Eagle Woman had thrust the flintlock Flavius had lent her into the killer’s face and fired. The ball cored a new nostril, flipping Kline backward.
At the same time, Davy had brought up Liz. He got off his shot just as the half-breed leaped. The man’s jugular burst in a gory crimson spray, spattering Davy as he sidestepped the falling body and grasped his tomahawk.
Over the rim came the other ’breed. Cuchillo, Flavius had called him. Behind Cuchillo were Shaw and Gallows and the rest, spaced out to present more difficult targets.
Davy knew that there was no stopping them, that the killers would swarm over Flavius and him, that no matter how fiercely he fought, the women were doomed to be carted off. But he did not give in.
Not for nothing were the Appalachian backwoodsmen of Tennessee widely regarded as fierce fighters. Davy’s father and grandfather had both done more than their share. Now he lived up to the family heritage by whipping out his tomahawk and confronting Cuchillo as the man landed lightly and flashed a long knife at his neck.
Davy parried, swung, and was blocked in turn. He pivoted to evade a wicked thrust at his groin, then swung a blow that would have taken Cuchillo’s head off had it connected.
Above and around the hole mayhem reigned. Guns boomed. Men screamed. Screams mixed with whizzing sounds. Screams punctuated by thuds.
Cuchillo speared his blade at Davy’s chest. Davy twisted, felt searing pain as the knife glanced off his ribs. Spinning in a complete circle, he brought the tomahawk up and around, cleaving it into Cuchillo below the shoulder. Cuchillo buckled but gamely attempted to stab Davy in the stomach. A bound to the right took Davy in the clear. Hiking the tomahawk, he brought it swishing down onto the back of Cuchillo’s neck. Spine and flesh were sheared like so much pulp.
Turning, Davy glanced up, braced for another attacker. But the battle was over. Littering the ground were the arrow-studded bodies of Garth Shaw and each and every one of his men. No body had fewer than five shafts in it. Most, like Gallows’, bristled like porcupines with eight or nine.
Black Buffalo and his warriors ringed the hole three deep. Struck-By-Blackfeet glared at Davy and brought up his bow, only to have it batted down by White-Hollow-Horn. Snapping at the younger warrior, Struck-By-Blackfeet again raised his bow. This time he was stopped by Black Buffalo himself.
The Teton leader ignored Davy and Flavius, but questioned Eagle Woman at length. Whatever she said made an impression. He said something to Struck-By-Blackfeet that caused the hothead to flush scarlet and stomp off like an indignant bull. Finally the chief faced Davy, his hands flowing.
“I am told that our sisters owe their lives to you and your friend. For that I am grateful. But I cannot overlook that you struck a Teton warrior. He has the right to kill you if he wishes, and only my request that he spare you has stopped him.”
Davy raised his hands to reply, but he was not given the opportunity.
“Struck-By-Blackfeet and those who take his side do not have to heed me. They might change their minds. My advice to you, Tail Hat, is to leave. Now. Do not speak. Do not even look at Struck-By-Blackfeet.” The chief pointed toward the Missouri. “Your horses are close to the river. Take them and go. Ride as fast as you can and maybe you will live. That is the gift I give you for saving these women.”
And that was exactly what Davy did. Twice Flavius tried to speak but Davy shushed him. The Sioux parted to permit them to pass. The horses were right where Black Buffalo had said they would be.
As Davy crossed the Missouri, he looked back. White-Hollow-Horn stood watching. Davy smiled and waved, and the young warrior did likewise.
“Do you mind telling me what that was all about?” Flavius inquired as their mounts stepped onto the east shore. “All that finger wriggling has me more confused than a pagan at a Baptist service.”
“As soon as we’re safe,” Davy promised. Lashing his reins, he winked and said, “For now, ride like hell for home.”
“Home?” Flavius repeated, the word conjuring fond images of his hunting hounds, the cabin he had built with his own hands, and his wife, in that order. “Why didn’t you say so?” he said, beaming.
Side by side, the two Tennesseans galloped across the sprawling plain and were soon lost in the morning haze.
You’ve reached the last page.
But the adventure doesn’t end here …
Join us for more first-class, action-packed books.
Regular updates feature on our website and blog
The Adventures continue…
Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
More on David Robbins
Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2) Page 14
