Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2)

by David Robbins

  A gravel bar materialized. Flavius powered the bow up onto it and leaped out while the canoe was still moving. Darting to the woman who was hanging on at the stern, he hauled her to her feet.

  “We did it!” Flavius cried as Davy’s canoe slid up onto the bar beside his. “We’re safe, thanks to you!”

  At that juncture a familiar voice rent the night to the north. The leader of the slavers roared, “Hear that? It’s them! We’ve caught up with those bastards already!”

  Chapter Twelve

  No one was more surprised at Garth Shaw’s triumphant cry than Davy Crockett. He saw that the stricken canoe would never float again, so escape down the river was no longer feasible. Springing out, he signed to Eagle Woman, “Take your friends into the trees, quickly. We must hide.”

  As one, the women surged erect and raced across the gravel bar, the Oglala who had been dunked being assisted by two of her friends.

  Flavius thought that he saw something out on the water, moving in their direction. He raised his rifle to shoot, but Davy pushed the barrel.

  “Save your lead for when they get in close. That’s when we’ll need it most.”

  “It just ain’t possible that they’ve found us so fast,” Flavius said, falling into step beside his friend. “Where did we go wrong?”

  Any answer Davy might have given was forestalled by another yell to the north. Only this one came from the shore, not the river. “We heard them too, Garth! Move in and we’ll box them between us!”

  That was Gallows, Davy guessed. He saw the Oglalas come to a steep bank and begin to scramble up it. Joining them, he gave Eagle Woman a boost, then tensed at the thud of hooves and the crash of brush to their right.

  “Oh, God!” Flavius exclaimed. “They caught our horses, too? What else can possibly go wrong?”

  As if in answer, a narrow strip of bank inexplicably collapsed, spilling two of the women in a cascade of dirt. Davy and Flavius each helped one to stand.

  “Hurry to the top!” Davy signed, the drumming growing nearer and nearer. As he gave the maiden a push, a gun cracked. The ball whined off a rock close to Flavius, who tore up the bank as if his britches were on fire.

  Davy whirled, bringing up Liz. A shadowy form emerged out of the darkness, bearing down on them at a breakneck gallop. It was hard for Davy to distinguish between the rider and the horse, so he delayed squeezing the trigger an extra few seconds. Steel glinted dully as the slaver drew a knife or tomahawk.

  Hoping that it was Gallows, Davy stroked the trigger. Liz boomed, spewing smoke. The man flung his arms heavenward as if in supplication for his soul, then pitched to the left and toppled, rolling the final few yards to stop almost at Davy’s feet.

  The man had been astride the dun. Davy grabbed for it, but the horse swerved and kept on going.

  Flavius gained the top, then turned to cover his friend. Mentally cursing his stupid horse, he glanced at the base of the bank and recognized the dead man. “That was Weist,” he whispered as Davy bounded up the slope like a lithe panther.

  “One down, only eight to go.”

  “Only eight?” Flavius said, not at all heartened by the odds.

  From out on the Missouri rose Garth Shaw’s voice again. “Gallows? Weist? Did you get one of those stinking Tennesseans?”

  Davy cupped a hand to his mouth to reply. “It’s the other way around, vermin! Come close enough and we’ll do the same to you and all your boys!”

  The night grew as quiet as a graveyard. Davy cocked his head and detected the swish of paddles being stealthily used. Nudging his companion, he jogged after the women, who had reached the vegetation and paused to wait for Flavius and him.

  “Give us knives and we will fight,” Eagle Woman signed.

  Davy appreciated her offer, and he had no doubt they could hold their own. As he had learned from the couple who befriended him, Teton women, like their men, rated courage as a supreme virtue. They would fight to the death, if need be, in defense of their villages and their families.

  “I would like to,” Davy signed, “but my friend and I will need them. Take cover until this fight is over. If the bad men beat us, you must head north. A party of Tetons is coming to rescue you.”

  Eagle Woman did a tender thing. She lightly touched his chin, then took charge of her younger sisters and melted into the undergrowth.

  Flavius, upset that they were wasting time exchanging silly hand gestures while the slavers closed in, groused, “I wish you would tell me what all that finger flapping is about.”

  Davy did not respond. A gust of wind had brought him the thump of a hoof on soft soil. One of the other cutthroats was out there somewhere, mounted on the sorrel.

  A scraping noise issued from the vicinity of the gravel bar. Then another. A flurry of whispers preceded a flurry of secretive movement.

  “They’re fanning out,” Flavius whispered.

  That they were, Davy realized. Ducking into a thicket, he crouched and placed a hand on his powder horn to commence reloading. He changed his mind when a weaving black figure appeared.

  Flavius saw the man too. Elevating his rifle, he steadied it, held his breath, and cocked the hammer.

  At the metallic click, the figure promptly vanished as if it had never been there.

  Davy nudged his friend, then backed through the thicket until they could straighten. He was about to suggest that they go farther north and try to outflank the killers when a strident screech sent him flying due south instead.

  “The women are in trouble,” Flavius huffed, struggling to keep up with the fleeter Irishman. Zigzagging through the brush, he relied on Davy’s keener eyes to spot obstacles before he did, mimicking every move Davy made. They barreled through high weeds, and Flavius beheld the four women locked in combat with a swarthy cutthroat.

  It was one of the ’breeds, Jipala. The man had the youngest maiden by the wrist and was trying to haul her off, but the other three would not let him. He swatted at them with his rifle, holding them at bay, while the youngest woman dug in her heels, resisting mightily.

  At the sight of Davy and Flavius, Jipala pivoted.

  Snarling like a beast, he threw his captive at her three sisters and was gone, scarcely ruffling the leaves and stems around him.

  Flavius had flung his rifle up, but he never got off a shot. Worried that the other half-breed was nearby, and recollecting all too vividly how Cuchillo had sneaked up on him like a ghostly specter, he rotated every which way, trying to watch every approach at once.

  Davy gave Eagle Woman and another woman a hand up. None of them had been seriously hurt, although the young one had a bloody gash on her wrist where the slavers fingernails had broken the skin. Time to change tactics, he mused. Trying to draw their enemies off had not worked.

  “We will stay together,” Davy signed, and whispered the same aloud for Flavius’s benefit, adding, “We’ve got to find a spot we can defend or we’re goners.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, why don’t you?” Flavius jested, but neither of them so much as cracked a grin.

  Pointing to the southwest, Davy hurried the women off and brought up the rear to protect them. He had the uneasy feeling that they were being silently shadowed on both sides, yet try as he might, he was not able to spot anyone.

  The willows and cottonwoods thickened. Davy could find no place to make a stand. To the east the brush occasionally crackled, reminders that Shaw and his men were still hunting for them.

  Eagle Woman came to what appeared to be the lip of a low knoll. She motioned for the other three Oglalas to go around and set an example by swinging to the left.

  Davy brought them to a stop by lightly clapping his hands. The knoll was not a knoll at all, but rather a roughly circular hole approximately ten feet in diameter that had been created when a gigantic tree came crashing to earth many years ago. Broken sections of rotting trunk and dead, shattered limbs lay to the west.

  “This is it,” Davy whispered to Flavius as he droppe
d to the bottom. The hole was about four feet deep, more than deep enough to conceal them.

  The women did not need to be told what to do. In single file they climbed down and huddled in the center.

  Flavius had his doubts about stopping, but he hopped in anyway. Hunkering, he ran a hand over the smooth butts of his flintlocks. Of them all, he was the best armed, the one with weapons to spare. He snatched a pistol from under his belt and offered it to Eagle Woman. “Here,” he whispered. “In case they get past Davy and me.”

  The Oglala’s eyebrows knitted. She accepted the weapon, then glanced quizzically at both of them.

  “I doubt she’s ever used one,” Davy whispered. Using sign, he briefly explained how to cock the hammer and pull the trigger. Eagle Woman smiled, the first time he had seen her do so, and clasped the pistol to her bosom as if it were manna sent by the Creator.

  Something rustled to the northwest. Davy pressed against the earth wall and began reloading, praying there would be no attack until he was ready.

  The infernal suspense grated on Flavius’s nerves. He tried to tell himself that maybe the slavers would not find their hiding place, that maybe Shaw’s outfit would give up and go away. But he was only fooling himself. Jipala and Cuchillo would find them if no one else did. Those two were the most dangerous of the bunch.

  Davy had to pour the black powder into Liz’s muzzle by touch alone. He had done it so many times that he was able to measure the right amount by the feel of the grains in his palm. Taking a ball from his ammo pouch, he wrapped it in a cloth patch, removed the ramrod, and tamped both down the barrel until they were snugly seated.

  Minutes ticked by. Flavius had not heard anything for so long that he entertained the notion Jipala and Cuchillo were not the hellcats he had assumed. The crunch of footsteps and the crackle of limbs from several directions set him straight.

  Davy turned toward the forest. The cutthroats were making so much noise that they had to be doing it on purpose. Sure enough, presently a harsh laugh was flung at the hole by Garth Shaw.

  “Did you really think you could hide from us, Tennessean? My ’breeds were shadowing you the whole time, and they fetched us.”

  Since there was nothing to be gained by not responding, Davy called out, “Do your ’breeds intend to die for you, too? Because that’s what they’ll do if you rush us.”

  Garth laughed louder. “Mighty brave talk for a coon who has a fat fool and four worthless squaws to back his play.”

  Flavius’s temper flared at the insult. “Who are you calling a fool, you miserable trash? Step out in the open. We’ll settle this man to man.”

  “Now I’m really scared,” Shaw quipped, and several of his men snickered or chuckled.

  Davy was glad they did. It gave him some idea of where they were concealed. One was in a cluster of weeds not twenty paces from the hole.

  “Give up now and I’ll go easy on you,” Shaw said. “I give you my word that your deaths will be quick and painless.”

  A wide willow shielded the leader. Davy sighted on it, wishing the killer would poke his head out. “Only a fool takes the word of someone who has no honor,” he hollered. “You’ll stake us out and torture us until you’re bored.”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t like to,” Shaw confessed. “But with the Sioux after our scalps, we can’t linger.” He paused. “Tell you what. Just hand over the women and we’ll go our merry way. What do you say?”

  It was Davy’s turn to laugh. The abrupt change of heart was as fake as counterfeit money. “Sure,” he said. “And while we’re at it, we’ll hand over our rifles and pistols just so you’ll know we won’t shoot you in the back as you walk off.”

  Shaw sighed. “All right. Enough of this nonsense. Flush them out, boys. Just be careful of the women.”

  On all sides, rifles and pistols blasted. Davy bent low as balls whizzed overhead or smacked into the wall on either side. The louder retorts of five rifles were easy to tell from those of three pistols.

  That stumped Davy. Flavius had thrown every last gun into the river. The only explanation he could think of was that the slavers had extra rifles and pistols stashed in their packs and bedrolls. He should have thought of that before and had Flavius check.

  The firing died down. Flavius was on his knees next to an exposed root nearly as thick as his head. It jutted a good foot into the air, shielding his right side. “We’ve played right into their hands,” he whispered. “We’re sitting ducks if we stay here.”

  “We’d be no better off out there,” Davy said. To bolster his friend’s spirits and show the cutthroat that they had a fight on their hands, he aimed at the middle of the weed patch and fired.

  A man squalled like an infant and the weeds shook violently as if in a gale. “I’m hit! I’m hit! Help me, Shaw!”

  “Clem, is that you?” the leader responded. “Where did they get you?”

  “In the leg! I’m bleeding like a stuck pig!”

  “Is that all? If you didn’t take one in the vitals, you’ll live. Quit your bellyaching.”

  “But I hurt!”

  “You’ll hurt worse if you don’t shut up.”

  Davy took advantage of the situation, shouting, “Is that how you always treat your men, Shaw? You don’t give a damn about them. All you care about is the money you’ll get for the Oglalas.”

  Shaw was not ruffled in the least. “Nice try, Crockett, but you can’t turn my boys against me. They know I treat them fairly. We all get equal shares, we all take equal risks. That’s the rule.” His voice wavered, as it would if he were changing position. “You’re a crafty one, Tennessean, but luck is on our side.”

  “You think so?” Davy baited him.

  “I know so.” Shaw chortled. “Those canoes you had the women push into the current drifted into shore instead of away from it. And your horses came waltzing back right after you left.”

  Davy had one last ploy to try. “You should use those canoes and the horses to light a shuck while you still can. It won’t be long before Black Buffalo and the Sioux arrive.”

  “Never give up, do you?” Shaw asked. “The Sioux won’t get here until tomorrow afternoon, if then. We’ve plenty of time to finish you and your friend off.”

  A rifle shattered the stillness, the signal for all the slavers to fire. Balls seemed to fly as thick as bees for several seconds. One punched into the soil an inch from Davy’s elbow.

  Flavius flattened when the root next to him was shattered. Flying slivers stung his cheeks and jaw, drawing blood. Outraged, he popped up and shot at what he took to be a moving shadow. Either it was his imagination or he missed, because there was no outcry.

  Once more the firing ceased. Davy reloaded swiftly, expecting a concerted rush at any moment. None came, though, and after a while he realized they must have something else in mind. But what?

  One of the Oglalas was holding her upper arm, a dark stain seeping from under her fingers. Davy beckoned and Eagle Woman brought her over. A ball had creased her biceps, digging a shallow furrow. She would be in a pain a spell, but she would heal.

  “Tennessean!” Garth Shaw shouted. “Are you and the human pumpkin still with us?”

  “We’re still in the land of the living,” Davy confirmed. “All you did was waste ammunition.”

  “We’ve plenty to spare,” Shaw said.

  Davy assumed that was a cue for the rest to shoot, but no hail of lead ensued. Not right away, and not later, either. Tense hours passed uneventfully. It was past ten clock when a tiny fire blazed to life over by the Missouri River.

  “See that?” Garth Shaw shouted. He had changed position yet again. “Kline is fixing us some coffee. We’ll be nice and warm out here while you shiver and go hungry. Why put yourself through all this aggravation? Those squaws aren’t worth it.”

  “That depends on how a man sees things,” Davy said. “To my way of thinking, every life is precious.” He thought of the ideals his father had fought for during the Revolution. “T
homas Jefferson once wrote that we all have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I reckon those values are worth fighting for.”

  Mirth broke out on all sides.

  “Oh, Lordy! Thomas Jefferson!” a man guffawed. “We have us a regular patriot here, boys!”

  “And here we figured he wanted them squaws for himself!” chimed in another.

  Shaw’s reply was scathing. “I took you for a smart one, Tennessee, but I was wrong. Jefferson wrote those words about white folks, not red heathens. You can’t really think they rate the same treatment as us, do you?”

  Davy had never given the issue much thought, but now that he did, the answer was “Yes, I do.” Shaw had no comment. Davy changed position himself in case they had it pegged. Making himself as comfortable as he could, he waited for an attack that never came. Midnight did, then two o’clock and four o’clock.

  Flavius could not understand what the slavers were waiting for. The tension was practically unbearable. He fidgeted. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Like Davy, he scanned the forest again and again.

  The first pink flush of dawn tinged the eastern horizon when Davy peeked over the edge for the umpteenth time. He saw the same trees, the same bushes that were always there. Then, as he started to hunker, he noticed something strange, a bush about six feet away that had not been there the last time he looked.

  Insight seared Davy like a carving knife. The cutthroats had been waiting for daylight all along!

  They had all probably crawled as close as they could get and were awaiting the command to pounce. “Flavius—” Davy began. His warning was drowned out by a roar from Garth Shaw.

  “Now, boys! At ’em, and the Devil take the hindmost!”

  The “bush” sprang erect, the half-breed who had held it throwing it aside as he sped toward the hole. Three other bushes sprouted legs and converged, while from behind trees appeared cutthroats leveling rifles and pistols.

  Flavius saw Grist and stroked his trigger. His ball caught the man high in the shoulder, spinning him around. Flavius brought his pistol up just as a heavy form hurtled over the side and slammed him to the turf. Disoriented, he was barely aware that a knife was arcing at his neck. The blast of a flintlock jolted him out of his daze.