It was close to midnight when Davy Crockett parted a cluster of grass with both hands and studied the camp. He was only twenty yards from a bored sentry who leaned on a rifle, struggling to stay awake.
For the better part of an hour, Davy had been working his way from the rise, snaking across the prairie flat on his belly. When he had commenced his approach, only a handful of cutthroats were still up. The majority had turned in early to be rested for the long day of hard travel ahead.
In every outfit were a few individuals who never seemed to need much sleep, who would rather swap tall tales or play cards or whatnot until all hours. Dugan’s small army was no exception. Rufus Benchley and five others had been rolling dice and sipping from a silver flask until just a short while ago.
At last, though, everyone other than the jackleg sentry and three other guards were sound asleep. Or so it appeared. Davy suspected that some of those who had turned in late had not yet dozed off, so he decided to wait a while before going in.
Three of the four fires had been allowed to die low. The fourth was maintained by the sentries, one of whom drifted over even as Davy watched to add fuel to the dwindling flames.
That fire posed a problem. It happened to be thirty feet from the wagon. Dancing light bathed the nearest side, enough to make whisking the captives to safety a doubly perilous proposition.
Davy would not let that deter him. He had to do it, and after fifteen minutes elapsed, he angled toward the picket line. Most of the horses were dozing. He did not give the oxen a second look, since they posed no threat. Only the horses would kick up a fuss if he was not especially careful.
It amazed Davy that Dugan had not seen fit to post a man at the string. Some Indians, like the Blackfeet and the Lakotas, were outstanding horse thieves. A few of them could slip into Dugan’s camp and make off with every last animal without any of the whites being the wiser.
Arrogance would be Dugan’s undoing. The man was too cocksure, too plain overconfident. Maybe it stemmed from being so wealthy and powerful. Or maybe Dugan’s attitude had spurred him to become the man that he was.
Davy gave a toss of his head to dispel such musing. He had to buckle down, had to concentrate on what he was doing to the exclusion of all else. Senses primed, he circled eastward, well shy of the bored sentry, whose eyes were shut.
The other three guards were at cardinal compass points: to the east, to the south, and to the west. Vague inky silhouettes in the night, none paced or patrolled the perimeter, leading Davy to believe that they were just as tired as their companion—which worked in his favor.
The east end of the horse string was cloaked in darkness. Davy crawled to within a few feet of the foremost animal, then slowly rose, so as not to startle it into nickering or fidgeting. The sorrel never so much as raised its head.
Davy quickly untied it, and three others besides. As he turned to lead them off, further down the line a dun pricked its ears and uttered a low whinny.
Crouching, Davy surveyed the camp. None of the sleepers had stirred. The guard to the north continued to doze on his rifle. Those to the west and the south had not moved. But the man to the east had turned.
Davy fingered the hilt of the knife tucked under his belt. The bow and war club were lying in the grass, out of ready reach. He dropped lower when the east guard walked slowly forward, scanning the picket line.
Did the man suspect? The four horses Davy had released were bunched together slightly apart from the rest. It might strike the sentry as odd.
The guard kept on advancing. Davy could have cussed a blue streak. After crabbing backwards until he was on the other side of the animals, he rose into a crouch and palmed the bone hilt of the Kanza weapon.
Among the sleepers, someone snored loud enough to rouse the dead. Davy cast repeated glances at the sprawled forms, but nobody stirred.
Now the east sentry was near enough for his bushy beard and beaver hat to be apparent. This was no wet-behind-the-ears river rat. Buckskins and moccasins identified him as a frontiersman, a savvy badger not likely to make many mistakes. Rifle leveled, he slowed.
Davy could tell the man was staring at the four horses he had untied. No gambler worthy of the name would give a shovelful of chicken tracks for his chances should the man let out with a holler. His sole hope was that the frontiersman would come closer still.
The man did. Whispering, “What’s going on here, you dumb critters? How in tarnation did you get all tangled up like that?” the man walked right up to them.
Davy was ready. Spearing the cold steel upward between two of the horses, he buried the knife to the hilt in the sentry’s chest. He struck in the blink of an eye, as slick as a peeled onion.
The guard had lowered his rifle. Now he attempted to bring it up, but he was dead on his feet. It was child’s play for Davy to snatch it. He yanked his knife out as the sentry dropped to the ground.
All had gone well. Retrieving the rope, Davy rotated to get out of there while the getting was good. He would stash the horses, then return for Flavius and the others. By morning they would be miles away. Dugan would never catch them.
“Grover? Is that you?”
Davy drew up short and glanced back. Rufus Benchley had sat up. Hair disheveled, blinking drowsily, Dugan’s right-hand man scratched an armpit.
“Didn’t you hear me? What in the hell are you doing over there?”
A bluff was called for. Imitating the dead man’s inflection and tone, Davy answered, “Everything’s fine, Rufus. I was just checkin’ on the critters.”
Benchley sleepily nodded, yawned, and started to lie back down.
Davy did not dally. He had taken about half a dozen steps when the crack of doom pealed in the strident challenge of someone he had overlooked.
“Hold it right there, mister! You ain’t Grover!”
It was the north sentry, the one Davy had assumed was still dozing. The man was midway along the string, rifle wedged to a shoulder.
The shout brought many of the cutthroats up out of their blankets. In a rush, some made for the horses. Benchley was in the lead, completely awake, a pistol in each hand. In the gloom, he did not notice the body. Tripping over it, he stumbled but caught himself by grasping one of the animals for support. “You!” he roared on seeing Davy.
The jig was up. The Irishman lashed out, his fist smashing into Benchley’s jaw. As the ruffian staggered backward, Davy bolted for the open prairie and safety. He paused just long enough to grab the rifle and the war club.
It proved to be his undoing.
From out of the darkness hurtled burly figures. Human battering rams slammed into him, burying him beneath an avalanche of smelly, sweaty, cussing foes. Davy connected with a right, but absorbed punches to his gut and cheek. For a brief instant, he thought that he might shake them off and escape.
“Hold him, you simpletons!”
Alexander Dugan’s command was obeyed to the letter. Another four underlings piled on. Their combined weight was enough to pin Davy flatter than a pancake. Helpless, he submitted to having his arms seized and to being pawed erect. A vicious slap made his ears ring.
“Enough, Rufus,” Dugan scolded.
“But he killed Grover,” Benchley reported, pointing. “Let me skin the polecat alive.”
Dugan looked and scowled. “That’s two good men I’ve lost on your account, Mr. Crockett.” Stepping in front of Davy, he clasped his hands behind his back. “I thought we had seen the last of you. How in the world did you manage to free yourself from that log?”
“A grizzly cut me loose.”
Benchley snorted and flourished a knife. “Don’t listen to his bull, boss. Just say the word, and I’ll make you a new tobacco pouch out of his hide.”
Dugan held a hand up, quieting his subordinate. “When I want your advice, Rufus, I will ask for it.” Dugan gripped Davy’s chin and turned Davy’s head back and forth, as if studying a creature that mystified him. “You puzzle me, sir. Were you born under a lucky star, or are higher powers at work? It seems you merit more interest than I supposed.”
“You’ve brought the bloodshed on yourself,” Davy said. “Release me and the others and we’ll go our separate ways with no hard feelings.”
Dugan sighed. “Now you are being childish. And tedious. I hold the upper hand, and I have no intention of relinquishing it.” Gesturing, he ordered, “Bind him, then toss him into the wagon with the rest. Rufus, double the guard. And see that Grover is buried.”
“That’s decent of you, boss.”
“Decent, hell. I don’t want the smell of blood to lure in bears or wolves.”
Only Davy’s wrists were bound. Four men propelled him to the wagon. Like a sack of grain, he was bundled over the loading gate and thrown inside, with no regard for his well-being. His elbow lanced with agony, and he hit his head on a plank.
“Pard? Is that you?” Flavius Harris asked in astonishment. A commotion outside had awakened him, but he was slow in regaining his full faculties. Exhaustion had the others in the grip of heavy slumber.
“None other,” Davy said. Forcing a wan grin, he declared, “I’ve come to rescue you.”
Flavius was so elated, he let out with a Cherokee war whoop. He regretted it when Becky screamed, and Heather and Jonathan Hamlin both sat bolt upright in a panic.
“Mom! Mom!” the girl cried. “Indians are on us!”
“No, no, no!” Flavius said. “It was me! Everything is fine! Crockett’s here!”
“Davy?” Becky said, twisting. Scooting across the pile of possessions, she rested her forehead against the Irishman’s arm. “Grandpa Dugan gloated that he killed you.”
“He nearly did.”
Heather rose onto her knees and came closer. The excitement on her features died, dismay taking its place. “You were our last hope. And now you’re in the same boat we are.” She stopped and sagged, her spirit broken. “Alex has won. We don’t stand a prayer.”
“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” Davy intoned. Turning his back to Flavius, he wriggled his bound wrists. “Time’s a wasting. Do me, then I’ll do you.” Flavius glanced at the blanket over the opening. “Didn’t they tell you? Dugan promised to shoot me in the leg if so much as one of us gets loose.”
“Dog my cats,” Davy said. “He aims to rub us out anyway. Wouldn’t you rather go down fighting instead of trussed up like piglets waiting to be turned into a holiday dish?”
“Since you put it that way,” Flavius said, chuckling. His friend always did have a flair for a colorful turn of words. And for the first time since the attack on the Kanza village, he entertained the notion that they might actually survive.
The Irishman always had that effect on folks. Flavius had seen it that time Davy bolstered the morale of the starving troops who were slogging through treacherous swampland in search of the elusive Creeks. He’d seen it when Davy inspired the farmers not to give up on account of drought. And he’d been there when Davy helped rally the Chippewas during bloody battle.
But as Flavius soon learned, being fired up with enthusiasm was one thing. Being able to translate that enthusiasm into results, quite another.
Try as he might—and Lordy, how he tried—Flavius made little headway. For over an hour he pried at the knots with his nails, but to no avail. In desperation, he bent and applied his teeth, like a beaver to a tree. He gnawed until his gums and tongue were sore, but all he succeeded in doing was loosening one measly loop. “Who the hell tied you?” he said, straightening to soothe a kink in his lower back.
“Benchley.”
“The man is a wizard. I can’t get these undone for the life of me.”
Jonathan Hamlin had laid back down, but Becky and Heather were still awake, waiting anxiously. “Let me try,” the mother proposed.
“Why not use the axe head?” Becky asked innocently. “Jon cut some roots with it once. It would work.”
Davy and Flavius both swung toward the corner. The implements were right where they had always been. Flavius could not help himself and swore in the presence of the females. Embarrassed, he apologized, saying, “Bless me if’n I’m not as smart as a box of rocks. I plumb forgot.”
The Tennesseans moved to the corner. Flavius gripped the long handle and tried to swivel the axe around so the edge of the head was at the right angle. But, bound as he was, the heavy handle was difficult to manipulate. It swung down and cracked Davy across the forearms.
“Maybe we should switch,” Davy suggested. Taking the handle, he gingerly lowered the head until it rested on the thick ropes around Flavius’s wrists. “Don’t move. I wouldn’t want to open a vein.”
Eagerly, Davy sawed. And sawed. And sawed. Pausing, he bent to examine the rope. The axe had cut less than a quarter of an inch into the hemp. “I’ve had a run of bad luck before, but this is enough to swear a parson off the Bible.”
“What’s the matter now, pard?”
“It’s as dull as a butter knife,” Davy lamented.
“Jon’s been meaning to sharpen all our tools, but he just hasn’t had the time,” Heather disclosed.
Davy resumed sawing. Every ten minutes or so he had to take a break. The pain in his wrists and shoulders became too much to bear.
Another hour went by. Davy was beginning to think he would still be at it when the sun came up, when abruptly the last of the loops parted and fell.
“You did it!” Flavius crowed, then wanted to smother himself for being such a fool. He listened for shouts and the drumming of feet, but no outcry was raised.
“Hurry,” Davy urged. “My turn.”
Even with the use of his fingers, it took some doing. Flavius finally loosened the Irishman’s restraints, and did the same for Heather, her daughter, and Hamlin, who sat up as he finished.
“What will you do now?” Hamlin asked.
“Make a break for the horses,” Davy answered. He reached for the hanging blanket.
“You’d never make it with me along. I’d be too much of a burden.” Hamlin slid against the side, his knees pressed to his chest. “Go without me. I won’t hold it against you.”
Heather scrambled to her beloved. “Don’t be silly. I could no more leave you than I could leave Becky. We’re in this together. Just hold onto my hand and I’ll guide you.”
“I’d only get you killed,” Hamlin persisted, launching the two into an emotional argument. Hamlin absolutely refused to endanger them, and Heather was equally insistent that he go.
Davy listened with half an ear while easing the blanket aside a few inches. The four horses he had untied were back on the string. But they were not what interested him the most. For standing a dozen feet from the wagon were two husky cutthroats, both wide awake and armed to the teeth.
A hunch motivated Davy to go to the front of the wagon and peek out. As he feared, two more of Dugan’s men had been posted near the end of the tongue.
Heather and Hamlin continued to spat. Davy motioned, saying, “Save your breath. It’ll be a long day in January before we can sneak off.”
“What do you mean?” Jon asked.
Davy told them about the extra guards, ending with, “Dugan isn’t the sort to make the same mistake twice. We’re stuck here for certain sure.”
Depression seized them. Flavius cradled his head in his hands and wished he had listened to Matilda, for once, and not gone on the gallivant.
Becky timidly snuggled next to her mother, who sorrowfully stroked her hair, and Hamlin’s.
Davy leaned his temple against the cloth cover and closed his eyes. To be frustrated now, after so much effort, was profoundly upsetting. He had given his all, and it had not been enough.
Hindsight made a mockery of his rescue attempt. He should have thought up a distraction, maybe by setting the grass ablaze, or stampeding the horses. Anything to keep Dugan’s band busy while he freed the captives.
Time weighted by millstones crawled past. Idly, Davy observed an omen of impending dawn; the sky changed from stark black to royal blue. Gray streaks appeared. Soon the cutthroats would be roused from sleep, and within an hour they would be on the march.
Sitting up, Davy saw the north sentry stamping back and forth to ward off the morning chill. Davy blinked— and the sentry was nowhere to be seen. Perplexed, he scoured the vicinity. Other than the two men near the tongue, who had their backs to the prairie, no one else was around.
Where had the sentry gone? Davy wondered. A splash of red in the low grass gave him a clue. Beyond, shadowy specters flitted toward the encampment, converging from all different directions.
Electrified, Davy dashed to the rear, prodding Heather, Becky, and Hamlin as he passed them. “Get set. Our string of luck hasn’t quite run out.”
“How’s that?” Heather said.
Flavius had been dozing. But something in his friend’s tone sliced through his fatigue like a hot knife through wax. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
All hell broke loose.
From every quarter rose wavering war whoops, hoarse shrieks, and fierce exultation. The tumult was punctuated by yells and curses and a random smattering of shots.
“To the horses!” Davy declared, yanking the blanket wide. “Don’t drag your heels or you’ll be pushing up grass come spring.” He forked a leg over the gate. “I’ll go first.”
Dropping, Davy alighted like a cat to find he had landed in the midst of bedlam. Into the camp streamed a fiery horde of painted warriors. Arrows buzzed like a swarm of bees. Lances and war clubs were being wielded with deadly efficiency. As he pivoted toward the horses, one of the attackers reared in front of him.
No timid Kanzas, these. The warrior was tall, muscular, almost stately. A hooked nose and thick lips dominated a crafty face crowned by a head that had been clean shaven except for a thin strip of spiked hair down the center, the hair held in place by a bone roach. The warrior’s face, shoulders, and chest had been splashed with red pigment. In his right hand was a war club.
Pawnees, Davy guessed, just as the man delivered a blow that would have fractured his skull, had it landed. Sidestepping, Davy drove his left fist into the Pawnee’s nose. The man tottered backward, recovered, and whipped the war club overhead.
Davy heard a thwack and a sickly rending of flesh and bone. A slug cored the Pawnee’s head from left to right. The man fell, scarlet spurting from his mouth.
Lead was flying thick and fast. The defenders had rallied, the din of their rifles and pistols eclipsing the war whoops of the Pawnee. Added to the confusion were the panicked whinnies of the terrified horses and the screams of the dying and the wounded.
Flavius jumped to the ground. He was scared to death, but determined not to succumb. Shutting his mind to the carnage, he offered his hand to Becky, who clambered from the wagon with the agility of a monkey. Next came Heather. Last, and slowest, was Jonathan Hamlin, who hesitated with his hands on the gate.
“Come on!” Flavius urged. When Hamlin did not move swiftly enough to suit him, he grabbed the man’s wrists and pulled him out bodily.
Davy scooped up the fallen war club. As yet, none of the others Pawnees had shown any interest in them. The rest had their hands full with Dugan’s men, a third of whom were already down, either wounded or dead.
Davy saw Rickert, on one knee, snap off a shot. The next moment three feathered shafts imbedded themselves in Rickert’s chest.
A river rat met the rush of a Pawnee holding a lance with nothing but a knife. The lance sheared through the riverman’s sternum and burst out his back.
“Stay close!” Davy warned. Holding Becky’s hand, he hurried toward the horses, stepping over the bodies of Pawnees and cutthroats alike. One of the guards had been slit from ear to ear.
Flavius was pushing Hamlin. Heather helped out as much as she could, but whenever a gun blasted close at hand, she would flinch and duck, slowing them down. “Hurry, damn it!” Flavius railed.
To Davy, the horses seemed to be miles away. Through choking gun smoke he sped, a continuous medley of inhuman cries attesting to the ferocity of the struggle.
A Pawnee spotted them and spun to contest their flight. The man held a bow, and as he snapped a hand to his quiver for an arrow, Davy hurled the war club with all the force in his sinews. It was a lot like throwing a tomahawk, which Davy had practiced countless times. The club smashed into the warrior’s face, felling him instantly.
Unarmed now, Davy pressed on. Most of the fighting swirled in the middle of the camp, where Alexander Dugan and ten to twelve men were resisting to their utmost. Fully twice that many Pawnees ringed them, unleashing shafts and thrusting with lances and knives.
Davy reached the string. Untying a mare, he hiked Becky onto its back, had her clutch its mane, and swiveled to aid Heather and Hamlin.
Flavius spied a pile of supplies nearby. “I’ll be right back!” he hollered, and darted toward it.
“What the—?” Davy exclaimed. He had no time to dwell on what his friend had done. Seizing Hamlin’s wrists, Davy steered him to a buttermilk horse and bent to boost Hamlin up. A thud above him preceded a scream of mortal anguish from Heather. Davy started to straighten and bumped his head on something.
It was an arrow. The barbed point had sliced into Jonathan Hamlin below the left shoulder blade, passed completely through him, and ruptured the flesh outward high on his torso.
“Noooooooooooo!” Heather flung herself forward, holding him up and shielding him from additional shafts with her own body.
Davy whirled but did not see the Pawnee responsible. He turned to help Heather, and together they succeeded in pushing Jonathan onto the horse. But as Hamlin sat hunched over, spitting blood, a second arrow transfixed him low on his left side.
Stiffening, Jonathan Hamlin flicked glazing eyes at the empty air. “Heather?” he cried. “Oh, Heather! I loved you so!”
Heather screeched as Hamlin toppled. She would have knelt and cradled him had Davy not grabbed her by the arms and compelled her to mount. For a long moment she resisted, wailing, “Let me go to him! Please! Please!”
Shock accomplished what strength could not. Heather succumbed, and practically swooned. Davy had no trouble shoving her up. As he untied a third animal and forked its back, Flavius rushed out of the acrid smoke bearing a bundled blanket. “Hurry!” Davy coaxed.
Flavius was going as fast as he could. Hunkering, he unwrapped the blanket, revealing the contents. “Our guns!” The day before, he had seen Benchley wrap them up, and recognized the blanket among the supplies.
Now Flavius passed Liz and the Irishman’s flintlocks to Davy, then claimed Matilda and his own pistols. Their knives were gone, but Davy’s tomahawk had not been taken. Flavius handed it up as well.
“Let’s ride!” Davy said.
The melee had resolved into frenzied personal combat. Each cutthroat was hemmed in by two or three Pawnee. Their guns spent, the defenders resorted to knives and rifle stocks.
Rufus Benchley was on one knee, his shirt ripped, his left thigh spurting his life’s blood. As Davy looked on, a Pawnee brought a war club down on the crown of Benchley’s head.
Davy slapped his legs against his mount. At a trot they fled, Flavius leading Heather’s horse, Becky behind her mother. They covered fifty yards. Sixty.
Slowing so the others could pass him, Davy looked over his shoulder. The sight that met his eyes brought him to a stop.
None of the Pawnees was in pursuit. In the camp, all the defenders were down, save one.
Alexander Dugan was the sole survivor, battered and bruised but otherwise unhurt, a broken rifle clutched in both hands. For some reason, the warriors were not closing in on him. Instead, when Dugan straightened and moved toward the horses, the Pawnees parted.
Davy was flabbergasted. Were they honoring his courage? His fighting ability? Or was the uncanny power of his personality having the same effect on them that it had on everyone else?
Shifting from side to side, Dugan passed the last of the painted bronze figures. Stepping to his white stallion, he gripped the reins. A smirk spread across his face. He glanced out over the plain, saw Davy. The smirk widened.
Davy lifted Liz. He cocked the hammer as Dugan mounted. He took deliberate aim as Dugan reined the stallion around. And he fired just as Alexander Dugan was on the verge of riding out of the encampment.
The ball drilled Dugan above the left eye, catapulting him from the stallion. He tumbled, rolling twice. His body came to rest beside that of another, a lean young man whose dreams of a new life in a new land had been shattered by the cruelty Alexander Dugan spread with casual disdain.
Wheeling his mount, Davy Crockett galloped into the bright shining of a new day.