Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 4

  Heather mulled the plan, then nodded. “All right. So long as they don’t come to any more harm.”

  Flavius could not believe what he was hearing. The day had gone from bad to worse to rotten beyond words. Another week out on the prairie? Another week longer to reach St. Louis? Another week more before he saw Matilda? He made a silent vow that if he ever stepped foot in the sovereign State of Tennessee again, he was never, ever leaving.

  “Becky, bring that rope from up front,” Jonathan said to the girl, who promptly dashed forward.

  “Must you tie them?” Heather said.

  Hamlin clucked like a flustered hen. “You never cease to astound me. Do you want them to slit our throats in the middle of the night?”

  Davy did not resist when he was instructed to place his hands behind his back so his wrists could be securely bound. He was prodded at gunpoint into the wagon and bidden to lay on his side against the bed wall. Flavius was placed across from him but was allowed to sit up.

  Their weapons were collected and placed behind the driver’s seat, within quick reach of Hamlin, who sat and unwound the reins from the brake.

  Heather and Becky sat on blankets next to the gate, the girl hiding behind her mother and peeking out at Davy and Flavius now and then.

  For the longest while no one spoke. Hamlin goaded the oxen with yells and the crack of his whip. He was wasting his breath. The team could only go so fast. Trying to spur them on was as futile as trying to spur turtles into a sprint.

  Davy thought of home, of Elizabeth and their children, of the powerful hankering that had come over him months ago to explore parts unknown. He recalled his run-ins with the Chippewa, the Sioux, and the Thunderbird, and the many narrow scrapes he’d had.

  Sometimes it seemed as if his life consisted of one escapade after another. The time he ran away, the Creek War, the mysterious malady that kept afflicting him, that fateful stave enterprise where he nearly drowned—he’d survived more than his share. Sooner or later, fortune would stop favoring him. Unless he mended his ways, his prospects of living to a ripe old age, as the saying went, were mighty slim.

  Flavius was thinking of his cabin and his favorite chair. It always sat directly in front of the fireplace. How fond his memories were of the many evenings he had dozed in that chair after gorging on a venison supper! And what he wouldn’t give to be sitting in his chair right at that moment, the fire crackling merrily, Matilda sewing at the kitchen table as she liked to do, humming happily.

  Matilda. What a nag she could be. Yet she had her soft side as well. He would never have imagined he could miss her as much as he did. The first thing he would do when he got back was sweep her into his arms and give her a kiss the likes of which she would remember all her born days. She’d be shocked to her core. He chuckled in anticipation.

  “What’s so funny, mister?”

  Flavius looked at the girl, who reminded him of a fawn ready to bolt if he so much as said, Boo! “I was thinking of my wife,” he hedged.

  “What’s she like?” Becky asked.

  “Matilda? She’s a grizzly in a dress.”

  Becky laughed with the innocent abandon of those her age. “You’re awful! That’s not nice to say about the lady you married.”

  “Ask my pard if you don’t believe me,” Flavius said.

  The girl gazed at Davy from under her mother’s arm. “Is that the gospel, mister?”

  “Matilda is a feisty one,” Davy conceded. “But she’s a good woman. Just like your ma, I bet.” As a child, he had learned that feeding sweet corn to a calf won over not only the calf, but often the mother cow as well. The same might work here. “She strikes me as being decent and kind.”

  “Oh, she is,” Becky said brightly, and gave Heather a squeeze. “She’s the best mother any girl ever had.”

  Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Crockett, you wouldn’t be salting the chick to catch the hen by any chance, would you?”

  Davy laughed at her witty play on words. “To be perfectly honest, Mrs. Hamlin, the notion did occur to me.”

  “Dugan,” Heather said.

  “Ma’am?”

  “My last name is Dugan, not Hamlin.”

  “But I thought ... ” Davy said, nodding at the front of the wagon.

  “That we’re legally wed? I’m afraid not. My stepfather wouldn’t hear of it. And since he’s a man of great influence, there wasn’t a parson within two hundred miles who would do us justice.”

  Davy stared at the girl. Either Heather could read people’s minds, or his countenance betrayed his train of thought.

  “You’re wondering about Rebecca?” the mother said, stroking her daughter’s hair. “She’s mine by a previous marriage. My husband died about five years ago. A boating accident.”

  The sadness she radiated washed over Davy like spring rain. They shared a bond, then. They had each lost their first loves. Now they were each making new lives for themselves. Heather, however, was going to extremes. “If you don’t mind my prying, why are you traveling overland to the Oregon Country when you could book passage on a ship? It would be a heap safer.”

  Heather leaned against the gate. “Would that we could, Mr. Crockett. But my stepfather happens to own one of the largest shipping lines not only in St. Louis, but in the country. And he spread the word that under no circumstances was anyone to give Jon and me passage.”

  “He’s mean!” Becky said with stunning vehemence for one so young. “Mean, and evil as Satan!”

  “Rebecca!” Heather exclaimed.

  “It’s true!” the girl insisted. “He hit you, didn’t he? And he wants to hurt Jon, doesn’t he?”

  Davy was curious as could be about the particulars, but at that juncture the bay let out with a strident whinny that brought their conversation to an end. Heather twisted, took one look, and shot toward the front of the front of the wagon as if her dress were aflame.

  “Riders, Jon! Three of them.”

  Hamlin slid to the edge of the seat and craned his neck to see behind them. “Sure enough,” he said bitterly. Turning, he glared at Davy. “Friends of yours, Crockett?”

  Davy did not comment. What good would it do? Hamlin would not accept a word he said. Sitting, he spied the trio descending the eastern slope of the basin.

  “I told you,” Jonathan reproached Heather. “You should have let me rub out these lying vultures when I had the chance.” Hauling on the reins, he brought the wagon to a rattling halt, then ducked under the top. “Pray there aren’t more,” he gravely said while retrieving his rifle. Moving to the rear, he shooed Becky aside.

  “Come to me,” Heather said.

  Davy had to lean to the right to see past Hamlin. The riders were coming on at a trot. Rifles glinted in the sunlight. In the middle rode a bearish man with a bristling beard. He sat hunched forward and bounced with every stride his dun took, a trait of a poor horseman.

  Jonathan was reloading his rifle, his fingers flying. But he was as poor at it as the bearish man was at riding. Twice he nearly dropped the powder horn, and he spilled more black grains than he fed into the muzzle.

  “Hurry, Jon,” Becky urged fearfully.

  Hamlin rammed a patch and ball down the barrel with the ramrod. He was apprehensive, but trying not to show it. Replacing the ramrod, he cocked the rifle, then trained it on the trio. By then they were within a hundred yards of the wagon and had slowed to a walk.

  “Shoot them!” Becky said.

  “Hush!” Heather commanded, pulling the girl close and hunkering. “Stay down in case they open fire.”

  Davy saw the riders plainly now. None was dressed like a frontiersman. Coarse shirts and ordinary pants and boots were their attire. That, and small caps such as those Davy had seen worn by dockworkers on the wharves of Baltimore, back when he first ran away from home.

  “That’s far enough, Benchley!” Jonathan called out.

  All three men drew rein. The bear in the center leaned on his saddle horn and cocked his head. “You
really didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you, Hamlin? Give us the woman and the girl, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Chapter Four

  Davy Crockett did not hold Jonathan Hamlin in very high regard. Granted, the man was protecting the woman he loved, and her daughter. But that did not excuse some of the things Hamlin had done, and it certainly did not justify shooting Flavius. But Davy’s estimation of the man rose a few notches when Hamlin stiffened in indignation and roared his reply to Benchley’s demand. “Never!”

  The bear on horseback was unimpressed. “Don’t make us come over there and get them. Mr. Dugan said you weren’t to be harmed unless you raise a ruckus.”

  “Go back and tell your boss that the only way he’ll get his hands on them again is over my dead body!”

  Benchley said something to his two companions, both of whom nodded. “Be reasonable, Hamlin!” he bellowed. “I have no personal grudge against you. Why don’t you step on out here so we can talk this over, man to man?”

  Jonathan gnawed on his lower lip and glanced at Heather.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. “It’s a ruse to put you in their gun sights.”

  Davy had a hunch she was right. Benchley did not strike him as the type who preferred to settle disputes with words. Flying lead and fists were more his style. “Listen to her, Hamlin. All they want is a clear shot.”

  Jonathan looked at him. “What do you care? Are you trying to win my favor so I’ll release you?”

  Davy clammed up. Some people just did not have the sense of a fence post.

  Across the wagon, Flavius snickered. Would his friend never learn? Always trying to do the right thing had its drawbacks. Chief among them was that most of the human race didn’t give a damn about doing right, and made a laughingstock of those who did.

  Benchley’s deep voice rumbled across the plain. “I’m not a patient man, Hamlin. Either send them out or come out yourself, or we’ll start shooting.” He paused. “You wouldn’t want your sweetheart to catch a stray slug, would you?”

  “He’s bluffing!” Heather declared. “They won’t dare risk hitting me. My stepfather would have them boiled alive.”

  Hamlin wavered. “I don’t know ...” he said.

  Suddenly a shot rang out. A ball tore into the cloth cover above their heads and ripped out the far side. In pure reflex, Davy and everyone else ducked.

  “That ought to show you we’re serious!” Benchley shouted. “Now send them out.”

  Jonathan Hamlin rose, his cheeks scarlet with outrage. Leveling his rifle, he snapped off a shot. He should have aimed more carefully. Davy saw the cap on Benchley’s head go flying. Benchley immediately reined to the right along with another man, while the third river rat reined to the left.

  Hamlin began to reload and to talk, more to himself than to anyone else. “I knew it! I knew I should have shot Dugan before we ever left St. Louis. He has the money and influence to seek us out wherever we go. Killing him is the only way to settle this once and for all.”

  “Don’t say that, Jon,” Heather said. “There has to be a better way.”

  “Your stepfather got where he is by grinding anyone who opposed him under his boot heel. He thinks that he’s God Almighty. Either do as he says, or suffer the consequences.” Jonathan spilled black powder again. “Nothing would give him more pleasure than to spit on my grave.”

  “He’s not all bad,” Heather said. “I mean, he always treated me decently until my marriage. And even though he was against it, he gave Thomas a job on his steamboat line.”

  Hamlin stopped reloading to stare at her. “I can’t believe that you’re defending him! After all he’s done to separate us! After this!” He waved at the prairie.

  The riders were nowhere in sight, and the pounding hoofs had fallen silent. Davy figured that the trio had swung to either side of the wagon and dismounted. “They’re on our blind sides now. They can sneak in close and pick you off.”

  Jonathan was capping the powder horn. “You think I don’t know what they’re up to? You think I’m an idiot?”

  Flavius had to bite his tongue in order not to say what he thought. He was curled into a ball against the wall, in too much agony to lift a finger. The pain had reached a plateau and stopped growing worse. But any undue movement on his part might aggravate the wound again. He was content to lie there and let whatever happened happen.

  Again a rifle cracked on the prairie. This time the slug tore through the cloth cover about a foot above Davy’s head and exited the same height above Flavius.

  “That’s another warning!” Benchley yelled. “And it’s your last! Send Heather and the kid out, damn you!”

  “Maybe we should,” Jonathan said. “I couldn’t bear it if either of you were hurt.”

  Heather slid across the pile of possessions to Hamlin, hauling Becky after her. “Don’t listen to them, dearest. Please. We’re in this together.”

  Davy twisted and thrust his arms toward them. “Untie me and I’ll lend a hand.”

  Jonathan snorted. “Sure you will. With a ball in my back. No thanks.”

  “My word on it,” Davy pledged. “Give me my rifle and I’ll help you drive them off.”

  “Just shut up.”

  “Do it,” Heather said.

  Hamlin looked at her as if she were insane.

  “I mean it,” Heather pressed. “My intuition tells me that we can trust him.” When Jonathan did not respond right away, she gripped his arms and shook him. “For God’s sake, don’t you start being as pigheaded as Dugan! I know you’re worried about me. I know that you’re doing what you believe is right for my sake. But you can carry it too far.”

  “Amen,” Flavius threw in, but no one paid any attention to him.

  “Please!” Heather pleaded.

  Jonathan Hamlin was a study in acute misery. He studied Davy, then the beauteous features of the woman he adored. His soul was torn. He balked. And at that exact second, when their lives hung in the balance, two more shots boomed and two slugs smashed into the bed of the wagon, low down this time, so low that one of them punched through the wood and narrowly missed Davy’s leg.

  “See?” Heather said. “Benchley will keep that up until one of us is hit.”

  It was the decisive factor. Hamlin gave her the rifle, drew a pocket knife, and dashed to Davy. As he clasped Davy’s arms and poised the blade over the rope, he peered into Davy’s eyes. “I pray I’m not making the worst mistake of my life. I love her, mister. Love her so much it hurts.”

  “You won’t regret this,” Davy promised. The instant the loops parted, he hurried to the pile of weapons and rearmed himself.

  From outside another bellow. “We haven’t got all day, Hamlin.”

  “He’s closer,” Davy guessed. Edging to the seat, he placed an eye to the opening. Somewhere in that sea of grass the river rats were lying low. Sniffing them out would take some doing.

  Suddenly three shots cracked, two on the right, one on the left. Benchley and his cohorts had made the mistake of firing a concerted volley. They had all emptied their rifles at the same time.

  Davy was up and out of the wagon in the blink of an eye. Sliding over the seat, he lowered his legs to the tongue. The oxen were not the least bit agitated by the gunfire. Like the great dumb beasts they were, they peacefully grazed, oblivious to the turmoil engulfing the wagon.

  Hopping to the ground, Davy flattened and turned. On elbows and knees he crabbed under the bed to the front wheel on the right. A wall of grass met his gaze. He waited for one of the river rats to rise up and give him a target but the minutes dragged by and no one appeared. “Hamlin! You still alive?”

  Benchley’s shout came from grass not fifty feet from where Davy was crouched. But try as he might, he could not locate the cutthroat.

  “I’m here!” was Jonathan’s reply.

  “Are you ready to give in yet?”

  It was Heather who answered. “If you want us, Rufus, you’ll have to drag us out ki
cking and screaming.”

  “Awww, don’t make it so hard on yourself, girlie,” Benchley said. “I’ve never mistreated you, have I? Becky and you will be safe, I guarantee.”

  Through the planks that made up the floor of the bed wafted muted voices.

  “Mr. Benchley bought me sweets once, mommy. He isn’t so bad.”

  “Bad enough, Becky. Now shush.”

  “If only I could see them!” Jonathan complained.

  “Where do you suppose Mr. Crockett got to?” Heather asked.

  “He’s probably out there with his good friend, Benchley.”

  Flavius interjected a remark. “Mister, I’ve met some boneheaded jackasses in my day, but you beat them all hollow. My pard has more real grit in his little finger than you have in your whole blamed body. He’ll give those thugs what-for. Mark my words.”

  Another volley rang out. Lead smacked into the bed, lower than ever. One shot passed underneath it and whizzed past Davy’s shoulder. He had waited long enough. Throwing himself flat, he crawled toward the grass. Every foot of the way he prayed that the river rats were concentrating on the wagon to the exclusion of all else.

  No shouts were raised. No shots were directed at him. Davy gained the grass and bore to the southeast. He parted the stems with Liz, careful not to make them rustle.

  At the rear of the wagon, a rifle banged.

  Ahead of Davy, someone uttered a guttural laugh.

  “That quill pusher couldn’t hit the broad side of a stable with a cannon,” someone stated.

  “You’re forgetting he almost took my head off a while ago,” Benchley snapped. “So keep yours down, Sontag, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Davy had a fairly good idea of where the two men were. Benchley was to his left, perhaps thirty feet away. Sontag was straight ahead, and nearer. Davy angled to the right, going wide in order to approach Sontag from behind. A few more shots peppered the wagon, but no outcries followed them. Apparently, Flavius and the others were still unharmed.

  The grass on his left rustled. Davy hugged the earth as a husky form materialized, moving briskly toward the wagon. It had to be Sontag, and the man’s course would take him within a few steps of where Davy lay.