered bone jutting from the chest and a scarlet pool staining the earth.

  A shadow flitted across him. Flavius bent his head, knowing what was up there. Five buzzards circled the dead calf, with more winging in from the west and the south, drawn to their grisly feast like metal to magnets.

  More dots pinwheeled in the sky ahead. Flavius wondered if they marked the location of another dead buffalo, or Davy. He increased his speed, but not to the point where Little Hickory was unable to keep up.

  The next body was larger than the other two had been. Either it was a full-grown buffalo or a horse. Flavius was gl
ad to confirm the former, but he drew rein in consternation on seeing that from this one protruded not splintered bone but three feathered shafts.

  Indians! The word reverberated in Flavius’s brain like the peal of a bell. He scanned the grassland for the owner of those arrows, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Not until that moment did Flavius vaguely recollect hearing whoops and shouts at about the same time the buffalo stampeded. At the time, he had been trying to get on the dun and had not paid much attention to anything else. Now he knew that a hunting party was in the area, and he fretted that Davy had fallen prey to them.

  As different as Flavius and his friend were, they shared one trait. Unlike some whites who took perverse delight in exterminating every red man alive, neither Davy nor he had a hankering to tangle with hostile Indians unless the Indians left them no choice.

  The Creek War was to blame. Flavius had joined up for the same reason as his friend: to teach the Creeks that they could not go around massacring white folks as they saw fit. He had been involved in a number of minor skirmishes, then had the misfortune to take part in the attack on the Creek town of Tallusahatchee.

  Flavius had fought as well as any man in the company, but the savagery and slaughter had sickened him half to death. When his enlistment was up, he had gladly quit the army and gone back home to making his livelihood as a farmer.

  Ever since, Flavius stayed shy of Indians who might be inclined to lift his hair.

  From the stories told in taverns and saloons all across the frontier, Flavius gathered that the tribes west of the Mississippi were especially hostile to white men. They would as soon kill a frontiersman as look at him.

  Little was known about them. Some were supposed to rely heavily on the buffalo for their subsistence. Certain tribes lived in established villages, while others roamed as they saw fit.

  To the northwest lived the Flatheads, so named because the women allegedly tied boards to the foreheads of their infant offspring so that when the children were older, their heads were as flat as pancakes. Flavius was skeptical of the reports, but not of accounts about another tribe that dwelled far to the southwest. Apaches, they were called, bloodthirsty fiends who regarded anyone and everyone not of their people as bitter enemies. It was said that they derived intense pleasure from torturing captives for days on end.