Davy Crockett stepped between Becky and the warriors and took aim at the foremost. Through his mind filtered images of Flavius and Heather being caught off guard, of knives sinking into their bodies, of them being dragged into the grass and hidden. He tucked Liz to his shoulder, thumbed back the hammer, and was applying his finger to the trigger when it dawned on him that the warriors were just standing there, staring. Not one made any effort to employ a weapon.
Davy held off firing. Raising his head, he studied the Indians. They were not the most impressive bunch he had ever laid eyes on. Small in stature compared to the Lakotas, they were generally thin and wiry, plainly adorned in skimpy buckskin loincloths and low moccasins. Five of the six carried short bows and had small quivers strapped to their sides. The last man, the tallest, held a fine lance decorated with feathers and beads. Davy had a hunch that the lance had either been received in trade with another tribe, or been taken from an enemy in combat.
The man with the lance advanced a few paces. Older than the others, he had a wrinkled, weathered face. Smiling, he held up his hand, palm out, and said something in low, guttural tones.
Davy lowered Liz. The Indians appeared friendly enough, but what had happened to Flavius and Heather? As if in answer to his unspoken query, his partner stuck his head out the back of the wagon.
“You’re back! Thank goodness!”
Flavius Harris had been startled half out of his wits when the six warriors showed up. He had been hunkered beside the fire, warming his hurt side, when a feeling had come over him that he was being watched. Chalking it up to bad nerves, he had shifted and been dumbfounded to find the six Indians lined up just inside the circle of firelight.
Since the warrior had made no hostile moves, neither did Flavius. Holding his rifle, he had backed to the wagon and climbed in to protect Heather and Hamlin.
The Indians had filed around the wagon a few times, examining the tongue and the wheels and commenting among themselves, then moved to one side and just stood there, as if waiting.
Now Flavius hopped to the ground, ignoring the pain that flared. “I don’t know what these fellers want,” he told Davy. “I don’t think they speak a lick of English. And I don’t savvy that finger talk, like you do.”
Davy cradled Liz. During his stay with the Nadowessioux, he had learned enough of the peculiar sign language that seemed to be used by most tribes to get by. Moving toward the warrior with the lance, he signed, “Sunset, day, good.” There were no signs for hello or good evening that he knew of, so he did the best he could, adding, “We friends.”
The warrior’s smile widened. “Friends,” he signed, and launched into a fluid flurry of hand gestures that was difficult for Davy to follow. The gist was that the Indians came in peace.
Davy thanked him. “Question. You people called?” Again the warrior used sign, but it was a gesture new to Davy and he shook his head to signify as much. The Indian spoke aloud. “Kanza,” he said, and tapped his chest. “Kanza.”
Davy had never heard of them. He was going to inquire where they were from when Heather showed herself, a pistol in hand.
“I gather it’s safe for me to come down?”
The warriors betrayed great surprise. Some started toward the wagon, but stopped at a word from their leader.
Flavius was ready to shoot if any of them made a wrong move. He did not trust Indians as much as Davy did, and he didn’t see how Davy could, since Indians had butchered Davy’s grandfather, whom Davy had adored.
Flavius figured that it had something to do with the time Davy had been out hunting and been stricken by the strange illness that afflicted him now and then. Indians had found him and taken him to a Quaker woman who had nursed him back to health. If not for those Indians, Davy would surely have perished.
“I had her keep low,” Flavius now mentioned. “They didn’t know she was in there.”
Grasping Becky’s hand, Davy circled to the wagon, just to be safe. White women were a rarity on the plains, and he was unsure how the warriors would react. Some tribes, like the Comanche, were notorious for stealing women.
The Kanza men talked excitedly but made no threatening moves. They were fascinated by Heather’s golden hair, pointing at it again and again and whispering excitedly. She was probably the first blond person they had ever encountered.
“Stay in there a while yet,” Davy cautioned, planting himself next to the loading gate.
“I need water for Jon,” Heather said. “He’s feverish.”
“I’ll fetch it, Ma,” Becky volunteered.
Davy held onto her. “No. Let Flavius.”
The Indians had calmed down but Flavius did not turn his back to them as he sidled around the wagon to the water barrel. After filling the dipper, he brought it to Heather.
Davy reckoned that these were the same warriors he had bumped into out on the prairie. Was their friendliness sincere or feigned? Some Indians were not above pretending to be peaceful, then turning savage when their white hosts least expected it.
The older warrior came forward. He touched the tips of the first and second fingers of his right hand to his mouth, then elevated his right index finger, the back facing out, in front of his face. It was the sign for brother.
Davy was inclined to believe him until the warrior abruptly lowered a hand to the knife at his waist. Davy tensed. The warrior slowly drew the knife, reversed his grip, and held it out to Davy, hilt first. The meaning was crystal clear.
Davy touched the hilt but did not take the weapon. The warrior replaced it, content. “Question. You called?” Davy signed.
“White Feather.”
There followed an exchange of information. White Feather wanted to know what the wagon was. He thought it had been some sort of strange white lodge and was much amazed to learn that it could move. Davy learned that the Kanza tribe lived further west, near a river of that name. Occasionally, hunting parties roamed to the southeast as far as the Great Muddy River, as they called the Mississippi.
White Feather claimed that the Kanzas were a peaceful tribe, that they had never harmed whites, that their enemies were the Pawnees, Arapahos, and Kiowa, powerful tribes made more so by possessing an advantage the Kanzas did not, namely horses.
About that time, Heather popped out again. Anxiety was eating at her. “He’s much worse, Mr. Crockett. Nothing I do seems to help.”
Davy went in. Jonathan Hamlin was bundled in blankets from chin to toe. A damp cloth rested on his brow. Sweat beaded on his face and dripped from his chin. Davy pressed a hand to the man’s forehead, which was hotter than a burning coal.
“What can we do?” Heather asked plaintively.
Davy was at a loss. Back in Tennessee grew a few herbs that might be of help, but none of the plants he was familiar with could be found on the plains.
A grunt drew Davy’s gaze to the rear. White Feather was peeking over the gate at Hamlin. “Question. Him sick?”
“Gun wound,” Davy signed, and tilted Hamlin’s head so the Kanza could see it. “Body hot.”
White Feather climbed in without being bidden. Heather gave a start and clutched at Davy’s arm. “Is it safe?” she anxiously inquired.
“I think so,” Davy said.
“You think!”
The Kanza gently examined Hamlin, then, by sign, asked how Hamlin had been hurt, and how long ago it had happened.
Davy answered as best he was able. To describe Benchley and company, he used the sign equivalent to say, “Men, bad hearts, shoot him.” He did not go into detail about Alexander Dugan. For one thing, it was too complicated to express with his limited store of sign symbols. For another, time was of the essence. Something needed to be done for Jonathan.
White Feather went to the gate and addressed his warriors. Two of them turned and trotted off into the night. The others assumed seats by the fire, sitting cross-legged, their bows across their legs.
To Davy, White Feather signed, “We may-be-so help. Make good medicine.”
Heather was growing restless. “What is all that gesturing he’s doing?”
Davy translated, while the Kanza leader prowled the wagon, inspecting everything. White Feather was mystified by the churn and the stove. The pillows delighted him, and he squeezed one again and again, marveling at how soft it was. A shovel interested him immensely, as did an ax. Completing his circuit, he squatted in front of Davy and signed, “White men many possessions.”
Taking that as a cue, Davy helped himself to a folded red blanket and offered it to the Kanza. “Yours,” he signed. “Brother give brother.”
White Feather was thrilled. Partially masking his emotions, he stroked the blanket repeatedly and rubbed it against his cheek.
“What are you doing? Giving that to him?” Heather demanded. “That’s ours, in case it’s slipped your mind.”
The Kanza looked at her, then at the blanket. Her words were foreign, but her tone was not. White Feather took his hands off the blanket.
“Now you’ve gone and upset him,” Davy said. To appease the warrior, he beamed and placed White Feather’s hands back on the gift.
“So?”
“So we need him as a friend, and the surest way to prove to an Indian that you’re friendly is to give him something.” Davy indicated the pile of blankets and used her own statement against her. “In case it’s slipped your mind, blankets are the one thing you have plenty of. You can spare one, easily.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt.”
White Feather unfolded the blanket, draped it over his shoulder, and left the wagon. Head high, shoulders squared, he paraded in front of the other men showing off his new prize.
“They’re simpletons, aren’t they?” Heather said.
A naive remark, by any standard. Once, Davy had been the same as most whites, and believed that the only good Indian was a dead one. He had despised them as vermin, as two-legged animals that deserved to be exterminated. A cruel outlook, yet a popular one, shared by no less a personage than Andrew Jackson, hero of the Creek War and prominent politician. Jackson rated the red race as grossly inferior, and advocated removing the Indians from all lands east of the Mississippi, whether the Indians wanted to go or not.
Experience had taught Davy that Indians were little different than whites. There were bad ones, sure, just as there were bad whites. But many were decent and peaceful, sharing many of the hopes and aspirations of the whites who loathed them. He would never forget those who saved his life in Tennessee, nor the kind couple who had befriended him in the Lakota village.
“They’re no more simple than we are,” Davy said testily. “I’ll bet you preen in front of a mirror when you try on a new dress. And spend half an hour every morning combing your hair.”
“What’s gotten into you? I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
Jonathan Hamlin nipped their dispute in the bud by groaning and opening his watery eyes. “Heather?” he croaked.
“Right here, dearest.” She clasped his hand to her chest and mopped his face with the damp cloth. “Be still. You need to rest.”
“I’m burning inside,” Jonathan said.
“You have a high fever. We’re doing the best we can.”
“I can’t think straight. Why can’t I see? Why is it so dark?”
Heather glanced at Davy in alarm. “Don’t you remember? My stepfather sent Benchley after us.”
“Benchley?” Jonathan said, and stuck a swollen tongue between parched lips. Brow knitting, he grimaced in torment. “Why do I hurt so? Oh, I feel so sickly.”
“Quiet, now,” Heather said, caressing his forehead. “We’ll have you fit as a fiddle in no time. But you must sleep, beloved. Sleep for as long as you like.”
Soothed by her caresses and her melodious voice, Jonathan closed his eyes, gave out a long sigh, and slipped into slumber. Heather bent her head, her hair concealing her face. “God in heaven. Why did this have to happen? Now, of all times?”
Davy went to comfort her, but someone beat him to it. Into the wagon rushed Becky, to embrace Heather and say over and over, “Everything will be all right, Ma. Everything will be all right.”
A daughter comforting her mother. The irony of the roles being reversed was not lost on Davy as he left the wagon.
Flavius had not budged. Someone had to keep an eye on the Indians, he felt, and since Davy was too trusting for their mutual good, the task fell to him. Since the chief emerged, the warriors had been jabbering among themselves. “All’s quiet,” he reported.
“They won’t hurt us,” Davy said.
“I wish I shared your confidence.” Flavius meant it. But he had lost kin and close friends during the clash with the Creeks, and he wasn’t about to trust a red man fully ever again.
“Hamlin’s in a bad way. He might not last the night.”
Flavius knew he should be upset, but for the life of him, he wasn’t. It was selfish of him, he knew, but Hamlin’s death would ensure their immediate departure for St. Louis. “They never should have come out here. Better if they’d gone east instead of west.”
“They did what they thought was best,” Davy said in their defense. Which, when all was said and done, was all anyone could do. Life was a series of decisions, one right after the other. Make the right one, and all was well. Make the wrong one, and pay the price. Everyone went through that.
“So did we when we went on this damned gallivant,” Flavius reminded him. “And look at where it’s gotten us.”
“We’re still alive and kicking,” Davy said trying to make light of their perilous escapades.
Ever the pessimist, Flavius responded, “For how much longer?” He gazed longingly to the southeast. “I tell you, after we get back, I’m going to get down on my knees and thank the Almighty for our deliverance.”
“Matilda will be happy. She’s always wanted you to be more religious.”
“Poke fun all you want. The truth is, most husbands get to heaven by way of their wives’ apron strings.” The grass nearby rustled. Davy and Flavius both spun. Out of the night jogged the two Kanzas, one bearing two plants that had been torn out of the earth by their roots. These were given to White Feather, who in turn brought them to the Tennesseans.
“Man have wound,” the leader signed. “Make—” and here he used a variety of signs that, in their proper sequence, were the symbols for plant, leaf, drink, and good.
Davy gathered that the chief was advising them to concoct a tea from the leaves. He thanked White Feather and set about filling a pot with water and setting it on a tripod over the fire. A young warrior who looked barely old enough to be out of his teens hovered over Davy like a shadow, adding grass to the flames and taking the dipper from his hand to fill the pot.
The Kanzas were astonished by the water barrel. Once they learned what it was, every few minutes one of them would get up and treat himself to a drink. It got to the point where Davy had to sign to White Feather that no more should be taken without his approval.
Toward midnight, the warriors turned in. They simply rolled up on the ground and fell asleep. Davy expected White Feather to cover himself with the blanket, but the leader neatly folded it and fashioned a small bed of grass for it to lie on.
Flavius covered his mouth and snickered. “Look at him. He must not want to get it dirty. Doesn’t he know it can keep him warm?”
From the scant information Davy had gleaned, he reckoned that the Kanzas were a poor tribe, not rich in horses and hides like the Sioux and others. That blanket might well be White Feather’s most prized possession, comparable to a white man’s poke of gold, or a favorite weapon. He said as much.
“You scare me sometimes, pard,” Flavius stated.
“In what way?”
“You have this silly habit of always putting yourself into other people’s heads.”
“To understand someone, you have to walk in their moccasins a spell.”
Flavius fluttered his lips. “That’s just it, pard. Sometimes people do things for reasons other than we think.” He lowered his voice. “Take Alexander Dugan, for instance. Hamlin and Heather claim that he’s in the wrong. But who’s to say that they’re not? We have no idea why Dugan’s really after them.”
“Are you saying they don’t deserve our help?”
“No. Not with the man blind as a bat. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t become too attached to them. Sooner or later we’ll be parting ways.” Secretly, Flavius was afraid that his friend’s fondness for being a Good Samaritan would result in a lot more hardship. Hardship he could do without.
Davy stepped to the back of the wagon. Heather had draped a blanket over the opening for privacy. Muted whispers told him they were still awake. “How is Jonathan?”he asked softly.
The blanket parted. “He’s sleeping soundly enough,” Heather reported. “His fever is still awful high, though.”
“It’s too soon for the medicine to take effect yet. By morning, we should see a change.”
Heather placed her hand on his. “I wish there were some way of properly expressing my gratitude for all you’ve done. Without you we’d be helpless.”
Davy wondered if she had overheard Flavius. “Don’t worry. We’re not about to desert you in your hour of need.”
A few yards away, Flavius frowned and muttered under his breath, “Damnation. He’s doing it again.”
“Where will you sleep?” Heather asked.
Flavius opened his mouth to say that he would prefer to sleep inside, but he was not quick enough.
“We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Davy said. “Under the wagon will do right fine.” As an afterthought, he added, “If you can spare a few blankets, we’d be obliged.”
The wind had picked up, as it usually did at night on the open prairie. Flavius knelt and eased under the wagon, careful not to put too such weight on his hurt side. Davy spread out the blankets, two for each of them.
Crawling under his, Flavius slid both pistols from under his belt and set one on either side. His rifle went next to the flintlock on his right, his knife beside the pistol on his left. All he had to do was move either hand a few inches and a weapon was in ready reach.
“I tell you,” Flavius whispered, “sleeping with those Kanza out there makes my skin crawl. What’s to stop them from slitting our throats in the middle of the night?”
“Nothing,” Davy admitted.
“Just what I wanted to hear.”
Davy removed his coonskin cap, adjusted his blanket, and propped his head on his hands. Until that moment he had not appreciated how bone-weary he was. The events of the day had drained him.
He had to be careful. Those strange bouts of illness to which he was susceptible always struck when he was run down. That first time, back in Tennessee, he had traveled fifty miles in twelve hours, chasing lost horses. The toll had nearly killed him.
Fatigue lulled him into dreamland within minutes. He slept soundly, the sleep of the weary, awakening shortly before sunrise. Crawling out into the open, he rose stiffly and stretched. Shades of pink and orange banded the eastern horizon, a prelude to dawn.
Davy stretched, then turned to collect fuel for a fire. He was nonplussed to see that the Kanzas already had a small fire going. Or, rather, three of them did, for the other three were missing.
White Feather sat wrapped in his new blanket. Grinning, he beckoned, then signed, “Sunrise, day, good.” To accent his point, he inhaled deeply.
“Yes,” Davy signed by holding his right hand at shoulder height with the index finger extended and his thumb on the second finger, then swinging the hand down and to the left while simultaneously pressing his index finger against his thumb.
Suddenly the three missing warriors reappeared, hurrying from the grass to confer with their leader. White Feather rose. “You come us village,” he signed brusquely.
Davy was taken aback. Go to their village? “Why?” he signed.
White Feather said words in his own tongue to the warriors, then answered, “No time talk. Arise woman. Arise fat man. Go now.”
Forgetting himself, Davy said in English, “Not so fast. What’s this all about?”
White Feather clapped his hands. In a blur, four of the Kanzas smoothly notched arrows to their sinew strings and swung the barbed tips toward Davy. “Now,” White Feather insisted.