Blood Rage (A Davy Crockett Western Book 5) Page 6

  The hiss of burning grass, the crunch of the grazing oxen, the distant yip of a coyote, these were the sounds that greeted the falling twilight. Flavius climbed down to sit near the fire, where it was warmer.

  Davy took Liz and walked off, mentioning, “I’ll try and rustle something up for supper.”

  “A bull buffalo would be nice,” Flavius quipped. “And another critter for the rest of you.”

  The patter of feet brought Davy around. “What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

  “Going with you,” Becky said brightly. “My mom gave permission.”

  Heather was framed at the back of the wagon. Smiling, she waved.

  Davy hesitated. Finding game would be difficult enough. The girl would make too much noise.

  “Please, Mr. Crockett,” Becky said, “I’m sick and tired of being stuck in that stuffy old wagon.” She grasped his left hand. “I promise I’ll behave myself. I just want to get some exercise, is all.”

  Against his better judgment, Davy nodded and resumed walking. She fell into step beside him, taking two strides for each one of his, her limp not overly apparent. “If you get tired, you’re to tell me,” Davy said.

  “Pshaw. I can probably walk you into the ground. My dad used to say that I’m a bundle of energy.”

  “Do tell.” Davy grinned. They were hunting, and by rights they should keep quiet. But here was a golden opportunity to learn more, and he could not let it pass. “So tell me. How do you feel about going to Oregon?”

  “If it makes my mom happy, I’ll be happy.”

  “What about you?”

  Becky tore the top of a blade of grass off and stuck the end into her mouth. “I’ll miss my friends. Katherine, most of all. She sat next to me at school.”

  “Will you miss your grandfather?”

  “Grandpa Dugan?” Becky’s features clouded. “No, I won’t miss him one teeny bit. He was nice once but now he’s mean all the time. He’s trying to hurt my mom.”

  “Just because she likes Jon?”

  Becky chewed on the grass a while. “I shouldn’t say this. Mom would be upset. Grandpa Dugan didn’t like my dad much, either. I heard them yelling one night. It was terrible.”

  Davy felt guilty about coaxing the child into revealing family secrets, but he let her go on.

  “Grandpa Dugan told my mom that my dad wasn’t good enough for her. That she should have married the man Grandpa Dugan wanted her to marry.”

  “How did your mother take that?”

  “Oh, you should have heard her!” Becky squealed. “She used the kind of words I’m never allowed to say. She was screaming at Grandpa Dugan and he was hollering at her. I tried to sleep by pulling a pillow over my head, but it didn’t help.”

  “This was before your father passed on?”

  “Sure was. That very next day I saw my dad and Grandpa Dugan off by themselves. My dad was real angry and he pushed Grandpa a few times. I got out of there before they saw me.”

  Davy had a lot of questions, but they had to wait. A rabbit bounded across their path and was gone with a flash of bobbing tail. Davy brought Liz to bear a shade too slow. The rabbit blended into the grass on their left. “Get him!” Becky urged.

  Davy started to run in pursuit, then realized the blunder he was committing and stopped and waited for the girl to catch up. Snatching her hand, he hastened in the direction the rabbit had gone.

  Becky was aglow with excitement. She mimicked his every movement, stopping when he did. She was so sweet and lively and dutiful that it reminded him of his own children, and an intense hankering to see them again came over him. He had not been so deeply homesick in weeks.

  A burst of motion signaled the rabbit’s flight. Davy tried to fix a bead, but the animal was moving much too rapidly. He forged on, stopping every half dozen yards to crouch and peer into the grass. Becky imitated everything he did, making no more noise than he did. She was a gem.

  They covered several hundred feet without spotting the rabbit again. Davy had almost decided that it had eluded them when the grass to the right rustled. Crouching, he sighted down the barrel at an object low to the ground, twenty feet away. It moved. His finger curled on the trigger and he was a heartbeat from firing when the outline of the object resolved itself into something other than a rabbit.

  It was a human foot.

  Davy stiffened. Lowering the rifle, he wrapped an arm around Becky and jerked her down lower to the ground. Her cry of surprise was stifled by the hand he clamped over her mouth. Nodding at the foot, he whispered, “Be still.”

  To her credit, Becky did not panic. She saw it and tensed. Clamping her mouth shut, she nodded to show that she understood.

  Davy could see a pair of moccasins now, cut low, just above the ankle. The legs they were attached to were spindly. He began to back up when he distinguished another pair of legs to the left. Damn his stupidity! he fumed. He had been so amused by the girl and so caught up in the chase that he had blundered into a hunting party—or worse, a war party.

  The crucial question was: Which tribe? His knowledge of the prairie dwellers was slim. From the stories told back in Tennessee, the plains were crawling with hostiles hell-bent to wipe out every white who set foot in their territory—tribes like the Cheyenne, the Arapahos, and the Blackfeet. But he had no clear idea of where each tribe could be found. The prairie was one giant question mark.

  “Back off slowly,” Davy whispered into Becky’s ear.

  She molded herself to him as he retreated, her fingers digging into his leg.

  The Indian on the left moved on a parallel course. Davy tried to see more of the warrior but the thick grass hindered him. He could solve the mystery of the man’s identity by standing up, but that would expose him to an arrow or a lance.

  Davy would not have been quite so worried had he been alone. Given his druthers, he would prefer to talk his way out of trouble rather than resort to violence. It had worked with the Chippewas and the Lakotas. But he had the child to think of. Gambling with his life was one thing; under no circumstances would he risk hers.

  Suddenly the Indian on the right broke into motion, paralleling them also. Davy suspected that the pair were going to close in eventually, but the warriors kept their distance. After traveling the better part of a hundred yards, Davy drew up short. If he continued on, he would lead them right to the wagon.

  Slanting to the southwest, Davy deliberately made enough noise for the two warriors to hear. He tramped another half dozen heavy-footed steps, then hunkered, pulling Becky down beside him.

  The ploy worked. The two Indians continued on, and when they had gone twenty feet, Davy seized Becky’s wrist and bolted into the grass at a right angle to the warriors.

  Right away, yips broke out, reminiscent of hunting coyotes.

  Davy did not need to look to know that the two warriors had given chase. Becky was doing her utmost to keep up with him, but her shorter legs hampered her. In order to gain ground, Davy scooped the girl into his arms and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of this scrape, princess.”

  Plunging into the grass, Davy ran for all he was worth. Blades of grass slashed his neck and cheeks. Stems cut his hands, his wrists. Yet he did not slow down. Loud crashing was all the proof he needed that the warriors were after him. They had thrown caution to the wind.

  Davy poured on the speed, running as swiftly as possible while balancing Becky in his arms and holding onto Liz.

  He had to gauge the timing of his next move carefully. Too soon or too late heightened the prospect of being discovered. With an ear to the swish of grass in his wake, Davy took another four bounds, stopped on the head of a pin, and dropped flat. Instantly, he wriggled to the right approximately eight feet. Rolling onto his side, he placed a hand on the butt of a flintlock. Now all he could do was pray.

  In moments the grass crackled and shook. The warriors were flying to overtake him. He glimpsed a swarthy, skinny figure going past, but could make out few de
tails. As soon as the footsteps faded, he was on his feet and barreling southward.

  “You did it,” Becky said, elated. “You’re as sneaky as a fox, Mr. Crockett.”

  Davy was flattered. He did not see fit to mention that he had been much too sneaky when he was her age. Forever skipping school. Forever ducking out of chores. Always sneaking off to hunt when he should have been working. Of all the Crockett boys, he had been the naughtiest. The wonder of it was that his pa hadn’t disowned him.

  Neither Indian reappeared. In five minutes, Davy saw fit to lower Becky, who smoothed her dress, then massaged the scar on her leg.

  “That must have hurt something awful,” Davy commented while scanning the prairie.

  “Did it ever,” Becky said. “I got it when my dad died.”

  “You were with him?”

  Becky nodded. “It happened on one of Grandpa Dugan’s steamboats. My dad was helping to load some crates. A big net broke and they fell on top of him.” Sadness choked off her account.

  “There’s no need to go on.”

  “I don’t mind,” Becky responded. “There’s not much more to tell, anyway.” She pointed at her scar. “One of the crates tipped over and pinned me. My leg was broken. The doctor thought I’d never walk again, but I showed him.”

  “Your mother must be very proud of you.”

  “I’m more proud of her. She stood up to Grandpa Dugan when he wouldn’t let us go. And she didn’t marry that horrible Mr. Alcott.”

  “Who?”

  “Horace Alcott. He’s a good friend of Grandpa Dugan’s. Grandpa wanted my mother to marry him, but she wouldn’t give in.” Becky folded her arms across her chest. “A good thing, too. Mr. Alcott wasn’t very nice. He doesn’t like kids, so he was always shooing me off.”

  “What was your father’s first name?”

  “Tom. Thomas Fitzgerald. But Grandpa doesn’t like mom to use that name, so she goes by Dugan.”

  What a charmer, Davy thought. As they hurried on, he reconstructed the sequence of events, getting them straight in his head.

  Heather Dugan had married Tom Fitzgerald against her stepfather’s wishes. Alexander Dugan, for some unknown reason, had despised the man, yet had given Fitzgerald a job with one of his shipping lines. An accident later claimed Fitzgerald’s life.

  Next Dugan had the gall to try to coerce his stepdaughter into marrying Alcott, but somewhere along the line Heather had fallen in love anew, with Jonathan Hamlin. Now the pair were fleeing to the Oregon Country to escape her stepfather and start over with a clean slate.

  Davy had never met Alexander Dugan, but already he despised the man. What sort of father, stepfather or no, would seek to force a grieving widow to wed someone she did not care for? What sort of human being felt he had the God-given right to impose his will on everyone else, and damn the consequences?

  The plain and simple truth, as his ma used to say, was that some people were too big for their britches.

  Although the prairie was quiet, Davy stayed alert. The Indians might still be in the area. He was glad he had made the fire so small. It gave off so little smoke that he was confident the warriors would not spot it.

  “Look there, Mr. Crockett.”

  Becky’s finger stabbed forward. Davy was flabbergasted to behold a thin gray column spiraling skyward. Someone had added fuel to the fire!

  “Come on!” Grasping her hand, Davy flew. He got so carried away that he nearly yanked Becky off her feet. Chafing at her slow speed, he picked her up again.

  “What’s your hurry, Mr. Crockett?”

  “The Indians,” Davy said, and let it go at that.

  “We’d have heard shots or yells if the wagon was being attacked, wouldn’t we?”

  That was true. Davy slowed, pacing himself. He was getting worked up over nothing. Nevertheless, he was vastly relieved when he burst into the camp.

  The wagon sat undisturbed. The oxen and the horse were where they should be. Flames burned brightly in the darkening twilight, but Flavius was no longer by the fire. Figuring that his friend had climbed back inside, Davy called out softly, “We’re back.”

  Becky squealed.

  For around the front of the wagon had come six armed warriors.

  Chapter Six

  Davy Crockett stepped between Becky and the warriors and took aim at the foremost. Through his mind filtered images of Flavius and Heather being caught off guard, of knives sinking into their bodies, of them being dragged into the grass and hidden. He tucked Liz to his shoulder, thumbed back the hammer, and was applying his finger to the trigger when it dawned on him that the warriors were just standing there, staring. Not one made any effort to employ a weapon.

  Davy held off firing. Raising his head, he studied the Indians. They were not the most impressive bunch he had ever laid eyes on. Small in stature compared to the Lakotas, they were generally thin and wiry, plainly adorned in skimpy buckskin loincloths and low moccasins. Five of the six carried short bows and had small quivers strapped to their sides. The last man, the tallest, held a fine lance decorated with feathers and beads. Davy had a hunch that the lance had either been received in trade with another tribe, or been taken from an enemy in combat.

  The man with the lance advanced a few paces. Older than the others, he had a wrinkled, weathered face. Smiling, he held up his hand, palm out, and said something in low, guttural tones.

  Davy lowered Liz. The Indians appeared friendly enough, but what had happened to Flavius and Heather? As if in answer to his unspoken query, his partner stuck his head out the back of the wagon.

  “You’re back! Thank goodness!”

  Flavius Harris had been startled half out of his wits when the six warriors showed up. He had been hunkered beside the fire, warming his hurt side, when a feeling had come over him that he was being watched. Chalking it up to bad nerves, he had shifted and been dumbfounded to find the six Indians lined up just inside the circle of firelight.

  Since the warrior had made no hostile moves, neither did Flavius. Holding his rifle, he had backed to the wagon and climbed in to protect Heather and Hamlin.

  The Indians had filed around the wagon a few times, examining the tongue and the wheels and commenting among themselves, then moved to one side and just stood there, as if waiting.

  Now Flavius hopped to the ground, ignoring the pain that flared. “I don’t know what these fellers want,” he told Davy. “I don’t think they speak a lick of English. And I don’t savvy that finger talk, like you do.”

  Davy cradled Liz. During his stay with the Nadowessioux, he had learned enough of the peculiar sign language that seemed to be used by most tribes to get by. Moving toward the warrior with the lance, he signed, “Sunset, day, good.” There were no signs for hello or good evening that he knew of, so he did the best he could, adding, “We friends.”

  The warrior’s smile widened. “Friends,” he signed, and launched into a fluid flurry of hand gestures that was difficult for Davy to follow. The gist was that the Indians came in peace.

  Davy thanked him. “Question. You people called?” Again the warrior used sign, but it was a gesture new to Davy and he shook his head to signify as much. The Indian spoke aloud. “Kanza,” he said, and tapped his chest. “Kanza.”

  Davy had never heard of them. He was going to inquire where they were from when Heather showed herself, a pistol in hand.

  “I gather it’s safe for me to come down?”

  The warriors betrayed great surprise. Some started toward the wagon, but stopped at a word from their leader.

  Flavius was ready to shoot if any of them made a wrong move. He did not trust Indians as much as Davy did, and he didn’t see how Davy could, since Indians had butchered Davy’s grandfather, whom Davy had adored.

  Flavius figured that it had something to do with the time Davy had been out hunting and been stricken by the strange illness that afflicted him now and then. Indians had found him and taken him to a Quaker woman who had nursed him back to health. If n
ot for those Indians, Davy would surely have perished.

  “I had her keep low,” Flavius now mentioned. “They didn’t know she was in there.”

  Grasping Becky’s hand, Davy circled to the wagon, just to be safe. White women were a rarity on the plains, and he was unsure how the warriors would react. Some tribes, like the Comanche, were notorious for stealing women.

  The Kanza men talked excitedly but made no threatening moves. They were fascinated by Heather’s golden hair, pointing at it again and again and whispering excitedly. She was probably the first blond person they had ever encountered.

  “Stay in there a while yet,” Davy cautioned, planting himself next to the loading gate.

  “I need water for Jon,” Heather said. “He’s feverish.”

  “I’ll fetch it, Ma,” Becky volunteered.

  Davy held onto her. “No. Let Flavius.”

  The Indians had calmed down but Flavius did not turn his back to them as he sidled around the wagon to the water barrel. After filling the dipper, he brought it to Heather.

  Davy reckoned that these were the same warriors he had bumped into out on the prairie. Was their friendliness sincere or feigned? Some Indians were not above pretending to be peaceful, then turning savage when their white hosts least expected it.

  The older warrior came forward. He touched the tips of the first and second fingers of his right hand to his mouth, then elevated his right index finger, the back facing out, in front of his face. It was the sign for brother.

  Davy was inclined to believe him until the warrior abruptly lowered a hand to the knife at his waist. Davy tensed. The warrior slowly drew the knife, reversed his grip, and held it out to Davy, hilt first. The meaning was crystal clear.

  Davy touched the hilt but did not take the weapon. The warrior replaced it, content. “Question. You called?” Davy signed.

  “White Feather.”

  There followed an exchange of information. White Feather wanted to know what the wagon was. He thought it had been some sort of strange white lodge and was much amazed to learn that it could move. Davy learned that the Kanza tribe lived further west, near a river of that name. Occasionally, hunting parties roamed to the southeast as far as the Great Muddy River, as they called the Mississippi.