Quicksand! The mere word was enough to spawn terror. Of all the secret fears woodsmen harbored, being caught in quicksand was near the top of the list. No one should have to suffer such a lingering, horrid death.
Sentiments Davy Crockett categorically agreed with. Ordinarily, he gave quicksand and bogs wide berths.
He still remembered that day during his eighth year when a neighbor’s ox had blundered into a nearby marsh. The animal had been up to its belly in quicksand when it was found. Word spread rapidly, and men came to help from miles around. They tried everything. They threw ropes, they used long poles, they stretched a log across to lever the ox out, but all their efforts were for naught.
Davy had been on the bank with the women and a dozen or so children. It had been highly entertaining at first, a break in the daily routine, an excuse to get out of doing chores.
When the ox sank in up to its neck, it had fully dawned on Davy that the animal might die. He’d hollered encouragement to the frantic men, just as the rest were doing, but all the shouting and yelling in the world could not stave off the outcome.
At the very end, the ox bellowed. A pitiable cry, a peal of misery, it sent a shiver down Davy’s young spine. He saw men strain on ropes that had been thrown over the animal’s head, saw others attempt to worm poles under the animal. Methods that had not worked before did not work then.
Like a rock sinking slowly into soft mud, the ox sank from sight, the quicksand flowing up over its horns, its ears, its wide eyes. To the last, it tried to go on breathing. Bubbles frothed the surface, and there was a mighty upheaval, then all was still.
Some of the women and children cried. The men hung their heads. Davy had been sad for days. He’d petted that ox a few times, fed it corn and such.
The lesson he learned had been invaluable. When the life of an animal as big and strong as an ox could be snuffed out so easily, so could his. He’d been very cautious in the wilderness from that day forth.
But a fat lot of good his caution had done him now! Davy saw quicksand ooze up around his ankles, and he did what anyone would do. He lunged toward solid ground. Unfortunately, the brute-man anticipated him, and pounced, swinging the war club at him. Davy had to back away or be bashed.
The quicksand was up above his ankles. Movement made him sink faster. Yet if he didn’t move, if he didn’t get out of there quickly, he would share the ox’s fate.
His pistols had been soaked when he fell into the pool, but he drew the left one anyway, cocked it, and took aim. The hairy warrior showed no fear, standing there as brazen as brass. Davy prayed for the best and pulled the trigger.
The flintlock misfired.
Shoving it under his belt, Davy drew the other one. The quicksand had gained another couple of inches, but he could still move his legs. He angled to the right, the warrior staying with him. Centering a bead on the man’s forehead, Davy fired. A puff of smoke, a flash of flame—and nothing else. The powder had been too damp. Replacing it at his waist, he resorted to a desperate gambit.
Davy had developed a fondness for the tomahawk. Many settlers looked down their noses at the weapon, saying it could not begin to rival a trusty butcher knife. The edge was shorter, it was harder to throw; a “silly savage’s weapon,” they branded it.
Davy knew better. A tomahawk was as versatile as it was deadly. The Creeks had proven that during the war. Properly used, it could hold its own against any knife, ax, or sword. On a stump out behind his cabin he’d painted a white circle, and for hours on end, day after day, he’d practiced with his, growing more and more skilled, until he could embed it in the circle ten times out of ten.
It was a talent that often came in handy. Such as now.
Davy drew his knife with his left hand. He made a show of preparing to throw it, and did so, knowing full well he lacked the power in his left arm that he had in his right, and that the warrior would avoid it with no problem.
Which the brute did. The knife landed in grass, and the Indian looked at it and grinned. He should have kept his eyes on Davy.
The tomahawk streaked back, flashed forward. Handle and head swirled end over end. Hearing the swish, the Indian glanced up. The edge sheared into the bridge of his nose, parting the flesh as neatly as a dagger would, penetrating deep. For several seconds he was motionless, blood and gore flowing freely. Then he took a halting step toward the quicksand, lifted his heavy club, and died.
Davy had disposed of one problem, but he still had another. The quicksand was almost to his knees. He moved, or tried to; his legs would barely budge. The quicksand clung to him like liquid lead. And the attempt made him sink faster. Desperate, he surged maybe half a foot, and lost four more inches of leg.
Trying not to think of the consequences of failure, Davy girded himself for another effort. This time he used his head. He eased his legs forward one at a time, by gradual degrees. It seemed to work. He was eighteen or nineteen inches from solid ground. Then fifteen. Twelve. He extended an arm toward a bush, to grab it for added leverage.
Suddenly, disaster. The quicksand shot up as high as his chest. Davy froze. He stopped sinking for the moment, but it was small consolation. The bush was well out of reach. The solid ground might as well have been on the moon.
Davy tried to recall all the advice he had been given. “Lie on your back and you’ll float,” one man had claimed, “then you can wriggle to shore.” Another veteran of the wilds had suggested that he “lay on your side and roll real quick-like. Half the time it works real well.” The fellow had not mentioned what happened the other half of the time.
Davy craned his neck, searching for a means of saving his life. Other than the bush, nothing else was close enough. And the bush itself was puny, perhaps too puny to support his weight.
“I reckon I’m in pretty considerable of a bind,” Davy said, just to hear his own voice.
Someone answered. Or, rather, something did. The alligator grunted and swiveled. Davy had forgotten about it. He’d assumed it was dead, that the warrior’s club had crushed its brainpan. Although bleeding profusely, however, it was very much alive. And its maw, filled with sawtooth death, was opening and closing as if the reptile were eager to feast on him.
“Never give up!” his grandma had often told him. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” was another of her sayings. Yet at that moment, Davy Crockett’s wellspring of hope dwindled drastically as the gator slunk nearer. He saw no way out. If the quicksand didn’t claim him, the alligator would. Or maybe when the gator attacked, both of them would be borne under.
The beast moved with exaggerated slowness. Perhaps the head wound was to blame. Or maybe it was not quite sure where he was since he was not moving and gators relied on movement to pinpoint prey.
Davy watched it slink to within a few feet of the quicksand, then halt. It seemed to be staring right at him, yet it did not do anything except blink. Davy did not even do that, for fear the animal would strike.
The alligator looked to either side. Grunting, it lifted its right foreleg while bending to the right, and veered toward the water. It was not going to eat him, after all. Its long tail curved in an S in its wake.
The tail! Davy extended his other arm as the tail slowly slid toward him. What he proposed to do was insane, but it was his only hope. The tail whipped left, whipped right, whipped left again. Then the thing was right in front of him, and Davy grabbed hold and clung on with all his might.
The alligator lashed around, hissing like a snake, but could not quite reach him. In a flurry, it hurtled toward the pool and sanctuary, its short legs pumping. For its size, it was a mass of muscle. Much stronger than the Tennessean. But was it strong enough?
The tail’s serrated crest was as rough to the touch as a dry hide, the scales as slippery as glass. Davy dug in his nails, his muscles corded into compact bands. His body gave a lurch and started to slide upward, but the quicksand was not to be denied. It wrapped around him like a two-ton glove, holding fast.
A tug of war ensued. The gator against the quagmire. The reptile was as straight as an arrow, claws scraping as it heaved forward.
Davy sought to help by kicking with both legs. A sucking noise granted the illusion the quicksand was losing its grip, but just when his body began to move, he was brought to a stop. The next couple of minutes were ordeals in themselves. The gator churned and churned. Presently, it would tire, and that would be that.
No! Davy fumed. Where there was a will, there was a way! If the alligator couldn’t do it on its own, he would give it added incentive. He punched the tail. Once, twice, three times. He was drawing his arm back for a fourth blow when the creature grunted and scrambled forward with newfound energy.
The sucking noise was repeated, louder than before. It felt as if a hundred tiny hands were pulling at Davy. Then, abruptly, he was yanked bodily up out of the muck and was swung to the left. Releasing his unwilling helper, he rolled a few times, coming to rest on his side facing the pool. The gator was in the water, diving from sight.
“I’m obliged, ugly,” Davy said.
Weariness nipped at him, but he shrugged it off. He would rest when Flavius was safe. About to sit up, he tensed when a shadow fell across his chest. Another warrior, he guessed, and cast about for the knife he had thrown.
“Partial to mud baths, are you? I hear tell the well-to-do in Europe spend hundreds of dollars to have themselves plastered with the stuff. Which goes to show you just how dumb people can be.”
Davy squinted up at the tall frontiersman. “Took your sweet time catching up. Stop to smell the flowers, did you?”
“Hell, I came quick as I could,” James Bowie said. “I had to leave Sam. He was groggy yet. Might have a mild concussion. So I built him a lean-to, gave him a rifle and a pistol, and got here in time to see that scaly friend of yours pulling you out.” Bowie grinned. “You do things like this often?”
Making a comment about Bowie’s ancestry, Davy sat up.
Bowie chuckled and began to gather the Tennessean’s weapons. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never believe it. Funny thing is, no one I tell will believe it either. Even tall tales have their limits.”
Davy did not see the humor in the situation. “We’re not far behind Flavius and Kastner.” Rising, he brushed at the quicksand that clung to his buckskins, but it was too thick and gooey to remove by hand. He went to the pool, set his pistols down, and warily waded in. The alligator did not show itself as he ducked under up to his shoulders and hastily cleaned himself off.
Bowie was examining the two flintlocks. “It would take forever to clean these.”
“Then they’ll have to wait.” Davy accepted them, dunked each once, and tucked them where they belonged. He reloaded his rifle, cleaned off his tomahawk and knife, and was ready.
They took up the chase with sober intensity. The Tennessean led. Although he was tired and hurting, he did not slack off. Intuition warned him he must find Flavius soon. Very soon.
Davy hoped his friend was well, and wondered what Flavius was doing at that exact moment.
Had the Irishman only known, he would have begged the powers that be for the fleetness of fabled Mercury.
~*~
For at that very second Flavius Harris was bound hand and foot, his arms behind his back, lying in a small conical lodge. The interior was as murky as a coal cellar. He could barely distinguish the outline of Arlo Kastner.
“You’re a jackass,” the river rat complained for the umpteenth time. “You should have shot a couple. The rest would have backed off and we could have escaped. Now look. Slated for the cookin’ pot, thanks to you.”
“If I’d killed one, we’d be dead,” Flavius said. He had brought Matilda to bear when the hairy warriors converged. He had even fixed his sights on the gray-haired man, who appeared to be their leader, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoot. The Indians had stripped him of his weapons, trussed the two of them like hogs fit for slaughter, and thrown them into the lodge.
That had been hours ago. The afternoon was waning. Soon it would be time for the evening meal, and Flavius shuddered to think what—or rather, who—the main course would be.
“I should have made sure you were dead when I fed you to the gators,” Arlo groused. “You’re the reason I’m in this mess, fat man.”
“Don’t blame me. Blame your greed.”
Arlo swore, and hiked himself into a seated position. “Don’t act so high-and-mighty. You’d do the same if you thought you could get away with it.” He leaned against the wall, dry brush crackling. “A fella can’t be blamed for tryin’ to get ahead in this world. It’s every man for himself, in case you ain’t heard.”
“I don’t believe that, and I never will,” Flavius said. “Most folks are naturally good, not evil. Take my partner, Crockett. Know what his family motto is?”
“I don’t care.”
“Always be sure you’re right, then go ahead,” Flavius quoted. “He learned it from his pa, who learned it from his pa. And so on. Law-abiding, decent people who would give you the shirt off their backs if you were that much in need.” He sat up too. “So much for everyone being as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. The Crockett clan proves most people have hearts of gold.”
“The only thing they prove,” Arlo said, “is that being dumb runs in their family.”
Flavius had a retort on the tip of his tongue, but the deer hide covering the door parted and in came the gray-haired man. The top elder, as it were. “Howdy,” Flavius said, smiling. “We sure would like to palaver a spell, to show you we’re friendly.”
Kastner fluttered his lips, then said, “You’re pathetic, bumpkin. I’m surprised you didn’t strangle yourself with your own diaper when you were little.”
The elder looked from one to the other. Bending, he ran his hands over Flavius’s shoulders, ribs, and stomach, and pinched Flavius above the hips.
“What in tarnation is that coyote doing?” Arlo asked. “Ticklin’ you?”
“Not hardly.” Flavius had done the same many times, to pigs and sheep and cows he’d had to slaughter. The oldster was gauging how much meat he had on his bones.
Arlo recoiled when it was his turn. “Take your rotten hands off me!” he bellowed. Elevating his boots, he drove them at the Indian’s face, but the man swatted them aside with deceptive ease for one so advanced in years. Arlo was knocked off balance, landing on his back. The elder calmly straddled him and repeated what he had done to Flavius.
“If it’s the last thing I ever do, you mangy Injun, I’m going to kill you!”
“Don’t make it any worse than it already is,” Flavius said.
Brittle mirth cascaded from the river rat. “What a moron! I’m going to die alongside an idiot. And there’s nothin’ I can do about it.”
After completing his examination, the elder left. The flap swung down, but not quite all the way. Sparkling sunlight streamed in through the gap.
Flavius scooted his backside over. Peeking out, he saw the oldster talking to another man. Others were carting deadwood from the swamp and piling it around the huge clay pot. The village bustled with activity. It did not take a genius to realize the Indians were preparing for a special celebration.
Arlo had sat back up. Wagging his wrists, he said, “Chew on my ropes. When I’m free, I’ll untie you.”
Two warriors strode around the corner of the long lodge, ushering a young black woman between them. Her arms were bound, but the leg irons were gone.
“Who had the keys to the shackles?” Flavius inquired.
“Huh? What does that matter?”
“Who?”
“Sedge did. He didn’t trust me to keep ’em because I was always losin’ the damn things. Which was fine by me. The ring they were on must have weighed five pounds.”
The black woman was taken before the elder. He gave her the same treatment he had given Flavius and the river rat. She held her head high, but her full lips quivered. At a word from the chief, she was guided into the long lodge instead of being returned to the holding pen.
Flavius leaned his brow against a bent sapling that formed part of the frame, and closed his eyes. That poor woman. He had never felt so helpless. Or so guilty. For the simple truth was that the Africans would not be in danger if more people did as the Quakers were doing and spoke out against slavery.
But his guilt ran deeper than that. For once in his life he had tried to make a difference, tried to do what was right. He had stood on his own two feet. He had risked everything to help those in need. And he had failed. Failed miserably. Now the blacks would pay for his failure with their lives.
“Come on, damn it,” Arlo said. “Get me loose.”
Flavius roused himself. “How big a fool do you think I am?” he responded. “Free me first, then I’ll do the same for you.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No,” Flavius bluntly admitted. The cutthroat had to be kidding. Arlo had tried to kill him once already. Flavius slid closer, wrists held out. “What will it be?”
Grumbling, Arlo lowered his mouth to the rope and gnawed like a beaver. The tough strands of hide resisted and every so often he lifted his head to mutter swear words.
Flavius tilted sideways to see outside. The people were retiring to their lodges to prepare for the evening’s festivities. The same two warriors who had escorted the black woman from the pen now stood guard in front of the long lodge. As Flavius looked on, several Indian women carrying baskets and bowls hurried into it.
Spittle dribbled onto Flavius’s wrists. Arlo was chewing with a vengeance. It would take a while to gnaw clean through, and time was a luxury they did not have much of.
Flavius worried about Davy. The Irishman should have shown up long ago. He fretted that something horrible had happened. Fretted that he was totally on his own.
“Hold still, bumpkin,” the river rat chided.
Quite by accident, Flavius had lowered his arms a trifle. They were growing tired. He looked outside, past the long lodge to where a corner of the pen could be seen. Some of the Africans were pacing, other staring at the lodge. Flavius shared their apprehension. Somehow, the woman must be saved.
Arlo straightened and spat. “There. Give it a try.”
Half the strands were bitten through. Flavius thrust his arms outward in an attempt to snap the rest, but they were a lot stronger than they appeared. He tried again, and was rewarded with a strand popping.
Feet tramped, and muted voices approached. Sliding away from the river rat, Flavius lay on his back.
Into the lodge ducked the elder and two stoic warriors. “Did you forget something?” the Tennessean asked, placing his hands close to his buttocks so none of the Indians would notice the gnawed rope.
“They probably want to drag you off to that pot,” Arlo said, smirking wickedly. “A nice, plump blob of meat like you must make their mouths water.”
But it wasn’t Flavius they were after. At a gesture from the chief, the warriors stepped to the river rat and each grasped an arm. Arlo stiffened in disbelief, then jerked backward. “Get your rotten paws off me, you stinkin’ cannibals! If you think you can eat me, you have another think comin’.”
The elder left.
The other two hoisted Kastner and toted him to the opening. Arlo kicked and screeched. “Don’t take me! Take him! Take the bumpkin!” As one of the warriors pushed the flap aside, the slaver went berserk. He threw himself in all directions, twisting and turning, striving to bite them or butt them with his forehead. “No! No! No! I won’t let you! Put me down!”
A blow to the jaw silenced him. Arlo slumped as he was carted out, his eyes locking on the Tennessean’s in mute appeal.
Flavius moved to the entrance, nosing the flap aside. The warriors were bearing the river rat to the long lodge. Kastner no longer resisted. He seemed overwhelmed by the development, too stunned to fight, his will sapped. As much as Flavius disliked him and resented what Arlo had done, this was not how the man deserved to meet his end. No one did.
Tucking his knees to his chest, Flavius hunched over and attempted to slide his hands under his backside. But his wrists were still so tightly bound that he could not manage more than halfway.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he stated, and tried again. And again. And yet again.
The rope chafed his skin. His wrists were on fire. He stretched his arms to their limit, and beyond. About to give up, he felt another strand give. His arms slowly scraped forward, then up and around. He had done it! In savage joy he bit into the hide, grating his teeth back and forth.
It took forever. Finally the rope was severed. Undoing the knots and those on his ankles was the work of minutes. Flavius flung the ropes into a corner and peered out.
The sun was half gone. Shadows dappled the village. The only Indians abroad were the guards at the main lodge.
The dwelling in which Flavius had been placed was one of the nearest to the east of the lodge. To reach the pen he must cross a wide-open space, unless he circled around behind the long structure. As soon as it was dark enough to try, he would.
Settling onto his stomach, Flavius waited impatiently. From some of the lodges laughter rose, from others loud voices. The Indians were in fine fettle.
Recollecting the time he was a captive of the Ojibwas, Flavius poked his head out as far as was prudent and scoured the shadows for mongrels. Dogs would spoil everything. Most tribes kept some. Not as pets, but as guardians to sound a warning in case of a raid, and as beasts of burden to pull heavily laden travois. He saw none, which was highly unusual.
Or maybe not.
Whoever these Indians were, they weren’t squeamish about what they ate. It could be that humans weren’t their only fare. Maybe they ate anything and everything. It would explain why wildlife was scarce in the area.
Someone was out and about. It was the elder, but what a change! He wore a beaded shirt and pants, and a headdress with enough feathers to fill a wheelbarrow. At the long lodge he paused in front of a niche Flavius had overlooked. From it he removed what Flavius took to be a hollow tube, about a yard long. Putting one end to his lips, the elder blew three loud, low notes.
It was a signal for the rest of the tribe, including women and children, to parade in regal procession across the square. Four abreast, they filed into the long lodge. The last to go in were the guards. Soon light spilled out through the wide doorway, and chanting commenced.
Flavius was through waiting. It was now or never. He would rather have his guns, but he did not know where the Indians had put them. Slipping out, he padded to the right. The guttural chorus drowned out what little noise he made. He was almost to the rear corner of the long lodge when the unforeseen occurred.
Another guard strode from behind it.