By the middle of the afternoon Flavius Harris wanted to scream. Every mile they covered without being able to turn east added to his irritation. Circumstance forced them to go farther and farther south, ever farther from where they had cached their canoes, ever farther from the river that was their link to St. Louis.
Never in his wildest dreams had Flavius imagined a fire could lay waste to so much land. Mile after mile lay black and blistered, smoke rising from sections that still smoldered. He began to fret that the fire had gone clear to Texas, that it would be a coon’s age before he set foot on his homestead again, that by then Matilda would have thrown all his belongings into the trash heap and taken herself a new man.
Then things got worse. During the previous night the blustery winds had sent the flames to the southwest. Now Davy and the others were compelled to swing almost due west to go around, adding to the delay.
Flavius fidgeted and fumed. He made up his mind that if Davy ever asked him to go traipsing off on another gallivant, he would shoot himself in the foot so he’d have a valid excuse to say no.
Along about three o’clock, Davy decided that enough was enough. He turned east. But as soon as the sorrel stepped onto the blackened shreds of grass, it acted up. Shying and nickering, it refused to go farther. Heather’s mount would not even come close to the burnt area.
Flavius was overjoyed to discover that his animal was not bothered in the least by the acrid stink or the tendrils of smoke and soft hissing. He could, if he was so inclined, go on alone and wait at the Mississippi for the others to catch up. But he could not bring himself to abandon them. Also, the notion of being alone in the midst of the wilderness downright petrified him.
They continued westward. After another hour, they were able to forge to the south again. Davy considered it just their dumb luck that the wind, which usually issued from the northwest, had been blowing out of the north-northeast when the wildfire broke out.
Twilight caught them in the open, with no water nearby. While Flavius tethered the horses, Davy gathered grass, took the flint and steel from his possibles bag, and soon had a small fire going. Small, because at night the glow from a campfire could be seen from far off and he did not care to advertise their presence to any unsociable Indians who might be in the general vicinity.
Davy hunted for game for more than an hour but came up empty-handed. The fire had killed or driven off every last creature. There were no rabbits, no snakes, nothing. A few pieces of pemmican sufficed for supper.
A quiet night ended in a cold dawn. A little coffee was left, which Davy rationed to make it last longer. Flavius was as grumpy as a bear just out of hibernation, while Heather complained about needing a bath.
Only little Becky did not grouse. She greeted each of them with a warm smile and kind words. They could take a lesson from her—and from all youngsters, Davy reflected as he assumed the lead. Children naturally took setbacks in stride, more so than adults, who were supposed to be more mature.
Toward the middle of the morning, Davy was lost in memory, recollecting the last time he had gone bear hunting with his prized hounds. Of all life’s pastimes, of all a man could do, he most enjoyed taking his rifle and coon dogs and heading into the hills or the deep cane after bruins. An uncle with a lick of education once called it his “abiding passion,” which was as good a way as any of describing how he felt.
Davy made no bones about it. First and foremost, he was a hunter. He always had been. Ever since he was knee-high to a calf, roaming the timber and swampland with a gun in hand thrilled him as nothing else could. Hunting was in his blood, in his bones.
It had gotten him into no end of trouble when he was a boy. All because he had the habit of treating himself to days off from school so he could hunt. His brothers had covered for him, telling the schoolmaster he was sickly. But one time he overplayed his hand.
It happened that an older boy had taken to picking on him, and pushing him, and doing what bullies generally do. So he had lain in wait for the culprit in a patch of bushes. When the bully came along, out Davy sprang to give him salt and vinegar. He had clawed the boy’s face all to a flitterjig, and won the day.
But since the boy was bound to tell the schoolmaster, who was partial to a hickory switch always propped in a corner of the schoolhouse, Davy elected not to go to school the next day. Or the next. Or the next. He had started to believe he could go on deceiving both his folks and the schoolmaster forever, when the latter played dirty—he wrote a letter to Davy’s father.
That did it. The wrath of the Almighty descended on the Crockett cabin. Incited by a few horns of liquor, Davy’s pa warned him that if Davy did not go to school the next day, there would be hell to pay.
Any boy with a lick of sense would have gone. Davy knew that. He knew what was best. Which made it harder to explain exactly why he went against the grain. For the very next morning, as promised, there stood his pa, righteous wrath incarnate. “Off you go,” his father commanded. And off Davy went—in the opposite direction.
His father snatched up a switch and gave chase. For more than a mile Davy held his own. Then he hid, and soon his father went huffing and puffing by, like a steam boiler about to burst.
Unwilling to go to school, and even more unwilling to be beaten, Davy took the only course he felt was open to him. He ran away from home, hiring on as a cattle drover on a drive to Virginia. For more than two years he made do as best he could, often with little more to his name than the clothes on his back and few coins in a poke. And all because he would rather hunt than learn his ABCs.
A snort by the sorrel brought Davy’s idle musing to an end. Glancing up, he saw an enormous basin to his left and moved to the rim. Below was the same buffalo herd that had nearly trampled him to death. Or so he assumed, since there had been no trace of any other.
They were all dead.
Apparently, the herd had stampeded into the north end of the basin, down a gradual incline, and come to a stop. Probably, at the time, they had been well in front of the fire. Being tired and hungry, they had milled about, grazing.
Down there they could not see the wall of flame creeping closer, ever closer. From the evidence, the wildfire had raged right up to the north rim, then along the east edge and around to the south. The grassy slope had given the hungry flames access to the basin floor. Trapped, the bison had sought a way out, but only to the west was the prairie untouched, and the west side of the basin was a sheer wall more than ten feet high.
At its base, the fire caught them. They had scrambled madly to get out, their hooves leaving deep gouge marks in the dirt wall. No doubt many had been crushed in the press of heavy bodies. The thick, lush grass, so sweet to their taste, was the instrument of their destruction. Dry as tinder, the whole bottom of the basin had ignited, roasting the bison alive.
Davy looked down on a jumbled mass of burnt carcasses. Skulls and rib cages littered the ground. A few of the great beasts had not been entirely consumed. Charred patches of hide and rotting meat clung to darkened skeletons. The reek of burnt flesh was overpowering. Covering his mouth and nose with a hand, Davy rode off.
No one said anything. Becky averted her eyes. Heather showed no emotion. Flavius, though, lingered, searching for a carcass worth eating. As famished as he was, he would settle for a lump of partially cooked flesh. But none of that incinerated mass appeared appetizing enough. It was either too burnt or too putrid.
As Flavius nudged his horse on, he gazed skyward to note the position of the sun and spied large birds circling overhead. Buzzards. Not many, but that would soon change. Vultures had an uncanny knack for knowing when a feast was handy. He toyed with the idea of shooting one for supper, but he did not lift his rifle. Buzzard meat was the most godawful any man ever ate.
The sun climbed to its zenith and commenced its descent. Flavius mopped his brow, commenting to no one in particular, “This will learn me to buck my wife.”
Becky faced him. She was riding behind her mother, her arms around Heather’s waist. “How’s that, Mr. Harris?” she politely asked.
“My missus warned me not to go on this trek,” Flavius informed her. “She boxed my ear, and told me the only reason I was going was to get out of work. There was this stump that needed pulling, and a field that needed plowing. And the chicken coop leaked something dreadful.”
“In other words,” Heather said, “your wife knows you well.”
Flavius nodded. “She was as right as rain, ma’am. I hankered for some time to myself. Figured a short gallivant couldn’t hurt none. So I packed my bag and cut out, Matilda giving me the evil eye from the doorway.”
“You must love her a lot.”
The statement so shocked Flavius that his mouth dropped open. No one had ever accused him of that before.
Heather grinned at him. “No need to act so surprised. You talk about her all the time, and no man would unless he was profoundly in love.”
“Love, is it?” Flavius countered. “I wish I’d known sooner. I wouldn’t have been so upset all those times she walloped me on the noggin with her frying pan.” He tapped a spot where she had hit him shortly before he left. “Maybe you have something there, though. If lumps are a sign of affection, then I’m up to my neck in romance.”
The mother grew somber. “Be thankful you have a woman who cares for you. Both of the men I loved are gone, and I doubt I’ll be smitten by Cupid a third time.”
“You never know” was Flavius’s philosophical reply. “A pretty woman like you is bound to attract more menfolk.”
“Oh, that’s never been a problem,” Heather conceded. “The trick is to attract the right kind of man. Drunks and women-beaters and the like, I can do without.” She sighed loudly. “I used to think that true love was as common as sand on a beach, but now I know different. It’s a treasure, as rare as precious gems, as pure as the finest gold. When a person finds it, they should hold on to it for all they are worth. Relish every moment of happiness, because we never know when fate will deprive us of it.”
Flavius opted to change the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask. With your stepfather gone, who takes over his business empire?”
“Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking. Alex had two sons who will likely fight for control. They’re both chips off the old block, mean and spiteful and money-hungry.” Heather stared eastward. “Frankly, I doubt my stepfather even mentioned me in his will.”
“So what will you do? Leave St. Louis?”
“I have relatives in Philadelphia. The City of Brotherly Love, it’s called. Sounds like a real nice place to raise a child. And at this point in my life, rearing Rebecca properly is more important than anything else. I want her to have a chance at the happiness that has eluded me.”
Becky patted her mother’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter where we live. Just so I’m with you.”
Davy Crockett had been listening with half an ear. Over a shoulder he remarked, “My grandma used to say that when life is treating us poorly, the best medicine is some tincture of time.”
“Time heals all wounds. Is that it?” Heather responded. “I’m sorry, Davy. But there are some hurts that never heal, not if we live an eternity.”
That put an end to their conversation for a while. Davy paralleled the burnt expanse, marveling at how the ground continued to give off smoke so long after the fire had gone by. It was well past noon when a stiff breeze from the southeast heralded the appearance of a slate-gray cloudbank.
A storm front was moving in. It accounted for the drastic shifts in wind over the past twenty-four hours. And it gave Davy cause to smile. “Look yonder,” he said, pointing. “That there’s our salvation.” The rain would extinguish the hot spots and render the burnt grassland safe.
Flavius whooped and swung his beaver hat in the air. “Hallelujah, and pass the gravy! This coon’s prayers have been answered! The next full moon, I’ll be sitting in my rocking chair guzzling a jug of old man Spencer’s corn whiskey.”
“My mother says that drinking is bad for you, Mr. Harris,” Becky mentioned.
“Maybe so, girl,” Flavius said. “But some bad habits are worth the price. Whiskey puts zest in a man’s veins.”
“And tangles his brain in knots,” Heather declared. “Hard liquor and shallow minds go hand in hand. My stepfather was a drinking man, and look at how he turned out.”
“Don’t blame the liquor,” Flavius said. “He was one of those self-made gents, and they tend to worship their creator. Why, they get so high on themselves, they walk on clouds for sport.”
Becky laughed merrily. “You sure have a colorful turn with words, Mr. Harris. I bet you’d make a dandy mayor or senator.”
“Not me, child. That’s my partner’s bailiwick. He can talk a coon out of a tree with that velvet tongue of his.”
Becky giggled. “Oh, he cannot!”
“Care to bet?” Flavius brought the dun up next to their mount. “Well, bend an ear. Once, about four years ago it was, Davy and me went coon hunting up to Franklyn County. Found us a likely spot and pitched camp. It was late evening when our hounds treed something and we went for a look-see. Bless me if they hadn’t cornered a coon on their own. It was a whopper, girl, as big as two ordinary coons put together.”
“Did you shoot it?”
“Weren’t no need.” Flavius lowered his voice as if confiding a secret. “You see, Davy walked up to that tree as pretty as you please and asked that coon to come on down without a fuss. Well, of course the coon declined. ‘Leave while you can,’ he said to us, ‘or I’ll jump down there and rip your innards out.’ ”
Becky’s eyes narrowed. “How old do you think I am? Raccoons can’t talk.”
Flavius recoiled as if he had been slapped. “Would I lie to you? No, they don’t talk like we do. But they have a language all their own, grunts and snarls and growls that any savvy woodsman can translate.” Warming to his topic, he resumed. “So there this uppity coon was, threatening to tear us and the hounds to pieces if we didn’t scat. Davy looked that varmint right in the eye and said, ‘Listen here, critter. I’m Davy Crockett, half-man, half-gator, the terror of the canebrake and the best hunter who ever donned buckskin. I wrestle whirlwinds for fun and drink lakes dry when I’m thirsty. I can shoot the wings off a fly at a hundred paces, and the ears off a jackrabbit at two hundred. So climb on down here and be done with this chatter.’ ”
The girl was hooked. “What did the raccoon do?”
“What else could it do? ‘You’re Crockett?’ it squealed, and proceeded to shed its skin right there on the spot. Threw it down to us, tail and all.” Flavius nodded at the Irishman. “Davy wears it as his hat.”
“You’re joshing,” Becky said, but she laughed nonetheless.
Heather cast a critical eye at Harris and commented, “If you tell tall tales like this when you’re sober, I shudder to think what you’re capable of after a few drinks.”
Davy was a dozen yards ahead, seeking a draw or gully in which to take shelter from the impending storm. The cloudbank was much closer, the wind had gained in strength, and the scent of moisture hung heavy.
A promising cleft to the southwest broadened into a dry wash. The walls were steep, but plenty of breaks wide enough for a horse permitted Davy to reach the bottom without difficulty.
Flavius and the others followed. The prospect of heading homeward had him in fine spirits, and he announced, “After we’re back in Tennessee, I think I’ll hold a social. Invite everyone to a dance and barbecue.”
“You?” Davy said. As long as he had known his friend, Flavius had shunned frolics and the like, branding them as excuses for the biddy hens to gossip and nothing more. The truth was that Matilda loved to dance, and Flavius didn’t. And Matilda always had her way. She would drag Flavius from the shadows and swirl him around until he was worn to a frazzle. Once, he had feigned a sprained ankle. But Matilda was too smart for him; she “accidentally” dropped a keg on his feet. Or tried to. Flavius jumped aside to save himself, and when Matilda accused him of shamming, he claimed a miraculous cure.
“Why not me?” Flavius rejoined. It would be so wonderful to be home, he could even put up with neighbors he disliked.
Becky had limped off up the wash, exploring the nooks and crannies. Davy saw, and hastened to catch up. “Better be careful,” he advised. “Rattlesnakes like to hide under flat rocks like these.” Nudging one for emphasis, he bent and turned it over. A small lizard scuttled between his legs, making him jump, and into a clump of brush. “Among other things,” he added dryly.
Becky tittered. “It looks as if you’re the one who should watch out,” she joked. Limping toward a bend, she paused to lift several more rocks. “I like wild animals. Back home I had a cat that was run over by a carriage, and a frog I caught in a pond. He was real cute. I named him George, after President Washington. Every morning I went out and gathered bugs for him to eat.” Her mouth curled down.
“Did you let him go when you left for the Oregon country?” Davy asked, guessing that was why she had become sad.
“No. George was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“By my grandfather. He never did like George, and always complained that George made too much racket.” Becky bit her lower lip. “George croaked a lot, especially at night. I covered the washtub with a blanket, but it was no use. My grandfather was still upset.” Pausing, she put her hand close to her chest, palm up, as if she were holding something. “One day I went to feed him and George was gone. Mother helped me search for most of the morning.”
“Did you find him?”
The girl absently nodded. “Stomped to a pulp in the flower garden. Someone took him from the washtub, carried him outside, and killed him.” Closing her hand, she shivered. “We never would have found him if not for my grandfather’s dog. It was Rufus who pulled George out of the flowers, just as if he knew where George was.”
Davy did not ask if she suspected anyone. There was no need. They both knew who was to blame. “How did your grandfather feel about cats?”
“Come to think of it, the same as he did about frogs.” Becky squared her slim shoulders. “But all that is water under the bridge, as my mother keeps telling me. When we get to Philadelphia, she promised I could have a puppy. I can hardly wait.”
Becky limped on, the Irishman unable to take his eyes off her crippled leg. Yet another legacy of Alexander Dugan’s bile, a burden the innocent child must bear for the rest of her life. Hatred, like tainted water, was a bitter poison that had an effect on everyone who came into contact with it.
Out of the blue, Becky said, “I don’t blame you for what you did, Mr. Crockett. My grandfather was a bad man. He deserved to be shot.”
Davy was jolted. He did not think she knew. Unbidden, a vivid remembrance washed over him. Of the Pawnee attack. Of the confusion and bloodshed. Of Alexander Dugan’s men being slain in pitched battle, but not Dugan. Unscathed, Dugan had climbed onto a white stallion to escape. There had been no one else to stop him, no one to prevent him from terrorizing Heather anew, of making her life’s—and Becky’s—miserable for all their born days.
As Davy’s grandpa and pa had been so fond of saying, “Always be sure you’re right, then go ahead.” So Davy had done what he thought was right. He had shot Dugan himself, and struggled to come to terms with his deed ever since. Killing game was one thing, killing people another, killing people in cold blood something else entirely. “I wish there had been some other way,” he said sincerely.
“So do I,” Becky said. “For all the bad my grandfather did, he did a lot of good, too. Most of the time he treated me kindly, and he was always giving me gifts. He also gave a lot of money to an orphanage.”
“He did what?” Davy said, blanching.
“Every January, on his birthday. He grew up in one, and it was his way of repaying the nuns who had helped raise him. Or that’s what he told me.”
Evidently the old axiom about there being some good in the worst of men was true. Davy slowed, torn by the revelation. He would not sleep well that night, and for however many more it took to come to terms with what he had done.
A sharp cry from Becky snapped Davy out of his funk. She had disappeared beyond the bend. He hurried forward, leveling the rifle in case she had stumbled on a rattler or something worse. But she was fine, standing beside a pile of old bones and holding an odd object in her hands.
“What is this, Mr. Crockett?”
It was a helmet, but one unlike any Davy had ever seen. Fashioned of burnished bronze, it had downturned brims that curved sharply upward at each end to form pointed peaks. A high metal comb crowned it from end to end. Beside the bones was a cuirass and a long spear or lance. Perplexed, Davy leaned Liz against the side of the wash and picked up the spear, then realized he had been mistaken. “Tarnation! It’s a pike. The Spaniards used them, ages ago.”
A little farther up the wash were more bones and more armor. Davy counted four skulls in all. One had a jagged rent where a bludgeon had caved in the bone. Another had a hole in it such as an arrow might make. A third lay atop a nearly intact skeleton, sternum of which had clearly been transfixed by a lance that shattered a pair of ribs when it exited the body.
“What were they doing here?” Becky wondered.
“Exploring, I reckon.” Davy had heard tales, as practically everyone had, of the early Spanish explorations in Florida and the regions north of Mexico. The Fountain of Youth. The Seven Cities of Gold. Stories every boy never tired of hearing. But for the life of him, he could not recollect what the soldiers had been called.
“They were Conquistadores,” Heather Dugan said, providing the answer. She was at the bend, with Flavius. Walking to the nearest pile, she leaned down to run a hand over the cuirass. “Perhaps advance scouts for Coronado.”
“Who?” Flavius asked. The armor astonished him, but the bones unsettled him more. He did not like being around death. Whether long dead or recently slain, corpses and bones and such sparked a queasy feeling deep in his gut.
“Francisco Vasquez de Coronado. Didn’t you study him in school? He wasted a good many years searching for cities of gold that don’t exist.” Heather moved the cuirass, revealing a rusted dagger. “I didn’t know he came this far north.”
A brisk blast of cold wind brought Davy’s head up. In the excitement of the moment he had forgotten about the approaching storm. Swirling clouds spanned the sky from horizon to horizon. The scent of rain was intoxicating. They had gone without much water for so long that he was eager to drink to his heart’s content. Even the horses would— A thought jarred him, and he spun. “Did you tether the horses?”
Flavius blinked. He had heard Becky’s cry and rushed to investigate, forgetting to tie the reins so the animals could not stray off.
Davy pivoted and jogged off. Losing their mounts would be a catastrophe. But he was not overly worried. No thunder had pealed, no lightning flashed. And rain had yet to fall. Then he heard a distinct crack almost at his feet, and, looking down, he saw what appeared to be a large white marble. Another smacked to earth seconds later. More fell, in twos and threes. Suddenly it was a deluge, a downpour of egg-size hail.
Around the bend a horse whinnied in fright and hooves clattered on stone.