Davy Crockett did not hold Jonathan Hamlin in very high regard. Granted, the man was protecting the woman he loved, and her daughter. But that did not excuse some of the things Hamlin had done, and it certainly did not justify shooting Flavius. But Davy’s estimation of the man rose a few notches when Hamlin stiffened in indignation and roared his reply to Benchley’s demand. “Never!”
The bear on horseback was unimpressed. “Don’t make us come over there and get them. Mr. Dugan said you weren’t to be harmed unless you raise a ruckus.”
“Go back and tell your boss that the only way he’ll get his hands on them again is over my dead body!”
Benchley said something to his two companions, both of whom nodded. “Be reasonable, Hamlin!” he bellowed. “I have no personal grudge against you. Why don’t you step on out here so we can talk this over, man to man?”
Jonathan gnawed on his lower lip and glanced at Heather.
“Don’t you dare,” she said. “It’s a ruse to put you in their gun sights.”
Davy had a hunch she was right. Benchley did not strike him as the type who preferred to settle disputes with words. Flying lead and fists were more his style. “Listen to her, Hamlin. All they want is a clear shot.”
Jonathan looked at him. “What do you care? Are you trying to win my favor so I’ll release you?”
Davy clammed up. Some people just did not have the sense of a fence post.
Across the wagon, Flavius snickered. Would his friend never learn? Always trying to do the right thing had its drawbacks. Chief among them was that most of the human race didn’t give a damn about doing right, and made a laughingstock of those who did.
Benchley’s deep voice rumbled across the plain. “I’m not a patient man, Hamlin. Either send them out or come out yourself, or we’ll start shooting.” He paused. “You wouldn’t want your sweetheart to catch a stray slug, would you?”
“He’s bluffing!” Heather declared. “They won’t dare risk hitting me. My stepfather would have them boiled alive.”
Hamlin wavered. “I don’t know ...” he said.
Suddenly a shot rang out. A ball tore into the cloth cover above their heads and ripped out the far side. In pure reflex, Davy and everyone else ducked.
“That ought to show you we’re serious!” Benchley shouted. “Now send them out.”
Jonathan Hamlin rose, his cheeks scarlet with outrage. Leveling his rifle, he snapped off a shot. He should have aimed more carefully. Davy saw the cap on Benchley’s head go flying. Benchley immediately reined to the right along with another man, while the third river rat reined to the left.
Hamlin began to reload and to talk, more to himself than to anyone else. “I knew it! I knew I should have shot Dugan before we ever left St. Louis. He has the money and influence to seek us out wherever we go. Killing him is the only way to settle this once and for all.”
“Don’t say that, Jon,” Heather said. “There has to be a better way.”
“Your stepfather got where he is by grinding anyone who opposed him under his boot heel. He thinks that he’s God Almighty. Either do as he says, or suffer the consequences.” Jonathan spilled black powder again. “Nothing would give him more pleasure than to spit on my grave.”
“He’s not all bad,” Heather said. “I mean, he always treated me decently until my marriage. And even though he was against it, he gave Thomas a job on his steamboat line.”
Hamlin stopped reloading to stare at her. “I can’t believe that you’re defending him! After all he’s done to separate us! After this!” He waved at the prairie.
The riders were nowhere in sight, and the pounding hoofs had fallen silent. Davy figured that the trio had swung to either side of the wagon and dismounted. “They’re on our blind sides now. They can sneak in close and pick you off.”
Jonathan was capping the powder horn. “You think I don’t know what they’re up to? You think I’m an idiot?”
Flavius had to bite his tongue in order not to say what he thought. He was curled into a ball against the wall, in too much agony to lift a finger. The pain had reached a plateau and stopped growing worse. But any undue movement on his part might aggravate the wound again. He was content to lie there and let whatever happened happen.
Again a rifle cracked on the prairie. This time the slug tore through the cloth cover about a foot above Davy’s head and exited the same height above Flavius.
“That’s another warning!” Benchley yelled. “And it’s your last! Send Heather and the kid out, damn you!”
“Maybe we should,” Jonathan said. “I couldn’t bear it if either of you were hurt.”
Heather slid across the pile of possessions to Hamlin, hauling Becky after her. “Don’t listen to them, dearest. Please. We’re in this together.”
Davy twisted and thrust his arms toward them. “Untie me and I’ll lend a hand.”
Jonathan snorted. “Sure you will. With a ball in my back. No thanks.”
“My word on it,” Davy pledged. “Give me my rifle and I’ll help you drive them off.”
“Just shut up.”
“Do it,” Heather said.
Hamlin looked at her as if she were insane.
“I mean it,” Heather pressed. “My intuition tells me that we can trust him.” When Jonathan did not respond right away, she gripped his arms and shook him. “For God’s sake, don’t you start being as pigheaded as Dugan! I know you’re worried about me. I know that you’re doing what you believe is right for my sake. But you can carry it too far.”
“Amen,” Flavius threw in, but no one paid any attention to him.
“Please!” Heather pleaded.
Jonathan Hamlin was a study in acute misery. He studied Davy, then the beauteous features of the woman he adored. His soul was torn. He balked. And at that exact second, when their lives hung in the balance, two more shots boomed and two slugs smashed into the bed of the wagon, low down this time, so low that one of them punched through the wood and narrowly missed Davy’s leg.
“See?” Heather said. “Benchley will keep that up until one of us is hit.”
It was the decisive factor. Hamlin gave her the rifle, drew a pocket knife, and dashed to Davy. As he clasped Davy’s arms and poised the blade over the rope, he peered into Davy’s eyes. “I pray I’m not making the worst mistake of my life. I love her, mister. Love her so much it hurts.”
“You won’t regret this,” Davy promised. The instant the loops parted, he hurried to the pile of weapons and rearmed himself.
From outside another bellow. “We haven’t got all day, Hamlin.”
“He’s closer,” Davy guessed. Edging to the seat, he placed an eye to the opening. Somewhere in that sea of grass the river rats were lying low. Sniffing them out would take some doing.
Suddenly three shots cracked, two on the right, one on the left. Benchley and his cohorts had made the mistake of firing a concerted volley. They had all emptied their rifles at the same time.
Davy was up and out of the wagon in the blink of an eye. Sliding over the seat, he lowered his legs to the tongue. The oxen were not the least bit agitated by the gunfire. Like the great dumb beasts they were, they peacefully grazed, oblivious to the turmoil engulfing the wagon.
Hopping to the ground, Davy flattened and turned. On elbows and knees he crabbed under the bed to the front wheel on the right. A wall of grass met his gaze. He waited for one of the river rats to rise up and give him a target but the minutes dragged by and no one appeared. “Hamlin! You still alive?”
Benchley’s shout came from grass not fifty feet from where Davy was crouched. But try as he might, he could not locate the cutthroat.
“I’m here!” was Jonathan’s reply.
“Are you ready to give in yet?”
It was Heather who answered. “If you want us, Rufus, you’ll have to drag us out kicking and screaming.”
“Awww, don’t make it so hard on yourself, girlie,” Benchley said. “I’ve never mistreated you, have I? Becky and you will be safe, I guarantee.”
Through the planks that made up the floor of the bed wafted muted voices.
“Mr. Benchley bought me sweets once, mommy. He isn’t so bad.”
“Bad enough, Becky. Now shush.”
“If only I could see them!” Jonathan complained.
“Where do you suppose Mr. Crockett got to?” Heather asked.
“He’s probably out there with his good friend, Benchley.”
Flavius interjected a remark. “Mister, I’ve met some boneheaded jackasses in my day, but you beat them all hollow. My pard has more real grit in his little finger than you have in your whole blamed body. He’ll give those thugs what-for. Mark my words.”
Another volley rang out. Lead smacked into the bed, lower than ever. One shot passed underneath it and whizzed past Davy’s shoulder. He had waited long enough. Throwing himself flat, he crawled toward the grass. Every foot of the way he prayed that the river rats were concentrating on the wagon to the exclusion of all else.
No shouts were raised. No shots were directed at him. Davy gained the grass and bore to the southeast. He parted the stems with Liz, careful not to make them rustle.
At the rear of the wagon, a rifle banged.
Ahead of Davy, someone uttered a guttural laugh.
“That quill pusher couldn’t hit the broad side of a stable with a cannon,” someone stated.
“You’re forgetting he almost took my head off a while ago,” Benchley snapped. “So keep yours down, Sontag, if you know what’s good for you.”
Davy had a fairly good idea of where the two men were. Benchley was to his left, perhaps thirty feet away. Sontag was straight ahead, and nearer. Davy angled to the right, going wide in order to approach Sontag from behind. A few more shots peppered the wagon, but no outcries followed them. Apparently, Flavius and the others were still unharmed.
The grass on his left rustled. Davy hugged the earth as a husky form materialized, moving briskly toward the wagon. It had to be Sontag, and the man’s course would take him within a few steps of where Davy lay.
Davy twisted to bring Liz to bear. The thick grass should shield him, he reckoned, but once again fate intervened. Somehow or other, Sontag spotted him. A pistol cracked, the ball biting into the soil at his elbow.
Davy lunged to his knees, elevating Liz. He was about to take a bead when Sontag crashed out of the grass and rammed into him like a two-legged battering ram.
Bowled over, Davy held onto Liz. Once more he heaved onto one knee. Once more he slapped her to his shoulder. Too late, he saw a rifle stock arcing toward him. He brought up Liz to ward off the blow but instead Liz was knocked out of his hands.
Sontag closed in. He was a broad man with a barrel chest and a saw tooth scar on his left cheek. His dark eyes glittered with sadistic relish. Here was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. Here was a killer, plain and simple.
Again the stock swept at Davy. He dropped under it and rolled, deliberately churning toward Sontag’s legs. He made contact, and down Sontag toppled. Davy whipped a punch that glanced off the river rat’s temple.
Sontag had lost his rifle, so he resorted to grappling. A rough and tumble customer who had learned to fight in the no-holds-barred arena of the wharves, he fought as dirty as a politician. He kicked, he gouged, he even bit.
A fist caught Davy on the jaw and pinpoints of light pin wheeled in front of him. A boot slammed into his midsection with enough force to drive his stomach out through his spine. Dazed, in torment, Davy blocked several roundhouse punches, then threw a right cross that rocked Sontag.
“Bastard!” the riverman hissed. His fists were flesh-and-blood hammers, his knuckles the size of walnuts. The punishment he rained down on Davy would have crippled a lesser man. As it was, Davy was hard pressed to hold his own.
They traded a flurry, neither doing much damage. Davy was jarred by an uppercut. In retaliation, he landed a left cross. Sontag took him unawares by smashing into him and wrapping fingers as thick as knife hilts around his throat.
“You’re mine, you son of a bitch!”
Davy leaped backward and swung at Sontag’s wrists, but it was the same as pummeling iron. Sontag’s thick fingernails dug in deeper, and Davy felt blood moisten his flesh. Davy jerked to either side, hitting Sontag’s arms again and again.
“Puny feller, ain’t you?” Sontag taunted.
No one had ever accused Davy of being a weakling before. Among the backwoodsmen of his home state, he had earned a reputation for strength and stamina that most men marveled at. Now he applied that strength, exerting every ounce of power in his steely sinews as he thrust his hands at Sontag, wrapped his own fingers around Sontag’s bull neck, and squeezed.
The sneer on Sontag’s craggy countenance became a frown as Davy’s fingers sank deeper and deeper. Veins bulged on Sontag’s face, and Davy imagined the same was true of his. Sontag began to puff and sputter. Davy squeezed harder. Sontag wrenched to either side. Davy squeezed harder.
Just when Davy thought the man would pass out, a knee slammed into his groin. Davy’s strength evaporated like dew under a hot sun. He was shoved onto his back. A boot sank into his gut.
“For that, you suffer, boy.”
Sontag reared over him, kicking in a frenzy. Davy absorbed several punishing blows, then found the energy to fling himself to the left and roll.
“No, you don’t.”
Sontag came after him, drawing a butcher knife. The blade glinted as Sontag raised it.
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
Davy clawed at a flintlock, freed it as the knife streaked at his chest. He fired, the slug striking Sontag’s sternum and lifting the man clean off his feet. Sontag flailed his arms like a windmill as he toppled. He struggled onto his elbows, sought to hike his arm to throw the knife, and expired with a wolfish snarl of defiance on his lips.
Off in the grass, footsteps thudded.
Davy pushed into a crouch, saw his rifle, and reclaimed it. The footsteps had stopped. Benchley was too smart to rush in blindly.
“Sontag?”
The whisper seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Davy crept a step to one side. Where was he? A hint of motion riveted his interest, but it was only grass swaying in the wind. Taking a gamble, Davy circled, placing each foot with exquisite care. He had gone a dozen yards when a holler arose across the way.
“Benchley? Sontag? Consarn it. What in blazes is goin’ on over there?”
To Davy’s disappointment, Benchley did not answer. It occurred to him that the riverman was probably doing the same thing he was. A ruse was called for.
Davy searched the ground, but found only grass. Sliding his knife out, he pried at the topsoil, removing a chunk the size of his palm.
Yet another yell broke the stillness. It came from the wagon, and it was Becky. “Mr. Crockett! Mr. Crockett! We need you!”
Davy tossed the chunk a score of feet to the north. The racket it made when it came down should have drawn Benchley’s fire, but once again the wily cutthroat had proven too savvy. Davy glanced toward the wagon, worried by the anxiety in Becky’s voice. What could have happened? He dared not show himself, not with Benchley and the other river rat ready to cut him down.
Nothing happened for the longest while. Davy had resigned himself to a battle of wills when hoof beats drummed east of him. Leaping erect, he saw Benchley and the other killer galloping off, Benchley leading Sontag’s mount. They reached the slope and clattered to the crest. On the rim, Benchley reined up and looked back. The gesture he flung at Davy was not Indian sign language.
Davy sped to the wagon. He was surprised to see Flavius Harris peering out, a rifle in hand. “They let you loose?”
“They needed someone who could shoot.”
“What?” Davy said, hoisting himself as high as the loading gate. No explanation was needed once he saw inside. Sprawled on his back was Jonathan Hamlin, the left side of his head caked with fresh blood. Hovering over him was Heather, dabbing a cloth at a gash above his ear. In the background was Becky, trembling uncontrollably.
“He was hit during that last volley,” Flavius said. “Another inch deeper and he’d be playing a harp right about now.” He paused. “Or, more likely, shoveling coal.”
Davy climbed in. “Fetch water,” he told Becky, to take her mind off Hamlin’s condition. Bending, he verified the wound was every bit as serious as Flavius claimed.
“It won’t stop bleeding,” Heather said anxiously.
“We need a fire,” Davy said, and took it on himself to gather the necessary dry grass. He made a small pile. Too much smoke might advertise their presence to wandering bands of Indians. From his possibles bag he took a flint and steel.
Flavius covered his friend from the wagon. By rights, he should be miserable, what with being shot and everything else that had taken place. But he was happier than he had been all day. Now that Hamlin would be laid up for a spell, Heather Dugan had to face facts and head back to civilization. She could not possibly make a go of it on her own.
Igniting the kindling was child’s play. Davy fanned the tiny flames with his breath until they licked steadily at the grass. As he turned to the wagon, he almost bumped into Becky. “Sorry, little one. I didn’t hear you sneak up on me.”
“Will Jon live?” the girl asked bluntly.
“I reckon so,” Davy said. “Once I’m through doctoring him.” Davy nodded at the bay. “Does your ma have a butter knife somewhere in that mountain of belongings?”
“Sure. We have a dozen good ones that she only likes to use when we have company. And there are half a dozen old ones that she makes me use.”
Davy smiled. “One of the old ones is just what I need. Would you bring it to me?”
She was gone in a swirl of hair and back again faster than a jackrabbit. “Here you go.”
Davy pulled his left hand up into his sleeve and grasped the handle; the other end he extended into the flames. Gradually the metal changed colors, and when it was glowing good and red, he stood and strode to the wagon.
“What are you aiming to do?” Becky asked, dogging his heels.
“What has to be done,” was all Davy would say. “Stay out here until we call you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No matter what you hear,” Davy stressed. Patting her head, he rejoined the mother, who glanced at the red tip of the butter knife and blanched.
“Must you?”
“It’ll cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding.” Davy positioned himself, his left hand flat against the unconscious man’s temple. “Better hold his shoulders down. This will sting some.”
That was the understatement of the century. Davy gently applied the knife. Flesh sizzled. An acrid stench filled the wagon.
Jonathan Hamlin stirred. Muttering, he tossed about, or tried to. Davy held his head in place, while Heather bore down with all her weight. Groaning, Hamlin opened his eyes. They were unfocused for a few seconds, until the pain registered. Then they widened and he feebly heaved upward, a scream tearing from his throat.
“How much longer?” Heather said.
Davy leaned lower. The odor of roasting flesh and singed hair reeked to high heaven. Little blood was visible. Slowly running the knife the full length of the gash, he did not relent until satisfied he had done a thorough job.
Hamlin gasped and wheezed, too weak to sit up.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” Heather said, cradling his head in her lap. “Please forgive us.”
Jonathan tried to say something, but could not. She gripped his hand and stroked his fingers, aglow with joy that he would live.
“Rest now. We’ll take care of everything.”
“Heather?” Hamlin croaked.
“Be still. Rufus is gone. Mr. Crockett drove them off. Everything is fine.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Jonathan’s wide eyes roved the empty air overhead in blatant panic. “I can’t see.”