At that exact moment, the man Davy Crockett was worried about trudged gloomily through heavy brush. Whenever he slowed, the sharp tip of a long knife prodded him in the small of his back. “Keep jabbing me with that pig sticker, damn you,” he grumbled after the fourth or fifth time, “and I’ll take it from you and shove it down your throat.”
The warrior holding the knife merely grunted and prodded him again.
Flavius blamed himself for being captured. If he had stuck to the trail as he was supposed to do, if he hadn’t let curiosity get the better of him when he heard faint whispering, he wouldn’t be in the pickle he was in.
It had surprised him immensely when the warriors made no attempt to slay him after they battered him to the ground and relieved him of the pistol. The tallest had hoisted him upright and shoved him into the woods, and they had been hurrying northward ever since.
In due course Flavius recognized them.
They were the same warriors who had attacked Davy and him the night before. Their leader was the tall warrior who favored a war club, and who now carried one of Davy’s pistols. Behind Flavius tramped the stocky warrior who had wanted to slit Davy’s throat. The third man carried a lance and one of Flavius’s flintlocks, and had a wicked gash in his side. Of the other two pistols there was no sign.
What was it Norval had called them? Flavius asked himself. Sauks, or Sacs, as he recollected. He keenly desired to learn what they intended to do with him. As yet they had not bound him or harmed him in any way. And it was somewhat encouraging that the tall warrior had spared Davy when Davy was at their mercy.
Preoccupied, Flavius did not see a root in his path until his toe snagged it and he stumbled. Throwing his arms out, he managed to stay on his feet. But it earned him another prod.
“Damn you!” Flavius fumed, whirling with his fists clenched. “You’re so dumb, you couldn’t teach a hen to cluck! Didn’t you see that root? I didn’t trip on purpose.”
The stocky Sauk glared, blood lust lining his brutal visage. He yearned to use his knife. That much was obvious.
The man’s attitude just made Flavius madder. “I ought to pound your head in, you yak!” he declared, venting his frustration the only way he could.
For a second it appeared that the stocky warrior was going to cut him. Poised to slash, the man wagged his blade. Instantly, a tall figure glided between them.
At a command from the leader, the stocky Sauk lowered his arm and stepped back. The tall one turned, regarding Flavius wearily. “Keokuk will not harm you if you do not give us any trouble, white man. I give you my word.”
Flabbergasted at hearing flawless English uttered by one of his captors, Flavius blurted, “You speak our tongue? Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“There was no need,” the tall warrior responded, and gestured for Flavius to fall into step. “Now, come.”
“Who are you? Why have you taken me captive? What ‘s this all about?”
The warrior glanced back. He had a stately presence, accented by the turban-style headdress that framed his high forehead. His moccasins and leggings were finely decorated. Over his broad shoulders was draped a cloak of sorts, made from bear and otter. “Be quiet, white man. We must hurry if we are to take back the woman stolen by the Atsinas.”
Gambling that the Sauks were not disposed to rub him out, Flavius paid no heed. “I need to know your name. And why I’m your prisoner.”
“I am Pashipaho.”
That was all the man would say. So Flavius tried again. “Why did you jump me? Where are you taking me? And how is it that you know the white man’s language?”
“A missionary taught me,” Pashipaho said.
“When?”
“When I had seen but six winters. He came among our people and taught us white ways, and about the white God, and of your Great Father who lives in a stone lodge far away.” Pashipaho paused. “He was a kind man, Father McKenzie. My people thought highly of him.”
“If that’s so, why are your people trying to drive the whites out?
Without warning, Pashipaho halted, and Flavius nearly collided with him.
“The missionary did not take land that had belonged to my tribe since the world began,” Pashipaho said harshly. “The missionary did not take all the fish from our streams and the game from our woods. The missionary did not make my people act foolish from drinking too much alcohol, and he did not try to force himself on our young women.”
Flavius never had understood why Indians made such a fuss when whites moved into a new area. There was plenty of land for everybody. And white folks had to put food on the table, just like everyone else.
“We liked Father McKenzie,” Pashipaho said. “We thought all whites were as he was. So when the first trappers and traders came, we did not object. Now we see that we were wrong. Your people can never live in harmony with mine. We should have driven them out when we had the chance.”
“So you don’t cotton to any of my kind,” Flavius guessed.
Pashipaho averted his gaze. “I did not say that, white man. Were it true, you and the one who wears the tail of a raccoon on his head would now be with your ancestors.”
They hiked on awhile, Flavius pondering how best to pry more information from the Sauk. He was surprised when Pashipaho addressed him first.
“I spent a lot of time among your people, white man. I visited the settlement every day for over a year. I thought that maybe our elders were wrong, that maybe all of us could live in peace.” His voice dropped. “I should have known better.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think? Some of the whites at Peoria came to me and shoved guns in my face and told me to leave and never return. So I left. But I could not stay away.”
“How do you mean?”
Pashipaho looked around. “What is your name, white man?”
Flavius told him, adding, “My pard and me are from Tennessee, which is even farther away than the Great White Father’s stone lodge. We’re just passing through. We’re no threat to you or yours.”
“Well, Flavius Harris of Tennessee, I am sorry for what must be done. If I could, I would not do it. I do not believe in killing a man unless he tries to kill me.”
“What’s this talk of killing all of a sudden?” Flavius asked. “I told you we came in peace.”
Pashipaho started to answer, then tilted his head and sniffed loudly. The other Sauks imitated him. Flavius tested the air but smelled nothing out of the ordinary. The next moment, the stocky warrior behind him pressed the knife against his throat and seized him by the scruff of the neck.
“From here on, follow me closely, white man,” Pashipaho whispered. “Do not make any noise. If you do, you will make Keokuk very happy. Do you understand?”
Flavius understood perfectly. Keokuk was looking for any excuse to sever his jugular. Gulping, he cat-footed on Pashipaho’s heels.
The Sauks were ghosts incarnate. They trod on air, or seemed to, for not one made the faintest sound. Bent low, they sped in a beeline toward an unknown destination.
Not until the acrid odor of smoke tingled Flavius’s nose did he have a clue where they were going. He marveled that the warriors had smelled the campfire from twice the distance he could.
Muffled voices brought the Sauks to a stop. Dropping to their hands and knees, the warriors warily moved forward. Keokuk stayed close to Flavius, the knife conspicuously close to Flavius’s chest. A short stroke, and cold steel would wind up in his heart.
A thicket screened them from a clearing in which a number of figures moved about. The Sauks flattened. Flavius hesitated, thinking that the people ahead might be white men. A yell from him would bring help. Keokuk disabused him of the notion by lightly jabbing his arm.
The warriors snaked into the thicket. Flavius saw the figures clearly and was glad he hadn’t shouted.
They had found the war party from Canada.
Across the way were the sorrel and bay, tied to cottonwoods. Seated in a circle were five painted warriors. Two others were beside a narrow stream. The Atsinas, as Pashipaho had called them, were broad, sturdy, somber men. About half wore buckskin shirts. All were well armed, and among their weapons Flavius numbered his rifle and Davy’s, as well as the two missing pistols.
A husky warrior with a moon face, whose left cheek bore a jagged scar, was talking in a tongue Flavius had never heard. He had an arrogant bearing, and was stroking Davy’s rifle, which rested across his stout thighs.
But it was the lone figure near the horses that most interested Flavius. Slender hands bound behind her back, Rebecca Worthington knelt facing her captors. Grime caked her face and her disheveled golden hair was dampened by perspiration. Her dress had been torn in spots, her right shoulder exposed. Yet she knelt there in quiet dignity, her chin high, defiance radiating from every pore.
Flavius had seldom seen so lovely a female. He would never admit as much, but she had Matilda beat all hollow. Happening to glance at Pashipaho, he was perplexed to see the Sauk gazing at Rebecca with what could only be described as intense longing.
The two warriors by the stream joined their fellows. One said something that earned a stern rebuke from the large warrior with the scar. The leader, Flavius reckoned.
Pashipaho wiggled a finger and the three Sauks silently wormed backward. Flavius tried to be as quiet as they were. He drew a barbed look from Keokuk when he accidentally applied his weight to a dry twig that crunched under his knee.
All four of them froze, but none of the Canadian Indians had heard.
Retreating a dozen yards from the thicket, Pashipaho issued instructions in his own tongue to Keokuk, then whispered to Flavius, “I will go talk to He-Bear, leader of the Atsinas. You will do as Keokuk wants you to do while I am gone. Is that clear, man from Tennessee?”
Flavius wondered why the Sauk made it a point to stress where he was from. “I savvy, mister,” he whispered. “I’ll be a good boy. I’m partial to breathing.”
A few last remarks to the Sauks, and Pashipaho left, circling to the right.
Wearing a sadistic grin, Keokuk jabbed Flavius with the knife, then pointed at the camp. Flavius retraced their steps and was guided into the thicket. Nothing had changed, except that all the Atsinas were seated.
That changed a minute later when out of the undergrowth came Pashipaho. Strolling along as if he did not have a care in the world, his spine straight, wide shoulders swaying, the Sauk slanted toward the war party.
The Atsinas leaped to their feet, many jabbering at once. At a roar from the scarred warrior, who Flavius surmised must be He-Bear, they quieted and spread out. Rifles, lances, and arrows were trained on the Sauk, who showed no fear.
Flavius figured they would converse in the funny finger talk Davy had learned among the Dakotas. Then he remembered that tribes living in the vicinity of the Great Lakes did not use sign language.
Pashipaho stopped and spoke in—of all things— English. “We meet again, He-Bear.”
The big Atsina snorted like his namesake. “Pashipaho. I not think you so stupid. We almost kill once. Now you let us finish you.” His accent on many of the words was atrocious, and he slurred them terribly.
Pashipaho extended the pistol that belonged to Crockett. “Yes, there are enough of you to slay me. But I will kill at least one before I drop. Guess which one it will be?”
Rumbling mirth cascaded from the Atsina chief. “Always sly, like fox. What you want, Sauk? Where other warriors?”
“I came alone,” Pashipaho said.
“And I fly like bird,” He-Bear retorted.
Flavius watched the other Atsinas, afraid they would fan into the woods to search for Sauks. He also saw Rebecca Worthington, wide-eyed, staring at Pashipaho in amazement. Amazement, and another emotion he could not quite peg.
“What you want, Sauk?” He-Bear asked. “You want guns back? Maybe next time you not put down when enemies near, eh? Or you want horses? Which?”
“I want the white woman.”
He-Bear’s bushy brows knit. Lumbering past the line of warriors, he held Davy’s rifle out. “You want female, not this? Not bullets? Not powder?”
“The woman,” Pashipaho said.
The Atsina acted like a grizzly confused by an unfamiliar scent. He walked a few steps to the right, then a few steps to the left, his moon of a head swinging ponderously from side to side. “Why this be, Sauk? What woman to you?”
“That is my concern, not yours,” Pashipaho said. “I will give you two more pistols in exchange for her, and let you keep the guns and the horses you stole.”
The terms provoked more gruff mirth. “You let us keep what we already have, eh?” He-Bear sobered and spat on the grass. “This what I think. We keep guns, we keep horses, we keep woman with golden hair.”
Pashipaho had not lowered the flintlock. Casually taking a few steps to the left, which put him nearer Rebecca, he said, “What is she to you? Surely she is worth two pistols. The white man’s weapons are not easy to come by.”
Patting Davy’s rifle, He-Bear said, “I have gun. As for woman, maybe she be wife. Maybe she be slave.” A grin split the scarred moon. “Maybe she be dog.”
Pashipaho took another step. “What if I have something else you want even more.”
“What that be?” He-Bear sneered. “A hundred rifles? A hundred horses? Another white woman?”
“No. A white man.”
Flavius was not sure he had heard correctly. Where was the Sauk going to get a white man to swap for Rebecca Worthington? A bolt of lightning seared him when he suddenly realized that Pashipaho meant him. “Oh, God,” he breathed, and was poked in the side by Keokuk’s ever-ready blade.
He-Bear pursed his thick lips. “Why I want white man more than white woman?”
“I have heard stories.” Pashipaho moved a few more feet. Intentionally or not, he was now a single bound from the captive. “I know you hate whites. I know that many winters ago you made friends with a white trapper who taught you some of their tongue.”
The Atsina leader scowled. “Him no friend. He claim so, but he hurt sister, steal horse.”
“Which is why nothing pleases you more than to torture one of his race. You like to hear them scream.”
“They weak, these whites,” He-Bear said, and chuckled. “Most cry like babies.” He appraised Rebecca Worthington a moment as if evaluating her worth. “Women weak too. Not last long when captive.”
“So will you trade? Rebecca Worthington for the white man I have?”
He-Bear tried to pronounce Rebecca’s name but could not say “Worthington” properly. To justify his failure, he said, “White words twist tongue.”
Pashipaho casually moved one last time, placing himself in front of Rebecca. Flavius could not be sure, but it appeared that the Sauk whispered to her out of the corner of his mouth. To the Atsina leader, Pashipaho said, “Think of it. A white man to do with as you please. What do you say?”
“Where man at?”
“I will have him brought when you agree. Do I have your word?”
Resuming his ponderous pacing, He-Bear did not immediately reply. At length he turned to a short Atsina and they conferred in secret.
Flavius was sorely tempted to make a run for it. Once the Sauks handed him over to the war party, he was as good as dead. But he dared not try, not with Keokuk’s knife pressed against his ribs.
The huddle had ended. Smiling, He-Bear pivoted. “All right, Sauk. We trade. Give us white man, two pistols. We give you woman.”
Lowering the flintlock, Pashipaho called out in his own language.
Flavius was helpless. He had to let Keokuk and the other Sauk seize him by the arms and haul him from the thicket. Locked in their iron grasp, he was hustled into the clearing. This was it, he figured. His time had come.
“Only three of you, eh?” He-Bear said. “I thought maybe many.”
Pashipaho was not paying attention. Rebecca Worthington said something to him that caused him to vigorously shake his head.
He-Bear’s smile grew wider. “So you not lie, Sauk. Now give pistols.”
“And we’re free to go? With the woman?”
“Pistols,” He-Bear said, snapping his fingers.
Pashipaho started to comply, but Rebecca said his name loud enough for all to hear. Stopping, Pashipaho thrust his pistol at Keokuk, who accepted it and walked toward He-Bear.
Even though the knife was gone from his ribs, Flavius did not try to run. The Atsinas would drop him in his tracks. Resigned to the inevitable, he saw He-Bear switch Davy’s rifle to the crook of an elbow to free his hands for receiving the flintlocks.
“We will leave,” Pashipaho announced. Gripping Rebecca’s elbow, he pulled her up and propelled her swiftly toward the safety of the forest.
From out of the trees in front of them stepped an eighth warrior, an arrow notched to the string of his bow. Abruptly stopping, Pashipaho looked back at He-Bear just as the Atsina leader clasped both pistols. “You gave your word!” Pashipaho cried.
“We give you woman,” He-Bear said, hefting the flintlocks. He cocked them. “Not say how long keep her.” Snapping the guns up, he fired the left one at Keokuk at point-blank range. The stocky Sauk staggered, his sternum shattered by the ball, then pitched onto his hands and knees.
Venting a war whoop, the third Sauk rushed to his friend’s rescue. Four shafts were embedded in his torso in half that many steps. Snarling, he made a supreme effort to reach He-Bear, but his knees buckled.
“No!” Pashipaho raged, and flung himself at the Atsinas. His war club arched overhead. The blow he planned never landed, though, because the eighth warrior let his arrow fly. It sheared into Pashipaho’s right shoulder, spinning him around and dumping him on his knees. The club fell from nerveless fingers as other Atsinas rushed to surround him.
“Leave him alone!” Rebecca shouted, rushing to the fallen Sauk. “Don’t you dare hurt him anymore!” Boldly, she bent over his back to protect him from the lances and knives of the Atsinas.
In all the confusion, the Indians had forgotten about Flavius. Or so he hoped. Whirling, he covered a yard. The blast of the second pistol and a ball whistling past his head changed his mind.
“Where you go, white man?” He-Bear said, snickering. “We want you stay.”
Three Atsinas enforced their leader’s wish by ringing Flavius and pushing him to where Keokuk was doubled in anguish. Pashipaho and Rebecca were brought over, too. A burly warrior threw Pashipaho down, then kicked him.
He-Bear was enjoying himself. He strutted back and forth to the admiring hoots and laughter of his followers. Giving the pistols to the short one, he bent over Pashipaho. “You stupid trust me. We enemies, Sauk. I kill you. You kill me. Never change.”
Pashipaho was in torment. Clutching his shoulder, he said, “I thought you were a man of honor. I was wrong.”
“Only honor in coup.” So saying, He-Bear slid a Green River knife from a beaded sheath. Pashipaho raised his left arm to defend himself, but He-Bear was not interested in him. Spinning, the Atsina chief sank the cold steel twice into Keokuk’s back.
“Soon your turn,” He-Bear said, leering at Pashipaho.
Flavius’s skin crawled as he contemplated the ordeal he faced. It would be better to go down fighting than suffer for hours on end. Judging the distance to He-Bear, he was all set to leap when a new warrior arrived on the scene. Bursting from the woods, the newcomer jogged to the Atsina chief and talked excitedly for some time.
He-Bear ran a finger along his knife, then held the finger over Pashipaho so bloody drops fell on the Sauk’s head. “You not only one want woman. Thunder Heart say whites trade many guns, many horses, many blankets.” He licked his finger clean. “We go see them. Act like friends. We smile. We talk. Then—” He-Bear made a slashing motion across his throat.