Homecoming, page 10
“Just a little further!” Davy urged, applying the reins again. He almost lost his rifle, which he had slipped under his left arm. Holding fast, he inched the horse closer and closer to their mutual salvation.
Davy smiled grimly. They were nearly there! Another few inches and they would be on their way.
The sorrel must have found purchase under the surface because it suddenly shot upward, taking the steep bank in a driving run. Caught off balance, Davy grabbed at its mane so he would not fall. As he did, his rifle slid loose. He had to let go of his mount to snatch it, and in doing so, he lost his perch on the saddle.
Davy flung the rifle from him in midair. He heard it clatter on the bank as he struck the mud. In the final instant, he had the presence of mind to straighten his spine and fling his arms and legs out from his side. It cushioned the impact. It also distributed his weight more evenly so that instead of being sucked under, he only sank a few inches.
Out of the corner of one eye Davy saw the sorrel scramble to safety. The horse nickered and shook itself, then looked down at him.
“Stay, boy!” Davy called, afraid it would come back in after him. In his position he could not get it out a second time. He lay perfectly still, the mud molding like glue to his buckskins and head but not pulling him under any further. It was a trick that worked in quicksand, so why not here?
The sorrel pranced and tossed its head. It did not like the situation, and twice it made as if to trot down the bank to his side.
“Stay!” Davy repeated. Twisting his neck, he judged that he was only six feet from the bank. But it might as well be a mile. His sole hope was to wriggle out of the mud an inch at a time, yet that would take hours, hours he did not have to spare.
Davy glanced at the bank again. There had to be a faster way. But what? Paddling like a dog would not be practical. The mud was too thick. Nor would sitting up and lunging. He would be up to his waist, or higher, in the blink of an eye.
Seconds ticked by, and all Davy could think of was the Fox war party on the march, drawing steadily closer to the unsuspecting Ojibwas. It would be his fault if they were slaughtered. He’d been given the opportunity to save them and he had botched it.
The thought seared him like a burning arrow.
If there was one thing his father had impressed on him, it was that the Crockett clan were not quitters. An Irishman never gave up. Ever.
Davy moved his shoulders and hips, imitating a snake. The mud rose higher but not high enough to engulf him. He moved toward the bank at a painstaking pace, so slow that it was unbearably aggravating. Gritting his teeth, wriggling harder, he had to abruptly stop when the mud crept up to his ears, some of it sliding under his chin.
Meanwhile the sorrel was shaking itself, throwing gobs of mud every which way. It danced in a circle, its tail hanging limp, a great brown lump.
Davy resumed wriggling, exerting more pressure on his hips than his shoulders. He made quicker headway, but he also sank faster. Mud tickled the holes in both of his ears.
Halting, Davy girded himself. It was all or nothing. Too much was at stake for him to delay any longer. He envisioned Elizabeth and the children, and prayed they would not hold it against him if he never returned. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He had long suspected that his wanderlust would be the end of him, and apparently it would.
Bunching both shoulders, Davy tensed his legs and turned his face to the bank. Five feet. That was all it was. He took a deep breath, thrust both legs down, then hurtled at the slope with his arms outstretched.
Chapter Ten
“I hate this, hate this, hate this.”
It was a litany, of sorts. Flavius had said it over and over again since Davy disappeared, and he was still saying it as Kiyo Kaga’s band wound down through the hills to the lowland country claimed by the Ojibwas.
Doing as Davy had instructed him, he shadowed the Fox warriors without letting them see him. That posed no problem so long as there was woodland in which to hide, but once Kiyo Kaga left the hills, trees were few and far between. The high grass, tall enough to screen the war party’s advance, would not conceal the dun.
Safely screened by maples, Flavius stared after the retreating line until the last warrior vanished. He allowed another couple of minutes before he nudged the dun into the open. Rising in the stirrups, he scanned the grass and did not see the Fox band. It was probably all right for him to go on, he figured.
“I hate this, hate this, hate this,” Flavius muttered yet again. He should have accepted Davy’s offer and taken the sorrel. So what if it had kicked up a fuss? At least horses were not notorious for carving folks up into tiny pieces, or scalping them, or throttling them with their own guts. All of which the Fox warriors might do if they got their hands on him.
Flavius was so nervous that when blades of grass quivered to his left, he whipped around and jerked up his rifle, prepared to go down fighting. He felt like a fool when a marsh wren zipped into the air.
“A dumb bird,” Flavius complained under his breath. Clucking the dun forward, he willed his body to relax. But it was useless. His body had a mind of its own. He was as tightly wound as a steel spring.
Davy had done it to him again, had gone and gotten him into a situation he despised. Sometimes it seemed as if every time he turned around, his friend was asking him to risk life and limb. First they just had to save those two women from the war party. Then they just had to warn the Chippewas about the raid. Now Flavius just had to do what he could to free the captured father and son.
It was too ridiculous for words.
As much as Flavius liked and admired Davy, there were times, such as now, when Flavius could not help but think that his friend was prone to getting carried away when it came to doing what was right.
Some might even say Davy was a mite fanatical in that regard.
Not that Flavius thought they were doing wrong.
Far from it. His conscience would never give him any rest if he did not do something to help Keekweechiweepinank’s people. Sure, they had mistreated him at first, but they had been quick to release him once the chief’s sister showed up, proving he was not an enemy.
No, what troubled Flavius was Davy’s passion for always doing right no matter what might happen to them. The personal cost never seemed to be important, in Davy’s eyes. His friend was much too willing to sacrifice the both of them, if that was what it took, to do what Davy saw as right. And that was wrong.
The rustle of grass snapped Flavius fully alert. He did not bring up the rifle this time. Just another dumb bird, he reflected, rising as high as he could to see over the tops of the grass. Hundreds of yards to the north the Fox band was crossing a stream.
Flavius was glad. He was awful thirsty, so when he reached the same spot, he dismounted, knelt, and dipped his hands into the cool water. As he raised a cupped palm to his lips, he sensed rather than heard a whisper of movement behind him. An animal, he told himself. Nevertheless, he casually placed a hand on a pistol and thumbed back the hammer. Pretending to bend for another drink, he spun.
Nothing was there. No wild creature of any kind. No Fox warriors. Just high grass standing ramrod straight.
Sheepishly, Flavius wedged the flintlock under his belt. He was behaving like a jackass. He had to get a grip on himself before he committed a blunder that might cost him his life.
The dun was drinking greedily. Swinging up, Flavius pulled hard on the reins and ventured across the stream. Tracks lined the opposite bank where the war party had emerged.
Flavius plodded into a gap they had made. He was in no great hurry. Davy had advised him to wait until the middle of the night to rescue the captives, and that was exactly what he aimed to do.
Sunset was a long time in coming. The countryside changed little, although streams, ponds, and small lakes became more numerous. It was of interest to Flavius that Kiyo Kaga’s band swung around to the west shortly before the sun dipped below the horizon. Evidently, come the dawn, the Fox war party would attack the Ojibwa village in a pincer pattern, half from the west and half from the east. He sure hoped that Davy had warned Keekweechiweepinank, or there would be a slaughter the likes of which no one had seen since the French and Indian wars.
In a woodland copse Flavius left the dun and went on afoot. Cautiously picking through the dense vegetation in the growing darkness, he searched for the Fox camp. Perspiration dotted his brow. His mouth was so dry that it hurt to swallow.
Inside his noggin a small voice shrieked at him to forget the Ojibwas, to get out of there while he could. Why throw his life away for a bunch of people who would not shed a tear on his behalf if he were to be slain? It was not as if they were kin or anything.
He was being an idiot, the voice insisted. He should jump on the dun and light a rag for Tennessee and not look back until he reached his cabin. Crockett be hanged. The man had no right asking him to—
A high-pitched yelp brought Flavius up short. It sounded just like a kid crying out, and it had come from the northwest. Hunched low, placing each foot down as quietly as he knew how, he stalked along until he reached a wide gully.
It was so dark by now, and the gully so well concealed, that Flavius nearly stumbled over the edge, which would have been a catastrophe since the band of warriors under Kiyo Kaga were strung out along the bottom, either seated or reclining, resting until the attack at dawn.
A low cough alerted Flavius just as he parted the grass along the rim. Flattening, he scanned the gully, and gulped. Another step and the war party would have spotted him.
No fire had been built, a precaution since the band was so close to the village. Near the mouth of the gully was Kiyo Kaga, along with a half-dozen strapping warriors and the captives. As Flavius looked on, Kiyo Kaga said something to the father, who refused to respond. As a result, Kiyo Kaga slapped the boy. Again the youngster cried out, and this time was seized by a Fox warrior who clamped a hand over his mouth.
Kiyo Kaga drew a long knife. Slowly placing its razor edge against the boy’s throat, he once more addressed the father.
The Ojibwa, proud and resolute until that moment, broke. Nodding at his son, he adopted a pleading tone.
Whatever was said pleased Kiyo Kaga, who shoved the boy to the ground, then cut the rope that bound the father.
A stick was placed in the Ojibwa’s hands. Hunkering down, the man ripped grass out by the roots, creating a circle of bare earth about the size of a large pumpkin. Next, he drew in the dirt, noting certain aspects for Kiyo Kaga’s benefit.
It had to be a map, Flavius guessed. Possibly the Ojibwa was telling about the submerged ridge that linked the island to the mainland. That was the secret chink in the tribe’s armor, the one major weakness the island had, a weakness that might spell their doom.
Armed with the valuable knowledge, the war party would be hard to stop. Kiyo Kaga would throw everything he had into crossing at that point. Bowmen would pin the Ojibwas down, enabling Kiyo Kaga’s warriors to reach the island. Fighting would then be man-to-man. As things stood, the Ojibwas would be heavily outnumbered. The outcome, Flavius thought, was a foregone conclusion.
But what would happen if Kiyo Kaga were to die ahead of time?
The tantalizing question tempted Flavius to put a ball into the Fox leader’s broad back. Only the certainty that his own life would be forfeit moments later deterred him. Slinking backward until it was safe for him to turn east, he crawled toward the gully mouth.
A turtle would have beaten him in a race.
Flavius was leaving nothing to chance. By carefully bending the stalks and then easing onto them before they could spring back, he soundlessly slid to the top of the eight-foot incline. Here he peeked out to verify the father and son were still there. They were, but the father was once again bound. The son leaned against him, bent by despair.
Kiyo Kaga and six warriors were conferring. Making final plans, Flavius assumed.
Drawing back from the rim, Flavius made himself comfortable. It was early yet. He had a long wait ahead of him. It was best to rest, but he was too overwrought to doze off. He contented himself with marking the progress of the stars and the constellations. Never had they moved so slowly. The Big Dipper took forever to make its nightly trek.
By a watch it would have been after two in the morning when Flavius inched to the edge. Most of the warriors appeared to be asleep. A man had been left to keep watch below, and another farther up the gully. Kiyo Kaga himself lay nearest the mouth, a blanket draped over his chest and shoulders.
The Ojibwa father and son were slumped against one another. Exhaustion had taken its toll. The father snored lightly, and the boy’s chest rose and fell in rhythmic proof that he was also sound asleep.
Flavius licked his lips. How in tarnation was he to whisk the pair away? If either of the two warriors on guard let out a yell, he would have fifty fierce savages breathing down his neck. Davy had asked the impossible. Going down there was guaranteed to get him killed.
The boy shifted and muttered in his sleep, then whined like a stricken puppy. Dry blood formed a dark stain at the corner of his mouth. Above his left eye was a welt the size of a goose egg.
Damn it all! Flavius reflected. Snaking down the incline headfirst, he relied on his elbows and knees to slow him when gravity tried to take over. At the bottom he crawled to the left, to the opening.
Not five feet away lay Kiyo Kaga.
Flavius wondered what motivated a man like that to do what he was doing. From what Keekweechiweepinank had told Davy, he gathered that the Fox chief wrongly blamed the Ojibwas for the deaths of two of his sons. Rumor had it that the young men had gone off hunting, never to return. Kiyo Kaga had led a party that found their butchered bodies close to the edge of disputed territory, and had leaped to the conclusion that the Ojibwas were to blame.
Keekweechiweepinank had sworn that that was not the case. He had consulted with the heads of other villages, and they’d been unanimous in their belief that Ojibwas had not been responsible. Any of a dozen other tribes might have been the culprits. But convincing Kiyo Kaga of his mistake was as likely as a man walking on the moon. In his grief-stricken lust for vengeance, Kiyo Kaga was hardly in a mood to listen to reason. Nothing short of the total extermination of the Ojibwas would satisfy him.
Flavius squelched an urge to shake violently as he moved closer. He could hear Kiyo Kaga’s breathing, could see the guard a few yards beyond. The man’s back was to him.
Almost at the chief’s elbow, Flavius partially rose. In his mind’s eye he saw himself stepping over Kiyo Kaga and bashing the sentry. A second after that he would haul the Ojibwas to their feet and propel them from the gully, shooting the Fox leader or anyone else who attempted to stop them. Once in the grass, he would cut the father and son free so they could run faster. Then all they had to do was get to the dun ahead of the war party, and head for the village.
Simple, right?
Flavius raised his leg to pass Kiyo Kaga. He did not notice the chief move, but suddenly the tip of a knife was gouging his inner thigh. A chill coursed through him. He turned to stone, dumbstruck as Kiyo Kaga straightened and snatched the rifle from his grasp. The knife rose to press against his belly, but did not bury itself in his flesh as he feared.
Kiyo Kaga’s hawkish eyes raked Flavius, confusion and disbelief competing for dominance. Flavius knew why. The Fox leader could not understand why a lone white man had appeared out of nowhere. Kiyo Kaga’s curiosity was the only reason Flavius had not been killed outright.
At a word from the chief, the guard sprang to his side. So did five warriors who had seemed to be asleep. Flavius was surrounded, stripped of his weapons, and shoved to the ground next to the Ojibwas, who woke up and gawked in astonishment at him. Instead of rescuing them, he was now in the same fix they were. He did not resist as his arms were wrenched behind him and his wrists tied.
Every last Fox was up now. Kiyo Kaga sent warriors out to probe the vicinity. Presently they came back, evidently to report that there was no sign of other white men. Kiyo Kaga stabbed a finger at Flavius and spoke, but all Flavius could do was shake his head.
Meanwhile, the night waned. It would not be long before the war party launched its attack.
Thanks to Davy Crockett, Flavius was caught smack dab in the middle—with no way out.
~*~
Hours earlier, the object of Flavius Harris’s irritation had thrown himself at the bank surrounding the muddy bog in which he was trapped. As soon as he straightened, his legs sank to the hips. His chest knifed through the mud, but only for a couple of feet. His outstretched hands were shy of firm ground when the bog commenced to suck him under.
“No!” Davy involuntarily called out, and tried again, throwing every iota of strength he had left into a last attempt. His fingers parted the slick quagmire, then the middle three fastened onto something that did not give way. Hanging by his fingernails, he fought the heavy pull. It felt as if his legs weighed a ton each, as if his feet were encased in cement. Heaving upward, he groped for the bank with his other hand. His joy when he found it knew no bounds.
The sorrel watched his antics and fidgeted, but it was content to stay put while he got out on his own.
Davy pulled and pulled, pausing to catch his breath when he grew winded. The only parts of him not sodden with mud were the upper half of his face and his coonskin cap.
Mud hanging onto him like a second skin, Davy heaved and tugged until he clambered out of the mire. For the longest while he was too weak to do more than lie there and thank his Maker for seeing him through alive.
Davy did not know how much time had been lost. Any amount was too much.
Digging his heels in, he flung himself upward. It was a worthy try, but the bank was too steep. Losing his footing, he crashed down and slid, nearly dumping himself into the mud again.
