Davy Crockett tensed, then slid his hand down his side to the tomahawk. He had to dispatch the warrior quietly and pray none of the others were light sleepers. Grasping the handle, he prepared to rise onto his knees. Countless hours spent in practice made him confident he could throw the weapon with extreme accuracy and bury it in the man’s chest.
Flavius was ready to bolt at the first outcry. Outnumbered as they were, they would be swiftly overwhelmed. And since they could be of no help to Heather and Becky dead, he would rather flee so they could try again another day.
The warrior stopped, his eyebrows knit. Davy realized that the man was gazing past them. Whatever had drawn his interest was out on the prairie. Could it be the sorrel? Davy wondered. Although hobbled, the animal could move about a little. Had it drifted toward the camp, close enough to be observed? Davy could not turn to see, because the movement might give him away.
Clearly perplexed, the warrior took a few more steps. He slowly relaxed and removed his hand from his knife. Quirking his mouth upward, he turned around and took his seat by the fire. Whatever he had seen was either gone or had been a figment of his imagination.
Davy did not replace the tomahawk. He might need it before the night was done. Staying where he was, he bided his time, exercising the patience of a panther.
The sentry let the fire burn low but not out. Arms folded, the man tried his best to stay awake. Every so often his eyes would close, his chin would dip. Whenever it did, he jerked his chin up again and shook himself. This happened a dozen times or more. Then he dozed off again and did not awaken.
Davy waited another five minutes for safety’s sake. Shifting toward Flavius, he whispered, “You get the horses. I’ll see to Heather and Becky.”
Flavius would rather it was the other way around. Horses had a nasty habit of nickering at the wrong moment. But Davy angled to the left and was gone, crawling silently, before Flavius could say anything.
Snaking to the right, Flavius gave a wide berth to the pale glow that bathed the grass. When the horses were between him and the sleepers, he rose into a crouch. Most of the animals were also asleep. A bay had its head up and was peering to the south. Possibly, it had heard Davy—which amused Flavius. Usually, he was the one who made too much noise. Slinking toward the west end of the string, he congratulated himself on outdoing his friend.
The bay tried to turn toward him. Flavius heard it sniff loudly a few times. He had forgotten about the wind, which was blowing his scent right to them. Afraid the bay would whinny, he froze. The bay gave its mane a toss, bobbed its head, and pawed the ground. Flavius did not like that one bit. The darned critter would agitate the whole blamed string. Sucking in a breath, he marshaled his courage and boldly rose. Advancing slowly so as not to scare it, he whispered, “No need to be afraid, feller. I’m as peaceable as they come.”
The bay was not so sure. Just as horses owned by whites grew accustomed to the scent of their owners and became agitated when they caught the scent of Indians, so these animals were accustomed to the odor of Indians and regarded that of whites as they would the odor of a roving cougar or a bear. The bay tried to back away. Brought up short by the rope, it pawed the earth again.
Flavius stopped to avoid upsetting it further. One of the sleepers moved, draping an arm across his chest. Another mumbled. Flavius glimpsed Davy across the way, close to Heather and her daughter.
The Irishman had seen what the bay was doing, and halted. It would not take much to bring the warriors to their feet, brandishing their weapons. The sentry was sleeping soundly enough, but was bent so far forward that he might pitch over.
When neither of the woodsmen made any threatening moves, the bay calmed. Flavius felt safe in edging near enough to gently touch its muzzle. The horse sniffed his fingers, then his sleeve. Rubbing it, he sidled to the rope. None of the other animals showed the least interest in him.
Davy sank onto his stomach and made like an eel. Reaching Heather, he plucked at her dress. She did not react. Cautiously rising onto a knee, he pushed her arm. She smacked her lips and moved the arm but did not wake up. Taking a gamble, he clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her off Becky, urgently whispering in her ear, “Don’t cry out! It’s me, Davy!”
Heather had gone rigid and clawed at his hand, only to relent when he identified himself. She turned, whispered, “Thank God!” and pressed her face against his neck. He felt moisture dampen his skin. “I’ve been so afraid. I’m at my wit’s end.”
“Shhhhh,” Davy said. He was surprised that she had not been bound. Maybe the warriors figured she was not about to desert her ailing child. Peeling Heather off, he gave her the rifle, then scooped Becky up.
Across the camp, Flavius had untied four of the horses and was working on the fifth. The bay was one of those he had freed. Without any warning, the horse abruptly wheeled and pranced into the night—almost brushing the sentry. The man leaped erect, blinked in confusion on seeing the animal loose, and took a step after it.
Davy was backpedaling into the darkness, but he was not quite quick enough.
The warrior whirled, a hand flying to the quiver on his back. A harsh shout ripped from his throat as he nocked a shaft to the sinew string.
Davy was helpless, his hands full, unwilling to drop Becky in order to draw a pistol. The other men were heaving upright, many talking all at once. The sentry sighted down the arrow, centering the barbed tip squarely on Davy.
Heather shot him. Liz boomed, belching lead and smoke, the impact smashing the bowman backward.
Simultaneously, several events occurred. The remaining warriors turned toward Davy, Becky, and Heather, fury and blood lust contorting their features. Flavius realized his friend’s plight and did the only thing he could think of. He whooped and hollered and flapped his arms, sending the four horses into flight. They weaved among the warriors, creating confusion, causing several to leap aside, barreling one over.
Davy pivoted and fled. “Run!” he urged, racing flat out, listening for the buzz of feathered shafts and the swish of heavy lances. Heather kept pace, her dress swirling around her legs, her golden hair flying.
Flavius ran in the opposite direction. Thanks to the damn bay, everything had gone all to hell. A glance showed him that several of the warriors had gone after the horses, two were chasing Davy, and two were after him.
Terror lent wings to Flavius’s feet. Pumping his arms and legs, he ran as he had never run before. Yet that would not be enough. His portly build rendered him less fleet than most men, and he had no illusions about the outcome.
The warriors were lean shapes in the gloom. Arrows rattled in their quivers. In the lead was a tall man who had the grace and speed of an antelope.
They're going to catch me! Flavius thought, and bit his lip to stifle an outcry. Losing his head would cost him his life. He had a rifle, didn’t he? And a pair of loaded flintlocks? The savages would not take him without a struggle. He looked back to see if they had gained. The very next step, his right foot snagged on something and he was flung onto his face, thudding down so hard that his breath whooshed from his lungs.
It was a shallow rut, barely three feet wide and five feet long. Flavius placed his hands flat to push erect. Footsteps drummed, and he braced for the feel of iron fingers on his arms and neck. Instead, the tall warrior loped past a few yards to his left. Seconds later the other man hastened by on the right. They had not seen him fall!
Flavius watched as they dwindled in the darkness. When he could no longer see them, he rose and hurried to the southeast. One of the warriors was leading a pair of horses to the string, and the man who had been shot was being examined by another. Of Davy, Becky, and Heather there was no sign.
The sorrel was right where they had left it. Flavius removed the hobbles, stuffed them in the saddlebag, and climbed on. He would stay put until Davy showed. They had failed to obtain extra mounts, but they could get by. Provided they escaped.
To the northwest two warriors appeared, the tall one and the other. Somehow they had found him. Flavius lashed the reins and cut to the left as an arrow cleaved the space his head had just occupied. At a mad gallop he outdistanced them, speeding into the night until he was well out of bow range.
He aimed to go no more than a quarter of a mile, to stay relatively close to be of help to Davy. But when Flavius brought the sorrel to a stop and shifted in the saddle, the campfire had vanished. He rose in the stirrups and still could not see the flickering light. “I can’t have gone that far,” he declared. The only other explanation was that the Indians had extinguished it, which made sense if they believed they would be attacked again.
Where did that leave him? He had to find Davy, but he was averse to aimlessly roving the prairie. The last time he had gotten hopelessly lost, and might again. Or blunder onto some of the Indians.
Flavius dismounted. Wrapping the reins around his right wrist, he sat down. Once morning broke, he would hunt for his companions. Until then, he might as well make himself comfortable. Where are you, Davy? he thought. Did they get you?
~*~
The answer was no, but not from a lack of trying.
Three hundred yards southeast of the camp, Davy Crockett hunkered in a gulch. His lungs were raw, and pulsing blood hammered his temples. He had led the warriors on a merry chase, winding this way and that, flattening on occasion, rising when the coast seemed clear. Becky had not uttered a peep once. Nor had she awakened, which troubled him. At his side Heather was sprawled, a hand over her mouth to stifle her rasping gasps.
“Did we shake them?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“I don’t rightly know,” Davy confessed. Gently depositing Becky, he rose high enough to peek over the rim. The fire had gone out or been smothered. Quiet reigned, but he was not deceived. The war party would not give up easily. If he was in their moccasins, he’d regroup and commence a sweep at first light.
“How’s Rebecca?”
Davy felt the girl’s forehead. It was as hot as a red coal, and when he lightly shook her, she did not respond, A bad sign. Wrapping the blanket tightly around her shoulders, he nestled the child in his lap and leaned back against the gulch wall. “She needs food and rest.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Heather said testily. “She needs a hell of a lot more than that.” Wringing her hands, she tilted her pale face to the sky. “What am I to do? Please don’t let her die. She’s my pride and joy.”
“We’ll do all we can.”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was—”
A scuffling noise stilled her tongue. Davy carefully passed Becky to Heather, then slowly uncoiled, drawing a pistol. There had not been time to reload Liz. In the murk to the north something moved. A man, an animal, he could not say. It was soon gone. Earlier, he had heard a horse galloping to the southeast and took some small satisfaction in thinking that the warriors had lost at least one of their mounts.
Davy tucked the flintlock under his belt. He uncapped his powder horn, gripped Liz, and fed the proper amount of black powder into the barrel. Next he removed a ball from his ammo pouch. Wrapping a patch around the conical lead, he slid the ramrod from its housing, then tamped the ball down the barrel. As he finished, Heather started to softly weep. “Chin up,” he whispered. “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
“Spare me the platitudes,” she said bitterly. “I am sick and tired of always being told to look at the bright side. People like you don’t seem to realize that sometimes there is no bright side.”
“You sound as if you’ve lost faith.”
“I never had much to begin with. Losing my father at an early age was a valuable lesson. It taught me that all the wishes in the world don’t amount to an ounce of dog droppings.” Heather bit her lower lip. “Then I met the man I married. He was so decent, so kind, so understanding. He treated me like a princess, he worked his fingers to the bone to provide for our family. His death nearly destroyed me. I would have slit my wrists if not for Becky.” She choked off.
“No need to go on.”
“Isn’t there?” Heather snapped. “Or don’t you want to hear the brutal truth? Oh, sure, I met Jonathan Hamlin and fell in love all over again. But look at what happened to him! And now my darling daughter!” She placed a hand on Becky. “I swear to you, Davy Crockett, by all that’s holy. If she doesn’t pull through, I will refuse to live another day.”
“That’s foolishness,” Davy said. “Life is too precious to be squandered.”
“Tell that to my husband. Tell that to Jonathan Hamlin.” Heather’s voice began to rise. “Tell it to Becky!”
Davy thrust a hand over her mouth. “Please,” he said. Heather swatted it aside. Livid, she clenched her fists and continued in a low growl. “Life isn’t a storybook, damn you. Our lives don’t always have happy endings. Bad things happen to good people all the time. And it’s not fair.”
“I know,” Davy agreed, thinking of his grandparents and his first wife. “We just have to take each day as it comes. Hardships make us stronger, if we let them.”
“More corny sayings,” Heather spat. “Words, words, words. What good do they do? Do they stop us from suffering? Will they spare Becky from being a cripple her whole life through? Words don’t deliver us from evil. They numb us to it.”
Davy hesitated. It was hardly the right time or place to debate her outlook on life. Yet his intuition told him that she was close to the breaking point, that what she needed more than anything else was sincere encouragement. “Look, I don’t claim to have all the answers. I’m a backwoodsman, not a minister. You could count on two hands the number of times that I’ve set foot in a church.”
Heather glumly stroked Becky’s hair.
“I lost my first wife, so I know what you’ve been through. Losing a loved one has to be the worst experience ever. It tears us up inside, twists our innards until we want to scream. We think about giving up, about throwing ourselves off a cliff, or stepping in front of a speeding wagon.”
Her interest was piqued. “Why didn’t you?”
“I owed it to my children, and to myself. Life is precious. My ma used to teach us that we should always make the best of it. ‘Don’t squander your gift,’ she’d say when we were sulking about one thing or another.” Davy paused. “It’s like being thrown from a horse. Some folks never ride again. But those who want to make the most of what life has to offer get right back up and climb in the saddle.”
It was a while before Heather replied. Out of the blue, she commented, “Both your wives were lucky women.”
“How’s that?” Davy thought they had been talking about Heather’s relationships, not his own.
“Men like you are rare, Mr. Crockett. You have courage, wit, compassion, qualities every woman wants in her man but doesn’t always find. My first husband was wonderful, but he lacked backbone. He wouldn’t stand up to my stepfather until it was too late. As for Jonathan, he loved me dearly, and I him, but as you saw for yourself, he wasn’t the most competent person who ever lived.”
Davy did not see what any of this had to do with what they had discussed.
“Most women would never admit as much, but we draw strength from our men, just as men draw strength from us, I suspect. Think of us as plants that need water to thrive. We get that water, get our strength, from our loved ones. And when one of us loses the other, we wither, like a flower dying on a vine.” She sighed. “Does anything I’ve just said make sense?”
“I think I understand,” Davy said.
Heather gazed at the myriad of stars. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t have all the answers. I’ve always believed the Good Lord put us here for a purpose, but for the life of me, I have no idea what that purpose is. I thought I did, once. But the older I get, the more confused I become.”
Davy squeezed her hand, and she responded by quickly bending and kissing the back of his. “What was that for?”
“For being here when I needed someone. For being a friend.” Heather rested her head against the gulch wall and shut her eyes. “I’m so tired. Please forgive me.”
“Get some rest,” Davy told her. Rising, he scoured the plain for hostiles. And Flavius. In the confusion earlier, he had not seen where his friend got to. Since he had not heard any shots or screams, he reasoned that Flavius had eluded the warriors and was lying low somewhere. He regretted being separated again, but it could not be helped.
What he regretted even more was Heather being forced to kill that sentry. The war party would not leave the area until they avenged the loss. Come sunrise, the warriors would fan out, hunting.
But his immediate concern was Becky. Unless something was done, the girl might die. He seemed to recollect seeing a water skin in the Indian camp. It was a shame he had not thought to grab it at the outset.
Davy glanced at the mother and child. They slumbered soundly, the one so sick that she would not notice if a gun went off next to her ear, the other so exhausted that she slept the sleep of the dead. The starlight accented their pale skin, rendering them angelic in repose.
They needed a horse. Specifically, the sorrel. Without it, the likelihood of eluding the war party was mighty slim. Doubling over, Davy tenderly touched Becky’s chin, then Heather’s head. They should be safe enough while he was away, but he leaned Liz within easy reach of Heather, just in case.
Rotating, Davy stealthily scaled the gulch, crept into the grass, and bore to the east. The darkness did not dampen his homing instincts. He knew exactly where the sorrel was, and he estimated that it would take no more than twenty minutes to get there and back.
Wolves howled in the distance. A pack was on the prowl, but wolves rarely posed a threat to humans. When rabid, yes, and sometimes when they had not eaten for quite a while. Otherwise, they gave everything on two legs a wide berth.
Davy slowed when he heard rustling to his left. Leveling a pistol, he trained it on a patch of grass. The stems were waving from side to side, as they would if a warrior were crawling through them. A head appeared, with two of the longest ears on any creature this side of the Hereafter. A jackrabbit was foraging for succulent sweet shoots. It took a number of short hops, then nibbled a bit, its nose twitching. Davy did not budge. He took it for granted that the thing would catch wind of him and skedaddle, but it came steadily closer.
Davy thought of Becky. Switching the pistol to his left hand, he inched his right to the tomahawk. The jackrabbit did not notice. Blithely, it hopped nearer.
Like a predator about to pounce, Davy did not take his eyes off its short furry neck. A patch of grass at arm’s length lured the unsuspecting creature over. He saw its stubby front paws, saw its large front teeth gnaw at the grass. And in a blur of motion, Davy arced the tomahawk up and around. The keen edge sheared into yielding flesh behind those big ears.
Leaving the head, Davy held the creature by the hind end and hastened on. When he came to where the sorrel had been hobbled, he slowly stood. He took it for granted that the animal had drifted, but it could not go far.
So where was it?
Davy turned from side to side. He was loath to accept that the horse was gone, yet he could not deny the obvious. The logical notion was that the war party had found it. Once again Providence had dashed a fleeting hope. Now he was stuck afoot with the two females to protect, an unappealing proposition if ever there was one.
The Irishman faced the west. He knew where other horses were, horses that were heavily guarded, horses no one in his right mind would contemplate going after, but horses for the taking if someone was clever enough. When a man found himself between a rock and a hard place, he had to choose the lesser of two evils.
Loosening his belt, he shoved the rabbit partially under it, then drew the buckle snug. He would need both hands free.
The wind picked up again, as it did every night, but this time Davy did not mind. Any movement of the grass would be blamed on it. Pulling his coonskin cap lower, he headed for the Indian camp. The horses had been tethered on the north side, but by now they were probably in the middle, surrounded by the warriors. Slipping in and snatching one would be difficult.
Every ten strides he stopped to reconnoiter. Seven or eight horses, no matter how well restrained, inevitably made noise. A nicker, the stomp of a hoof, the swish of a tail, something was bound to give their presence away.
Davy guessed that he was within forty feet of where the camp had been when he smelled a lingering whiff of smoke. For the longest while he lay rock-still, listening. Frowning, he finally rose and walked to where smoldering embers sparked red. So much for getting his hands on a horse. The Indians had gone. Pivoting, he surveyed the darkling expanse.
Where to?
A possibility dawned on him, a horrible possibility that set him racing southward as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels. In his mind echoed the names of those who might pay for his stupidity with their lives.
Heather and Becky!
~*~
Flavius Harris dreamed again.
Matilda had just plowed the south forty and was fixing supper. At his bidding, she came out onto the porch to massage his sore shoulders. He had spent the whole day in his rocking chair, and was stiff from lack of exercise.
Life was grand. Matilda had been waiting on him hand and foot since he returned. Why, she even scrubbed his back when he risked his health by taking a bath.
“I’ve missed you so much, my dearest beloved.”
Flavius grinned, then saw her cat approaching. Times past, she’d doted on that calico critter as if it were a long-lost child. She even preferred it to him in bed. Claimed that it kept her warmer. Now his grin widened and he drew back his left foot. “I’ve been meaning to do this for years.”
“Do what, handsome?”
“Take a gander.” Flavius shoved the feline clear off the porch. It landed on all fours, as cats are wont to do, arched its spine, and hissed at him like a den full of riled snakes. “I should shoot that ornery cuss,” he observed, “and hang its mangy hide over the fireplace.”
“Whatever you want, my darling, wonderful man.”
Flavius bent forward a few more inches. “You’re missing a spot. To the left and down a bit.” She dutifully traced a nail to the spot and kneaded his skin. “Ahhhh. That’s it. If’n I’d known you were so good at this, I’d have had you do it long ago.”
Matilda just tittered gaily.
Flavius laughed when she pinched him. He did not laugh when she pinched him again, twice as hard. Nor did he find it humorous when she grabbed him by the hair and tugged. “What the hell?”
Belatedly, Flavius realized that the pain he was feeling was not part of his dream. It had drawn him out of his fantasy, into the world of the living. Once more someone pinched him, so hard that he flinched. And the pressure on his hair grew greater.
“Damn it all!”
Befuddled, drowsy, Flavius opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
He was surrounded by painted warriors.