Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2)

by David Robbins

  Flavius marked the position and angled well to the north of it. Few whites ever visited that region, so the makers of that fire had to be Indians. No doubt unfriendly Indians.

  Little Hickory had caught the scent of water and was still hurrying due east.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Flavius said. “Do you want to end up as a mess of steaks?”

  Having once worked for a short spell as a drover, he used his experience with cattle to swing wide in front of the buffalo and steer it northward. Stubbornly, the calf balked, trying again and again to slip past the dun.

  “Uppity cuss,” Flavius grumbled. “Scare off one measly grizzly and you start acting too big for your britches.” He cut to the left and prevented Little Hickory from getting around him. “I’m doing this for your own good, you know.”

  It took some doing, but at length Flavius had the calf going in the direction he desired. Vigilant, he approached the willows and briars that lined the shore, and dismounted just before he entered.

  Flavius would have left the horse and the buffalo there and gone to investigate, but neither animal could be counted on to wait patiently when they were so thirsty. Leading the dun by the reins, he cautiously moved toward the river. Little Hickory walked at his side, head high, nostrils flaring. The buffalo, with that invaluable sixth sense that all wild things possess, knew that something was amiss, too.

  The wide waterway was a winding snake, twisting and turning in a shallow channel that had been carved from bottomlands ages past.

  Flavius scouted both sides before breaking cover. There was a bend forty yards away on the right, another sixty yards off on the left. Other than a pair of whitetail does on the opposite shore, he had that stretch of the river all to himself. The smoke was half a mile to the south, so he deemed it safe.

  Tugging on the reins, the dun waded into the river and buried its muzzle. Little Hickory drank a surprisingly small amount, then gamboled about, splashing water every which way.

  Flavius bent over facing the willows so no one could sneak up on him while he drank. He lowered both hands. He disregarded a loud splash behind him. It was only the calf, enjoying itself.

  Without warning, pain exploded as something slammed into his backside. Flung forward, Flavius stumbled and almost fell headfirst into the river. He had to pump his legs to keep his balance, clasping the rifle to him so it would not drop. As soon as he regained his footing, he stopped and whirled.

  At first Flavius assumed he had been shot, but he had not heard a gun. No war whoops rang out, either. If there were hostiles across the river, they were lying low.

  He clutched his bottom, seeking evidence of blood. Had it been an arrow? A rock?

  No.

  It had been a buffalo.

  Little Hickory stood nearby, head held low, about to charge. The calf snorted and huffed like a grown bull about to clash with a rival.

  “You butted me?” Flavius declared, too sore to think it funny. “Why, you sawed-off runt! I ought to kick you from here to Tennessee!”

  Tail high, Little Hickory spun and bounded out into knee-deep water, spraying the dun as he went by. The horse, irritated, backed away, vigorously shaking its head to get water out of its eyes.

  Any other time or place and Flavius would have laughed himself silly. As it was, he opened his mouth to guffaw, then thought better of the idea. Whoever was responsible for the smoke might be nearer than he reckoned.

  After quenching his thirst, Flavius fetched the dun. Little Hickory was sporting about, as frisky as a colt. Flavius never knew that buffalo had so much playfulness in them.

  Looping the reins around a low limb, he hustled back out to retrieve the calf, but Little Hickory sidestepped to avoid him, bleating like a billy goat when he grabbed at its neck.

  “We’ve no time for this nonsense,” Flavius said, worried that they would be discovered. “Now, come on.” Moving slowly so as not to provoke Little Hickory into running off, he was almost near enough to touch it when the calf trotted on around him, heading to the south.

  “Dang it, no!” Flavius rasped. His upset tone did not help any. Little Hickory ran farther, then paused to look at him with those great innocent eyes as if to say, “Let’s play!”

  Racking his brain for a means of outwitting the calf, Flavius decided to walk off and go about his business. Little Hickory was bound to tire of all the nonsense and follow him, just as the calf had been doing for the past couple of days.

  Accordingly, he stepped from the river, reclaimed the dun, and threaded through the willows to a patch of high brush. He did not glance around once. So confident was he that the calf had trailed him that he ground-hitched the horse and loosened the cinch before he turned.

  The buffalo was gone.

  His pulse quickening, Flavius dashed to the grass bordering the river. Little Hickory was close to the southern bend. Once around it, whichever tribe was camped yonder might see him. Indians would never pass up a golden opportunity to treat themselves to all that tender meat on the hoof.

  “Damn it all!” Flavius complained, giving chase. He stuck to the winding shoreline, gaining ground rapidly but not fast enough to head off the calf, which trotted around the turn well before he got there.

  In order to stay hidden, Flavius moved deeper into the belt of verdant growth. Slipping westward, he soon came to a tree flanked by thickets. He leaned his rifle against the bole, jumped, grasped a low limb, and pulled himself into a fork. Climbing higher, he saw Little Hickory close to shore approximately sixty feet past the bend. A short straight stretch ended at another winding turn to the southeast. Beyond it rose the smoke.

  For the moment the calf was safe. How long, though, before a war party or hunting party appeared? Flavius scrambled down, scraping a shin on the trunk. In his haste he nearly forgot the rifle. He also made more noise than he liked, but it could not be helped.

  Calling on all the woods lore he had learned, Flavius crept toward the spot where he had seen Little Hickory. The ornery calf’s antics were enough to plague a saint. It was worse than having a kid to watch after.

  A low rise allowed Flavius to survey the straight stretch without leaving cover. Little Hickory was on land now, grazing on sweet short grass. Flavius tried to crawl close enough to grab the hairy hellion, but as he began to slide over the rise an object appeared on a bend in the river.

  Flavius pressed his body as flat as a snake’s, scarcely breathing. A canoe glided smoothly up-river, a hefty man at each end manning paddles, two more at ease in the center. Judging by their dress and their long hair, he pegged them as Indians. But as the distance narrowed, it was apparent that he was wrong.

  They were white men!

  Overwhelmed by pure joy, Flavius watched the canoe knife the surface. His ordeal was over! He’d explain his plight to these men and they would help him get back to civilization safely. Within a month he’d be sitting on the rocking chair on the front porch of his cabin savoring Matilda’s raspberry tea.

  Flavius was about to leap up and screech like a banshee to catch their attention when one of the men in the center of the canoe raised a long rifle and took deliberate aim at Little Hickory.

  The calf had spied the quartet but went on grazing as if nothing out of the ordinary were taking place. Thanks to the time it had spent with Flavius, it displayed no fear of man. Munching hungrily, the unsuspecting little buffalo was an ideal target.

  Flavius was outraged. It wasn’t fitting for any hunter to shoot a helpless young critter like Little Hickory unless the hunter was on the verge of starving to death.

  The man taking aim stopped when the frontiersman behind him placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. They exchanged words and the first man reluctantly lowered his gun.

  The crisis past, Flavius coiled his legs under him to stand. Just then the canoe drew close enough for him to see the men even more clearly and to hear their next words.

  “So what if any stinkin’ Injuns hear,” the man who had been g
oing to shoot the calf said. “I ain’t afeared of them boys.”

  “We’re mighty tired of hearin’ how brave you are, Clem,” said the man who had stopped him. “But that’s only ’cause you aren’t smart enough to be scared. The rest of us know enough not to put our lives at risk without good cause.”

  Clem bristled. “Watch your tongue, Gallows. I don’t let anyone insult me.”

  The burly man in the bow of the canoe stopped paddling and twisted to scowl at the pair. He was a swarthy, greasy specimen, who looked as if he had not taken a bath in a coon’s age. “That’s enough out of the both of you,” he snarled. “I’m sick and tired of listening to you bicker. You’re worse than those rotten squaws!”

  From the stern of the canoe rose gruff laughter. “Hellfire, Shaw! You know how damn crotchety Clem gets when he hasn’t killed anyone in a spell.” The man laughed some more. “I swear, he’s more bloodthirsty than the Blackfeet and Comanches combined. Remember the time he strangled that old trapper just to see him squirm?”

  Flavius did not stand up, even though the canoe was drawing abreast of Little Hickory. An uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach rooted him where he was. Any men who could joke about murdering someone were not the sorts whose acquaintance he was anxious to make.

  The canoe floated on around the bend to the north. Flavius did not waste another second. Dashing to the calf, he shooed it toward the low rise. He was surprised to glimpse smoke still curling above the willows. Had those four been careless enough to move on without putting their fire out? Or were there more in their party?

  In answer, from the vicinity of the smoke came a woman’s piercing scream.

  Chapter Seven

  Davy Crockett was in a rare funk.

  As if it were not bad enough that he had been taken captive by the Teton Dakotas and slapped into leg irons older than he was, he now faced the bleak likelihood of being unable to get them off, ever.

  The next morning Davy persuaded White-Hollow-Horn to go to Black Buffalo and inquire about the missing key. He learned that none of the Sioux had ever seen one.

  Davy did not take the news well. Escaping would be hard enough without being burdened by the irons. Angrily smacking a fist against a palm, he hunkered on his bedding and glowered. His behavior disturbed the young Sioux couple.

  “Question?” White-Hollow-Horn” signed. “Why do your eyes burn, Tail Hat? The last man to wear those did not act like you.”

  “Your people put them on another white man before me?”

  “No,” White-Hollow-Horn answered. “He was a Blood, part of a war party that tried to steal our horses. We drove them off, killing two and taking him captive.”

  Davy was about to ask how they had gotten the shackles off the Blood when a commotion broke out outside. Tetons were running about, some yelling back and forth.

  “I am sorry. I must go find out what is happening,” White-Hollow-Horn signed. “We will talk more of this later.” He hastened out.

  Willow Woman offered Davy some water, but he declined. He also refused a sweet cake. She put it back into a parfleche, then sat near him. “Your heart is heavy, Tail Hat. I can understand why. Know, though, that my husband and a few others want to have you freed without harm,” she signed. “Their words may prevail at the council. Do not give up hope.”

  “I am grateful for his help, and for the kindness you have shown me,” Davy responded. “Your words are from the heart. So they cheer me a little. But we both know that Struck-By-Blackfeet and others want me dead and will not rest until I am.”

  Struck-By-Blackfeet’s facial scar had been inflicted by a Blackfoot war club during a raid when he was a small child. His feats in battle had earned him a place on the council, but White-Hollow-Horn had revealed that Struck-By-Blackfeet was not very well liked by the majority of the Dakotas. He was too brash, too arrogant, even with his own kind.

  “Figures,” Davy had muttered.

  The ruckus outside the lodge grew louder. Davy saw Willow Woman stiffen. “What is wrong?” he asked.

  “They say that some women have been stolen,” the young wife replied. “I did not hear their names.” She cast a worried look at her son, who was playing with his round stone. “Some enemies must be nearby. The men will drive them off.”

  Davy had learned that warfare was an important part of the Teton way of life. Warriors rose to positions of leadership by the valor they showed in battle. They had a system set up of grading brave deeds, which White-Hollow-Horn called “counting coup.”

  He did not have all the particulars down pat, but it seemed that a man earned a first coup by striking a living enemy, a second coup by killing a foe without actually touching him, and so on.

  Any warrior who met an enemy in personal combat was held in higher esteem than a warrior who shot from ambush. It was regarded as braver for a man to slay with a club or knife than with a bow from a safe distance.

  Being wounded was also worth merit. So was rescuing a wounded Teton under enemy fire.

  So ingrained was the making of war that little boys were versed in it from the moment they were old enough to stand.

  Grown warriors never left camp without their weapons. Some, Davy had been told, took their favorite war horses into their lodges whenever raiders were known to be in the vicinity.

  And raiders came fairly often. The Tetons, according to his hosts, at the moment were at war with eight neighboring Sioux tribes, a source of great pride to them. “The more powerful a tribe is, the more enemies they have,” White-Hollow-Horn had signed. “The Crows, the Blackfeet, the Bloods, they all respect us because we are worthy enemies.”

  In a way, the Tetons reminded Davy of certain officers he had met during the Creek War, men to whom glory in battle was everything. They were the ones who would gladly risk their lives to earn new medals, the ones who proudly displayed their many decorations on their uniforms.

  The buffalo-hide flap parted. White-Hollow-Horn, his features grim, signed to Davy without entering. “Come with me, Tail Hat. Black Buffalo would speak to you.”

  “Why?” Davy asked. That he got no reply was worrisome. Shuffling into the bright sunshine, he squinted against the glare as he dogged White-Hollow-Horn’s steps around the circle. The Teton chief and several other leaders were waiting for him, among them Struck-By-Blackfeet.

  Davy observed another warrior off to one side, a younger man, naked except for a breechcloth, who was greedily wolfing pemmican.

  Black Buffalo did not mince words. Or, in this case, sign language. “White-Hollow-Horn tells me that you can now understand me,” he signed, his fingers flying.

  “I can if you do not go too fast,” Davy responded.

  The chief pointed at Davy’s scarred nemesis. “Struck-By-Blackfeet thinks that you have lied to us. He thinks that you came to our country to steal our women.”

  Davy found the notion preposterous, and laughed. “I have a woman of my own who would shoot me if I tried to take another.”

  Black Buffalo was not the least bit amused. “Maybe you and your friends steal our women to trade to others.”

  Davy had not mentioned Flavius, since it was all too plain that the Sioux would go hunt him down if he did. “I did not come to your country with anyone else,” he fibbed.

  This time Struck-By-Blackfeet replied. Stepping up, he jabbed a finger into Davy’s chest, then signed, “You lie, white dog! We know the truth!” He indicated the man eating the pemmican. “Our Oglala brother from the south rode his horse to death to warn us that your people stole four women from his village and now they are on their way here to steal some Teton women.”

  “I am not with any other whites,” Davy insisted. He could see that the rest were skeptical, except for his friend White-Hollow-Horn. “If the ones you mention stole from a village to the south, how is it that I was near your own village when you caught me?” It was a clever rebuttal, he thought, but the scarred Teton was just as clever.

  Struck-By-Blackfeet sneered. “
You were sent ahead to scout our village for them.” Seizing Davy by the front of the shirt, he hissed like a serpent about to strike.

  “Release him,” Black Buffalo signed.

  The scarred warrior had one hand near his knife. In contempt, he pushed Davy so hard that Davy nearly fell. “Your hair will hang from my coup stick before long, white dog,” he signed viciously.

  Davy came close to making a fatal mistake. Incensed, he balled his hands together and was set to wallop Struck-By-Blackfeet across the jaw, when White-Hollow-Horn stepped between them.

  “There is a way to prove whether Tail Hat speaks with two tongues,” he signed. “When we find these white men, we will question them to find out if they know him.”

  The Oglala, who had been watching closely, leaped erect and signed bitterly, “The ones who stole our women must be wiped out! We claim the right of first coup, and the right to kill them as we see fit! We must teach all whites that any who raid the Dakotas will be punished.”

  “Be calm, Lame Deer,” Black Buffalo signed. “Have we not given our word to help your people catch them? You can do with them as you will. All we ask is that we be allowed to question them before you put them to death.”

  Lame Deer’s wrath subsided. “It will be as you want. I am sure Long Forelock, our chief, will agree to help you.”

  The warriors filed out, leaving Davy alone with White-Hollow-Horn. “What next?” Davy asked.

  “We leave as soon as the women have packed food for us,” the young warrior answered. “Three groups will range to the south to head off these bad men before they can reach our village. You must accompany me.”

  Davy glanced at his ankles. How the devil did they expect him to ride with his legs shackled? He posed the question to his benefactor.

  “I asked the same thing,” White-Hollow-Horn signed. “Some of the men were for leaving you here. Struck-By-Blackfeet suggested we throw you over a horse on your belly.” He frowned. “That is what will be done.”

  And so it was, much to Davy’s regret. His protests were in vain. A pair of sturdy specimens hoisted him by the arms and legs onto a lively pinto, then tied his wrists to his ankles so he would not slip off. It was terribly uncomfortable, more so once they headed out. He was jostled, bumped, and bruised, his stomach so sore after a while that he shifted as far as the ropes allowed onto his right side to spare him the torment.