Flavius Harris would rather be burned at the stake than split up with Davy. He hated it. Hated it, hated it, hated it. It was all he could think about as he glumly trudged at the end of the column. Matilda had always claimed that he could out-sulk a five-year-old, and he proved it now. Mired in self-pity, he paid no attention to what went on around him. When a snake slithered by, he ignored it. When a gator rose in a nearby pool and yawned wide its fearsome maw, he could not be bothered.
Flavius had cause to be upset. He had been keeping track. Ever since their gallivant began, every time he and Davy split up, something awful happened. Every single time. Davy could poke fun all he wanted, but Flavius was convinced there was a jinx on them. Soon another disaster would afflict them. He was sure of it.
What form it took was of no consequence. After all these weeks of grueling hardship, after surviving peril after peril, he had reached the point where it was irrelevant. Each catastrophe was as bad as the one before it.
So Flavius trudged unhappily along, waiting for impending doom to strike, and summed up his outlook by commenting to himself, “If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
Flavius had forgotten about kindly Sam. “An old saying in our part of the woods.”
“What does it mean, sir?”
“That if it isn’t one problem, it’s another.” Flavius glumly regarded a blue butterfly that flitted by. “And please don’t call me ‘sir’ anymore. I’m not your master. Matter of fact, I’m as much a slave as you are.”
Sam’s eyebrows arched. “You are? I’ve never heard of no white slaves. How can that be?”
“I’m married.”
“Oh,” Sam said. Then he said “Oh!” again, and pealed with delight. “I’ll be a suck-egg mule! I like you, Mr. Harris. You’re a humorous fellow.”
“That’s me, all right. A barrel of laughs.” Flavius was glad to have someone to talk to, so he expanded on his notion. “When a man says, ‘I do,’ what he’s really saying is, ‘I’m yours to boss around to your heart’s content.’ It’s always ‘Yes, dear,’ and ‘Whatever you want, dear.’ He can kiss his freedom good-bye.”
Sam became serious. “You don’t really believe that, do you, Mr. Harris? The right lady can make all the difference in a fella’s life. I keep hopin’ that Master Jimmy will find that special one for him. But he’s like a bear in a shed full of honey pots. He can’t make up his mind which tastes the best, so he goes from one to the other, gobblin’ ’em all down. Like you were once, I bet.”
Flavius had never had that problem. Females had never fallen over themselves to share his company. Matilda was his first, his one and only.
“You must love your missus a whole lot,” Sam mentioned. “Did one of those Injuns bash you on the noggin?”
“I’m serious, Mr. Harris. I saw that look in your eyes when you talked about her. You might be henpecked, but you’re right fond of the hen.”
“Sure,” Flavius blustered. “And I can scratch my ear with my elbow.” He snorted. “One of us is as dull as a meat-ax, and it isn’t me.”
Sam smiled. “If’n you say so. But deep down I think you’re as happy as a clam. You’re just too proud to own up to it. Most menfolk are. They’d rather admit they care for their hound dogs than fess up to liking their wives.”
“Can you blame them? Why the Good Lord saw fit to make men and women so different is a puzzlement. You ask me, men need females like pigs need hip pockets.”
“Ever think the ladies feel the same about us?” Sam pushed past a prickly bush. “My wife once told me that men are as worthless as wings on a rock. She says the only reason womenfolk put up with our shenanigans is because they can’t have babies without us.” Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be something if they could?”
“Never happen,” Flavius declared. “It goes against nature. Against the laws of God. What? Do you think that one day people will pull babies out of thin air like magicians do with rabbits?” It was so preposterous, he cackled.
Suddenly the slaves in front of them halted. Flavius checked their back trail, hoping against hope for sign of Davy and James.
“What’s he so mad about, you reckon?” Sam asked.
Flavius turned around. Arlo Kastner was striding toward them with both fists clenched. Through the trees Flavius spotted Sedge, waiting at the head of the line. “Something wrong?” Flavius inquired.
“Damn right there is,” Arlo snapped. “Why don’t you two lunkheads make a little more noise? The Karankawas might not know where we are yet.” He was fit to be tied. “We can hear you clear up yonder.”
“Sorry,” Flavius said meekly.
Arlo sneered. “That’s not good enough, bumpkin. To make sure you keep quiet, we’re splittin’ you up. You go up front. I’ll stay here with the darkie.”
Flavius resented being treated as if he were a dim-witted lout. He liked being bossed around even less. But the river rats were James’s partners, so that gave them more say. More the pity, since he was growing fond of Sam’s company. “I’ll go,” he said sullenly. Nodding at the black man, he jogged on past the two rows of slaves.
Sedge was tapping his foot. “About damn time,” he groused. “You’ve cost us time better spent puttin’ as much distance behind us as we can. I don’t know about you, dullard, but I ain’t partial to havin’ my heart carved out and served on a spit.”
“And I’m not partial to being insulted,” Flavius said, his temper flaring. “So I’ll thank you to keep a lid on that mouth of yours, or so help me I’ll knock the bejeebers out of you.”
The river rat was genuinely surprised. “Well, well, well. The fat man is a panther in disguise. Sheathe your claws, Harris. It’s the Injuns who are your enemy.” He resumed their trek, holding to as rapid a clip as the shackled blacks could sustain.
Flavius thought it a shame to push the slaves so hard. But he reasoned it had to be done or none of them would escape the swamp alive. Begrudgingly, he admired the ease with which the river rat picked their route. Sedge had a knack for taking the path of least resistance, just as deer and other wild creatures would do.
The heat and muggy air took a toll. Flavius grew drowsy, and had to shake himself every now and then to stay alert. He dwelled on what Sam had said. Could it be he really did love Matilda that much? After all their spats? After she had taken a rolling pin to him more times than he could count? To say nothing of how bossy she was. He’d never mentioned it, but Matilda would make a great army sergeant. She could bellow with the best of them. And no private would dare sass her.
For over a quarter of a mile the slavers bustled on. Flavius’s stomach growled repeatedly, reminding him of how ravenous he was. He was so hungry, he contemplated eating grass. Between his famished state and his musings about Matilda, he did not give Sedge another thought until the uppity river rat halted so abruptly, Flavius nearly collided with him.
“This will do nicely,” Sedge said.
Flavius saw mostly water ahead. A ribbon of partially dry land, a winding, slender natural bridge, was the only means across, and it was choked with vegetation. “What will do nicely?”
“You’ll see,” was Sedge’s perplexing reply.
Water lapped at the edges on both sides, so close that Flavius could have reached out and dipped his hands in. Gators were abundant, most of them smaller ones that would not dare attack. Most, but not all. To the north a giant reptilian back surged up out of the depths. If the visible part of the creature was any indication, it had to be as big as a horse.
Flavius made a mental note to avoid swamps from that day forth. During the Creek campaign it hadn’t been quite this bad. Probably because he had been with hundreds of other men. And when an army was on the move, even alligators laid low.
Unexpectedly, Sedge asked, “Ever wanted to be rich, bumpkin?”
Annoyed that the river rat continued to insult him, Flavius responded, “Who wouldn’t?” Until recently he hadn’t, but that was beside the point.
“I do,” Sedge declared. “I’d sell my own mother for five hundred dollars. My sister for a thousand.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Flavius testily asked.
“Oh, to make a point.” Sedge glanced at him. “How much money would it take to satisfy you, Harris?”
“I never gave it much thought.”
“Well, I have. Arlo and me both.” Sedge did not seem to care that the Tennessean wasn’t interested. “The twelve hundred dollars Bowie agreed to pay us is more money than either of us have had at any one time in our whole lives.”
You’re not the only one, Flavius almost said.
“Six hundred each,” Sedge rolled the sum on the tip of his tongue as if savoring sugar candy. “I can get me a room at one of the fanciest hotels in New Orleans. The kind where they change the sheets every day. Where maids in skimpy uniforms prance around speakin’ French.”
Flavius wouldn’t mind doing that himself. Of course, Matilda would shoot him if he so much as sneaked a peek at another woman. But it might be worth it for a night of unbelievable luxury.
Sedge chattered on, more to himself. “For six hundred dollars I was willin’ to risk this stinkin’ swamp, the damned heathens, and whatever else I came across.” He paused. “For ten times that much, I’d do just about anything. Even kill.” Ten times? Flavius performed the multiplication. It came to six thousand dollars, or exactly half of the sum James Bowie had said the sale of the blacks would bring.
For some reason, Sedge stopped. The slaves were strung out on a long straight stretch, each keeping to the center of the narrow strip. They had nowhere to go except straight ahead or straight back. “We’ve gone far enough, I reckon,” Sedge said.
“For what?” Flavius asked.
Not responding, Sedge stepped to the edge and leaned out so he could been seen by those at the end of the line. He waved vigorously. Arlo windmilled both arms. “That’s it, then,” Sedge said.
“What?” Flavius said, peeved.
Sedge smirked. “Remember what I just told you? That I was willing to do anything for half the money these darkies will fetch?”
Flavius should have seen it coming. The river rat had dropped enough hints. But he was caught flat-footed when Sedge’s rifle arced upward. The heavy stock caught him flush on the side of the head. Pain and bright pinpoints of light overwhelmed him. He felt himself stagger, and attempted to unlimber a pistol, but another blow, to the pit of his stomach, doubled him in half. Slammed backward, he tripped. Clammy wetness dampened his legs, his torso. He was vaguely conscious of being on his back in the water.
“So long, bumpkin. A couple of gators are swimmin’ toward you. I’d stick around to watch them eat, but it might spoil my appetite.”
Mocking laughter rang in Flavius’s ears, laughter that was drowned out by a loud splash. That was the last sound he heard.
~*~
Davy Crockett had stared death in the face many times. Savage beasts, savage men, he had clashed with them time and again during his travels and always, somehow, prevailed. But in the fleeting instant before the war club descended, he knew he had come to the end of his earthly existence. He had lost his hold on the tomahawk, had no means to stop the blow from descending short of throwing an arm up. Which was exactly what he did, even though he knew the club would shatter his bones like so much dry kindling. His skull would be next.
The club swept downward. The warrior’s eyes sparkled.
Then a miracle occurred. There was a flashing streak of shimmering metal. A glimmer of steel reflecting sunlight. And the hilt of a knife sprouted in the center of the Karankawa’s chest. The man staggered backward, his war club shearing wide of its mark, missing the Tennessean by a cat’s whisker.
Still slightly stunned from the blow to his temple, Davy rose onto his elbows. He saw the warrior blink in bewilderment at the hilt, then drop the club and grab hold to yank it out. Gurgling like an infant, the Karankawa tensed his arms. The big knife slid free. A grin spread across the man’s bronzed face. As if he believed that by extracting the blade, he had insured his survival.
Popping the knife out had the same effect as popping the cork on a bottle of wine. Blood gushed from the wound like wine from a bottle’s mouth, a crimson torrent that spattered the warriors, the grass, and Crockett’s legs.
The Karankawa’s knees buckled. He looked at Davy and his mouth moved, but he couldn’t speak. His bewilderment was replaced by total shock. Feebly, he sought to stem the torrent by pressing a hand over the wound. It was akin to trying to hold back a flood with a washcloth.
Davy reclaimed his tomahawk, and rose. The Karankawa raised his face to the heavens, his lips moved as if in supplication, and he died, falling across the big knife. Davy bent to retrieve it.
“Let me.” James Bowie rolled the body over, cleaned the blade as he had done before, and straightened. “I shot another. So there’s only six left now.”
Still too many. Davy ran to where his pistols lay, and tucked them under his belt. Squatting, he hastily began to reload Liz. “I’m obliged for saving my life,” he said as the tall frontiersman cat-footed over.
“You looked as if you were a gone gosling,” Bowie quipped. “Thank your Maker I’ve been throwing a knife since I was old enough to hold one.” He had a rifle in hand, and at a sound in the brush, he turned.
No enemies appeared. Davy finished, and rose with his back to the tree trunk. “This makes twice you’ve pulled my bacon out of the fire.”
“It is becoming a habit, isn’t it?” James said. “Maybe you can do the same for me some day. In the meantime, what say we learn these red pumas a thing or two about swamp fighting?” He moved eastward, darting from cover to cover.
Davy was not going to let them be separated again. He did exactly as Bowie did, his senses primed. When a Karankawa rose up out of high reeds and sighted down an arrow, he spotted the man first. “Get down!” he shouted. Simultaneously, he fired from the hip. The warrior was smashed backward, and the shaft meant for James sailed skyward to be lost amid trees to the southwest.
The tall frontiersman smiled and winked, then went on.
Davy had seldom met anyone so fearless. And he’d encountered more than his share of brave men. The land itself claimed credit for molding them. Dangerous conditions bred courage. Cowards did not last long on the frontier. Bowie’s bravery was as obvious as a knight’s suit of shining armor. Davy could see it in the man’s eyes, in how he acted, how he handled himself in a crisis. James Bowie did not have a fearful bone in his entire body.
Friends and kin always complimented Davy on his own bravery. He had a reputation for being as stalwart as they came. And while he was flattered, he knew that there were times when he did feel fear. Just like everyone else. Times when he had been so scared, his mouth had gone dry and he had broken out in a cold sweat. Times when he had wanted to scream. So he never regarded himself as being especially brave. Especially clever, perhaps. And loyal to those who were loyal to him. But not—
Davy almost slapped himself. To let his mind drift in the heat of combat was unforgivable. Suicidal too if the Karankawas had anything to say about it. And they did, the very next second.
Five husky warriors burst from cover, one unleashing an arrow that would have taken Davy’s life had he not flung himself to the right. Liz thundered, the archer toppled, and then the rest were upon them. Davy saw James Bowie slam the stock of his rifle into a Karankawa’s jaw. After that he had to concentrate on his own predicament, for two of the warriors were on him in a fury, both swinging knives.
Davy flung Liz at them and the pair skipped aside, granting him the space he needed to draw both pistols. He fired as they sprang, striking the man on the right but missing the one on the left. Backpedaling, he dropped the flintlocks and resorted to his tomahawk and his knife. The Karankawa came at him in a whirlwind of elemental ferocity, the man’s blade weaving a glittering tapestry of deadly thrusts and cuts.
Davy held his own. Standing his ground, he parried, stabbed, countered, hacked. Engrossed in simply staying alive, he did not realize the Karankawa he had just shot was still alive until a hand wrapped around his left ankle and clung fast. A glance showed the warrior had lost his weapon but not his resolve. At death’s door, pouring scarlet, the Karankawa had crawled close enough to grab hold.
A meaningless act of defiance, or so it seemed until Davy jerked to the left to avoid a lancing thrust meant to disembowel him. He evaded it, although barely, his movements hampered by the anchor on his leg. Davy kicked out, but it did no good. The Karankawa’s fingers were a vise.
The other warrior perceived the Tennessean’s plight, and renewed his assault. Gliding to one side, he speared his blade down low.
Davy twisted to block it. Not being able to move quickly, he almost failed. As the man pumped an arm to try again, Davy threw caution to the winds and threw himself forward. He was desperate. He had to do something. So long as the one warrior clung to his leg, the outcome was inevitable unless he hampered his second foe just as he was being hampered. Arms flung wide, he tackled the startled Karankawa, pinning the man’s arms as they went down.
Davy felt a stinging sensation in his ribs. Letting go of the tomahawk, he gripped the man’s knife arm to keep it at bay even as he drove his own blade up and in. Flesh gave way, and the Karankawa grunted. Davy sliced upward, the razor-sharp metal parting sinew and organs as easily as a hot knife parted wax. Warm liquid spurted over his hand and wrist. The warrior shook like a leaf in a hurricane, moaned, and sagged.
Shoving clear, Davy turned toward the one who had seized his ankle. He pumped the knife overhead, but did not carry through. The man’s wide eyes were fixed in lifeless intensity on the azure ether.
Davy pried at the warrior’s clenched fingers, but couldn’t loosen them. James Bowie and the other two were out of sight, battling beyond a thicket. In order to reach his friend in time to help, Davy removed the Karankawa’s hand the only way he could; he cut off three of the man’s fingers. Once that was done, Davy tore loose and stood.
At that moment the racket behind the thicket ended. Someone mewed like a kitten. Afraid of the worst, Davy ran.
Two warriors lay at James Bowie’s feet. His buckskins were ripped and grimy and sprinkled with scarlet dots. He had a cut on his right cheek, another on his leg. “They sure are scrappers, these Karankawas. I’d almost rather tangle with Comanches.” He grinned. “Almost.”
One other was as yet unaccounted for. Davy backed toward Bowie, saying, “I’d rather not tangle with anyone. Why don’t we light a shuck while we can?”
“We might as well. The last man is probably hightailing it for Snake Strangler. We’ll have forty or fifty on our tracks by this time tomorrow.”
Davy noticed that Bowie’s pistols were still wedged under his wide brown leather belt. “Didn’t you use your guns?”
“Why bother?” James hefted the big knife. “I’m better with this.”
The dead warriors testified to the truth of Bowie’s assertion. Both looked as if they had been chewed up by a sawmill. Davy couldn’t help but think that James Bowie must be one of the best knife fighters alive.
No arrows sought their lives as they gathered Bowie’s rifles and bent their steps eastward. Bowie fairly flew. Davy blamed it on anxiety over the Karankawas. But he was wrong, as he learned when his companion paused to inspect some footprints and then blistered the air with curses.
“They’re pushing harder than I told them to. In this heat it doesn’t take much for a slave to shed five to ten pounds. Which will bring in less at auction.”
“Arlo and Sedge are just afraid of the Karankawas,” Davy speculated. “They want to get as far away as they can.”
“I hope that’s all it is. But say what you will about those vermin, they’re not scared of anything.”
“What else could it be?” Davy wanted to know. Bowie was eating up the distance in loping bounds that would do justice to an antelope. Davy had to exert himself to keep up. “Sam and Flavius are keeping an eye on them,” he commented, thinking it would calm the taller man down.
Instead, Bowie went faster. A minute later, out of the blue, he said, “I refuse to lose another one. The last group was bad enough.”
“How’s that?” Davy replied between breaths.
Bowie’s cheeks pinched tight. “I lost thirty blacks. At one time. The only ones I’ve lost out of the several hundred I’ve funneled into Louisiana.” He was quiet for a bit. “Sam and I were alone. We had been on the go for days, and I was exhausted. Sam agreed to stand guard while I took a nap. But he fell asleep too. And when we woke up, all thirty were gone. Stolen right out from under our noses by Snake Strangler.”
“He let you live?”
“Shocked me too. I think it was his way of rubbing our noses in it. Of showing he could kill us whenever he wanted if he so desired.” Bowie growled like a cornered wolf. “I went after them. Tracked those devils clear to the Colorado River. But a storm came along and wiped out the trail.”
“What would the Karankawas do with thirty slaves?”
“The same thing they would do with thirty whites, or thirty Pawnees, or thirty Cheyenne.” Bowie was pumping his arms now. “The Karankawas aren’t known as cannibals for nothing.”
Eaters of human flesh. It seemed too far-fetched to Davy. In this day and age? With a modern city only a few hundred miles away? With the invention of the steam engine “promising a new age of wonder and discovery,” as one newspaper put it? How could cannibals exist on the boundary of America’s frontier?
“What’s this?” Bowie said, stopping.
Davy could read the sign for himself. The river rats had called a halt. One of them had walked back down the line. Then Flavius—whose tracks Davy knew as well as he did his own—had gone to the head of the column. Why?
“I don’t like it,” James said. “Not one bit.”
Not long after, Davy spied water ahead, a sprawling marshy area bisected by a strip of land no wider than his shoulders. Bowie took the lead, and had gone only a few dozen feet when up out of tall grass lunged a scarecrow figure in soaked clothes.
“Jimmy! Praise the Lord!” Sam exclaimed, and promptly collapsed.
Bowie caught his manservant and gently lowered him. A gash on Sam’s forehead oozed blood and his pants were a muddy ruin. “Sam? Sam? Can you hear me?”
The black man’s eyes flickered open. “Jimmy? I’m awful sorry. They took us by surprise.”
“Us?” Davy said, a bolt of lightning jolting him to his core. He scoured the swamp. “Where’s Flavius, Sam? What happened to him?”
Sam grew sadder. “Two gators got him, Mr. Crockett. Ripped your poor friend to ribbons, they did.”