Davy Crockett and James Bowie had been on the go for over an hour when Davy’s left leg developed a cramp. Against his will he had to slow down. Within a few more paces the discomfort was severe enough to force him to halt. Limping to a log, he sat, explaining why as he did.
“A few minutes won’t matter much,” Bowie said. “I’m a bit winded anyway.” Putting his back to a tree, he hunkered down.
Davy begged to differ. “A few minutes can make all the difference in the world. The difference between life and death.”
“True enough, I suppose.” Bowie sighed. “This Harris sure is lucky to have a friend like you. Here you are, risking everything to save him. Not many people would do what you’re doing.”
“You would.”
Bowie’s eyebrow arched. “Think so? You hardly know me, so what makes you say that?”
Davy was massaging his leg vigorously. “Some men wear their character on their sleeves. Deep down, you have true grit. More than most. You’d go out of your way to help someone in need.”
“For meterte a redentor te ha passado todo esto.”
“You speak Spanish too?”
James Bowie nodded. “I can read and write Spanish, French, and English. And I know half-a-dozen Indian tongues. A few black dialects too.” He smiled. “I have a gift, my brother claims. He says I should go into politics.”
“Funny. My friends say the same about me.”
“But I’m not as pure as you make me out to be, friend,” Bowie remarked. “At one time or another I’ve broken nearly all the Commandments. Especially that one about not coveting what your neighbor has.” He spoke softly, as if to himself. “God help me, but I covet money more than anything. Wealth. Luxury. I’ve had a taste of how the very rich live, and I aim to live just like they do some day. Someday soon.”
Davy sensed a certain sadness in the man, a certain self-reproach. “And you figure Black Ivory is the means to your end?”
Bowie sighed again. “I’ll be frank. Once I did, yes. But the longer I’ve been at this, the less I like it. So I’ve tried to fool myself. I tell myself that I’m better than most other slave runners because I treat the blacks better than they do. But the truth is, what I’m doing is wrong.”
“Then why not up and end it?”
“The money ...” Bowie said, his voice trailing off.
“My grandpa used to say that the root of all evil in this world of ours is the love of money.”
“Your grandfather was wise.”
Trying to cheer Bowie up, Davy commented, “At least you know the value of a dollar. Me, I’ve never had much interest in being King Midas. I’ve always been content to go from day to day, taking whatever the Good Lord threw my way.” He laughed lightly. “It about drives my wife crazy. She says I have the least ambition of any man alive. I think she wishes she’d known it when she married me. She’d probably have turned me down.”
Bowie smiled. “Women naturally like the finer things in life. And it just so happens that the finer things cost more.”
“If you ask me, we’d all be better off if we lived in caves and wore bearskins. Then no one would covet anything.”
The tall frontiersman smiled. “You come up with the silliest notions. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Oh, just about everybody.”
Bowie became serious again. “A few more trips, and I think I’ll end it. Rezin will have to find another partner or go into another business. I’ll be off to the Paris of the West to find my fortune some other way.”
“Maybe you should go to Texas,” Davy suggested.
“Texas? What’s there besides Comanches and run-down old church missions?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. The people are as friendly as a parson at a fund-raiser. And since you already speak Spanish, you’d be right at home.” Davy recalled his long ride from San Antonio. “It’s a land of milk and honey, Jim. Beautiful rolling hills and fertile plains. Trees that stretch to the sky. Rivers that never go dry. Sweet grass for horses and cattle. Enough varmints to feed a family for all their days.”
“You make it sound like paradise.”
“To some it could be. The government is offering land grants, and you could get yourself an estate the size of Rhode Island for pennies. And since I suspect you have a hankering for the ladies, I should let you know that those Mexican gals are as pretty as speckled coon dogs.”
“You call that attractive?”
Davy laughed. “To each their own. And to a coon hunter like me, a coon dog is about the prettiest critter in all creation.”
“I’ll take the ladies any day.”
They grinned at one another, both of them seeming to realize they shared a special bond. It was Davy who coughed and stated, “Think about it. You could do worse. If it’s wealth you’re after, there’s plenty to be had there. If land doesn’t interest you, you could always search for those lost silver mines.”
“Those what?”
“An old-timer in San Antonio told me about them. The San Saba silver mines, they’re called. Operated by the Spanish years ago, until the Indians got fed up at being made to do the digging and ran the Spaniards out. Now no one can say exactly where they are. But Indians come into town from time to time with pure silver to trade.”
“Silver,” Bowie said softly.
“The mines are worth millions. Lots of men have hunted for them, and lots have never been heard from again. But if you’re interested, the information is right there in the mission records for you to read.”
James Bowie gazed westward. “Texas. It does have a ring, doesn’t it?” He shrugged those broad shoulders of his. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll pay it a visit one day. Just for the hell of it, you understand.”
“Surely.”
The cramp was about gone. Standing, Davy tested his leg by walking in a small circle. “Truth is, I might go back there my own self. It really is the garden spot of the world. With the best land prospects I’ve ever seen.” He thought of his chronic mystery ailment. “And a healthy climate, besides.”
“All right,” Bowie smiled. “I get the idea.”
“If you ever do get there, let me know,” Davy said. “I’ll come join you. Between us we’ll own half the territory in no time.”
Bowie shook his head in amusement. “You never give up, do you? What do you want, a signed promise I’ll go?” Clapping the Tennessean on the shoulder, he moved to the trail. “But first things first. We still have these Indians to deal with.”
“Any idea what tribe they are?”
“No. But that’s not surprising. There are dozens of small tribes scattered through the swamp. Tribes that keep to themselves, for the most part. Some are supposed to be worse than the Karankawas.”
“Speaking of which, do you reckon they’re still after us?”
“No telling. It depends on how mad Snake Strangler is. The last time I tangled with him, he chased me over fifty miles.”
The Tennessean pumped his leg a few times. “Well, we’d best be on our way.”
Bowie started off, then paused and glanced around. “Davy?”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Just thanks.”
With that, James Bowie raced on down the trail, Davy at his heels. Mile after mile was covered in total silence. They were threading through a wooded tract when, unexpectedly, Bowie stopped so suddenly that Davy almost stumbled into him. Bowie raised a finger to his lips, then pointed to the northeast.
A few seconds elapsed before Davy heard them too. Voices. The two men melted into the vegetation, covering a couple of dozen yards before coming on the source.
Three brutish warriors were hiking northward, chattering excitedly. All three carried armloads of deadwood. They were using a well-established trail, a clue their village must be near at hand. Exactly how near was made clear a few minutes later when Davy and James followed them to their dwellings. The trio took the firewood to an enormous clay pot and deposited it around the pot’s base.
James Bowie gripped Davy’s arm, then pointed.
Davy has seen them too. In a pen beside a long building were the blacks. He did not see any sign of Flavius or Kastner, and he was eager to go back to where the voices had lured James and him off the trail. He whispered his intentions. “You ago ahead,” said Bowie. “I’m staying here.”
“Don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone.”
Retracing their steps, Davy took up where they had left off. He had not gone far when he found where warriors had surprised the pair. That there were no drops of blood or crushed grass was encouraging. The best Davy could tell, Flavius and the river rat had walked on into the village of their own accord.
Where were they now? That was the burning question. Davy hastened to where he had left Bowie, who greeted him with a nod.
“There’s been a lot going on. They’ve been buzzing around like bees in a bonnet. More wood was brought in. One of the African women was taken into that long lodge.”
“What about Flavius and Kastner? They’re in there somewhere. The sign proves as much.”
“No trace yet.” Bowie indicated a gray-haired man talking to two younger warriors. “That old coot seems to give all the orders. He must be their leader.” Bowie gazed skyward. “Not much we can do until sundown. Unless you have an idea?”
Davy had to admit he didn’t. Sneaking into the village in broad daylight would only earn them a turn in the cook pot. They had to lay low, which was awful hard to do knowing his best friend was a captive of cannibals.
The next few hours were some of the longest of Davy’s whole life. Activity stopped when the Indians repaired to their dwellings, leaving a pair of guards in front of the main building and another at the rear. The latter acted bored and leaned against the building, his arms folded.
The sun was ready to relinquish the heavens to stars when a commotion perked up Davy’s interest. The chief and two others had just entered a small dwelling. Someone was hollering—in English'.
The leader reappeared. Moments later so did the other pair, bearing a familiar form.
“Arlo!” Bowie whispered.
The river rat was taken into the longest lodge. Quiet reigned thereafter. Davy did not take his eyes off that small dwelling, and was rewarded when a head poked out. A thrill ran through him. Flavius was alive! His friend looked all about, then ducked back inside.
“So far, so good,” Bowie said. “But snatching them out of there won’t be a cinch.”
An understatement, if ever the Irishman heard one. By mutual unspoken agreement they stayed where they were until the shadows congealed into twilight. Davy was rising onto his knees when the chief reappeared, decked out in the Indian equivalent of Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. A signal was sounded. Soon the villagers were filing into the main lodge. Bowie’s head snapped up. “I just noticed. They’re free.”
“Who?”
“The blacks. Their shackles are gone. The Indians must have done it to make better time on the trek here.” Bowie was pleased. “It will make our job that much easier. I’ll go for them while you fetch your partner.”
“What about Arlo?”
“What about him?”
“We can’t let them do it. Not even to Kastner.”
“Listen to yourself. The man is scum. He tried to kill Sam. He stole the Africans right out from under me. I don’t give a damn whether they eat him boiled or roasted. Neither should you.”
“It’s just not right,” Davy insisted.
“There’s a lot about this world of ours that isn’t right, Tennessee. People suffer. People starve. People are treated like dirt by those who think an accident of birth makes them better than everyone else.”
“We can’t do much about all that. But we’re here. Now. And we can do something to help Kastner.”
Bowie faced him. “You help him if you want. I won’t lift a finger. And don’t bother pointing out the error of my ways. I’m not much on turning the other cheek. Never have been. Maybe one day it will be the death of me, but if so, so be it.”
“I’ll try and save Kastner then.”
“Don’t take this personal, but you’re a damned fool if you do.”
Davy tried to make light of his decision. “Heck. If I had a dollar for every damn fool stunt I’ve pulled, I’d be governor.”
Bowie slowly rose. “It’s time. The last of them just went into the council lodge.” The frontiersman thrust a hand out.
“What’s this for?”
“In case either of us are maggot bait by morning. It’s been a privilege knowing you. You’ve stirred things inside me I thought were buried for good. Feelings about what’s right and what’s wrong.”
Touched, Davy shook hands. “Just don’t get carried away by it. Or next thing you know, you will go into politics. And folks will blame me for bringing you to ruin.”
The big knife streaked from its sheath. James Bowie winked, then glided off like a panther, toward the pen.
Davy produced the tomahawk and followed the taller man to the tree line. There, they parted, Davy to swing north, then east. The warrior who had been behind the long lodge was no longer there. A rosy glow spilled from a narrow rectangular opening six feet up on the rear wall. Not so much a window, Davy reckoned, as for ventilation. Tendrils of smoke wafted from it. The Indians were engaged in a singsong chant, and someone was sobbing.
Davy crept from concealment. A strange noise from around the northeast corner caused him to spin and hike the tomahawk. But no one appeared. Puzzled, he dashed to the corner. The man he loved like a brother was locked in mortal combat with the warrior who had been on guard.
Flavius was on his knees, the warrior’s hands clamped on his neck. Bit by bit, he was having the life strangled from his body. Flavius blamed himself for being a shade too slow when they confronted one another. The Indian had swung his war club, but Flavius had skipped under it and buried his knuckles in the man’s gut. It had been like hitting a sack of rocks. Before Flavius could say “Jack Frost,” the man was on him, fingers of banded steel about to crush his jugular like so much putty.
Flavius thought his time had come. He couldn’t breathe. His vision swam. He was so disoriented, he thought that he saw Davy rear up behind the warrior, thought he saw the tomahawk glint dully. Then the world blinked black and he was falling. Or rather, sinking like a feather.
So this is what it feels like to be dead, Flavius mused. A sense of great peace came over him. Lassitude rendered him as weak as a newborn infant. He had the sensation of drifting, like a cloud. Oddly, he was not scared. He had a conviction that at any second he would open his eyes and gaze on the golden spires of Heaven.
A stiff wind buffeted his cloud. Flavius wanted to cling to something, but there was nothing to hold onto. He was worried that he would fall, that he would plummet all the way back down to Earth and be shattered into a million pieces.
“Flavius? Can you hear me?”
The voice sounded remarkably like Davy’s, but that couldn’t be. Davy couldn’t be in Heaven; he was still alive. “Are you an angel?” Flavius said thickly. “Come to take me to my reward?”
“Hush, you jughead! Do you want the Indians to hear?”
Indians? Surely there wouldn't be Indians in the Hereafter! Flavius opened his eyes. Above him was his friend’s face, etched with concern. “How in tarnation did you get to Heaven?” Flavius asked. “Did those Karankawas take you by surprise?”
“I hate to disappoint you,” Davy whispered, “but I’m a likelier candidate for a pitchfork than I am a halo and wings.” Leaning down, he grinned. “Besides, you’re not shed of this life yet.”
“Huh?” Flavius rose onto his elbows. Beside him lay the warrior who had been strangling him, the Irishman’s tomahawk embedded in his skull. “Oh. You saved me.”
“Don’t sound so upset or next time I won’t.” Davy pulled his friend up off the ground, then placed a foot on the dead Indian’s face and wrenched the tomahawk out. “Are you up to running?”
“Just you try and lose me,” Flavius bantered louder than he meant to. Appalled by his lapse, he covered his mouth and listened for an outcry. All he heard was chanting. In the distance a bird screeched.
Davy shoved Liz against Flavius’s chest. “Take her. My pistols are caked with crud or I’d give them to you.”
“What will you use?”
“I can protect myself, don’t you worry.” Davy hefted the tomahawk, then turned and sped on around the lodge. Stopping under the opening, he rose onto the tips of his toes. The scene he beheld was like something out of the dawn of time, from an age before the first white man set foot on the North American continent.
The Indians were divided into three groups. In a wide aisle in the middle were the men, arrayed in twelve rows, facing their leader, who stood on a raised dais at the rear. Along the right wall were the women, dressed in short skirts, their hands primly clasped. Along the left wall were the children, meekly observing the ceremony.
Two outsiders were present. Tied to thick posts in front of the dais were Arlo Kastner and the black woman. Both had been stripped bare. It was Arlo who sobbed nonstop, his cheeks slick with tears.
The chief had both arms upraised, a knife in each hand. He led the chant, reciting a ritual that must have been as old as the human race itself.
Between the posts and the front row of warriors yawned a gaping black hole A pit. How deep, or what arcane purpose it served, was a mystery.
At a gesture from the gray-haired eider, two muscular warriors advanced. Both, Davy noted, gave the pit a wide berth. From within it came loud rustling.
“What the devil is in there?”
Flavius had pressed an eye to the opening’s lower edge. The question had risen unbidden, but he’d had the presence of mind to keep his voice low enough so only the Irishman heard. He shuddered to think that but for the grace of God, he’d be tied to one of those poles instead of the river rat.
Davy noted that torches lined the walls; then he began to turn, to go help Bowie. He paused when the leader descended the dais and solemnly walked over to Kastner. The chanting reached a crescendo, every man, woman, and child taking part. As the tribal leader halted, it died.
The only sound now was Arlo’s weeping. Sniffling, he said, “Please! I don’t want to die! Spare me and I’ll get you anything you want. Guns. Axes. Blankets. You name it. I can get it. Honest.”
The leader touched the tip of a blade to the river rat’s forehead, to Arlo’s chest, to both shoulders.
Davy tore himself from the tableau. He had to prevent what was going to happen next. But he had only taken a stride when a blood-curdling wail prickled his scalp. He looked back inside.
Arlo Kastner had not suffered unduly. The hilt of one of the ceremonial knives jutted from his chest, a scarlet rivulet flowing to his navel. All the Indians were smiling, and they resumed chanting as the leader gripped the hilt firmly and sliced from side to side.
Davy could not quite see what the man was doing. The African woman could, though, and her features mirrored unbridled fright. Within moments the chief finished and stepped to the right to wave aloft his trophy.
It was Arlo’s heart!
After giving a knife to each of the two warriors, the leader held the organ in his palms overhead. Intoning an incantation, he moved toward the pit, blood dripping onto his headdress and shoulders.
Flavius had stopped watching. He could only abide so much. The image of that still-beating heart would linger in his memory for as long as he lived.
At the pit’s rim the chief halted. Again he appealed to whatever gods his people worshiped while the rustling grew louder and louder. Then he tossed the heart into the hole. A rumbling growl filled the lodge, and as if it were prearranged, the people raised their voices in a new song.
Davy nudged Flavius and sped to the pen. The blacks were not in it. They were gathered near an open gate at the southwest corner. Of Bowie there was no sign. Confused, Davy glanced toward the front of the lodge. James and one of the Africans were at the wide door, but they did not linger. Pivoting, they raced to the gate, the wrath of the Almighty crackling on Bowie’s brow.
“Did you see? Did you see what was done to Arlo?”
“I saw.”
“We can’t let them do the same to that woman. We’re going to save her if we can.”
“Twenty-one of us against a hundred?”
“We’ll have the element of surprise. If we hit them hard and fast, we can cut her loose and be out of there before they mount a counterattack.”
Flavius couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “It’s suicide,” he whispered. “You’ll get all of us killed.”
“Don’t come, if you’d rather not,” Bowie said with no ill will. “She’s my responsibility anyway. All of them are.”
“How do they feel about it?” Davy asked.
Bowie had no need to answer. Every last African had stepped to the fence. The poles were held in place by loops of cord, which were quickly severed by the big knife Bowie had lent a curly-haired man with a thin bone through his nose.
Flavius was dismayed. “Poles against war clubs? You won’t stand a prayer.”
“That’s just it,” Bowie responded. “Didn’t you notice? Most of the warriors don’t have their clubs with them. Maybe it’s forbidden. So we do have a prayer.” He accepted his knife from the husky black. “This is N’tembo. He’s from the Congo. That woman about to have her heart cut out is his wife.”
N’tembo could not hide his misery.
James Bowie stared at the two Tennesseans. “So what will it be? Are you in or out?”
Davy felt Flavius’s eyes bore into him. His friend would do whatever he did. And he must make up his mind quickly. The chanting had grown louder. Anyone with half a brain would refuse, but as Davy’s oldest sister, Betsy, always liked to joke, when the brains in his family were passed out, he was off coon hunting. “Count us in.”