Homecoming, page 13
Davy wedged the second pistol under his belt. He’d rather reload both, but more was at stake than his personal safety. Running around the wigwam to a point where he could see the two leaders, he raised his rifle and took a bead on Kiyo Kaga.
Just as Davy was about to stroke the trigger, an Ojibwa stepped into the line of fire. Davy shifted for a clearer shot, but the same thing happened again. And again. Each time he took aim, someone spoiled it. The only way he was going to bring Kiyo Kaga down was by throwing himself into the swirl of battle and getting close enough that he could not possibly miss.
Every second of delay added to the cost in lives. Davy barged into the middle of the frenzied conflict, driving the rifle’s butt against the temple of a Fox warrior who barred his path. Striking to either side, he angled toward his quarry.
Kiyo Kaga was fighting a thin Ojibwa armed with a broken lance. Repeatedly the Ojibwa spiked the point at Kiyo Kaga, who deftly deflected it with his war club. When the Ojibwa thrust too far, overextending himself, Kiyo Kaga took advantage. The war club caved in the crown of the man’s cranium as if it were so much paper.
Davy was twenty-five feet from the Fox chief. The sky had brightened to where he could see the sheen of sweat on Kiyo Kaga’s face as he sighted down the barrel. His thumb curled the hammer back. The front sight steadied and the rear sight aligned perfectly.
A fraction of a heartbeat before Davy applied pressure to the trigger, he was rammed into from behind. It was like being run over by a bull moose. He went flying in one direction and the rifle went flying in another.
Stunned, Davy sprawled onto his stomach. Around him swirled the struggling combatants. A foot brushed his head. Another tromped on his left wrist. Racked by pain, he pushed onto his hands and knees, shaking his head vigorously to clear it, uncertain of who or what had hit him.
Davy knew he had to regain his feet before an enterprising Fox warrior finished him off. Rising unsteadily, he was nearly overcome by dizziness. A groan escaped his lips as he fought to steady himself. Through the haze that enveloped him one sound rose above the bedlam. It was a high-pitched scream, torn from a woman’s throat, and it was his name that she was screaming.
Glancing up, Davy saw a bowman sighting down a shaft, squarely at his chest. Automatically, he reached for a pistol, then remembered that both were empty. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he tried to throw himself out of harm’s way. He was woefully slow.
Smirking, the Fox warrior let fly. The shaft zipped toward Davy like a dragonfly toward its prey, a blur against the background of brightening eastern sky.
It all happened so incredibly fast. Davy had no time to duck or throw up his arms or do anything other than die. Yet at the same second that the arrow would have transfixed his body, a figure threw itself in front of him. He glimpsed long hair, a buckskin dress. The shaft meant to claim his life thumped into the woman instead, jarring her off her feet and into his arms.
Fear eating at him like termites devouring wood, Davy sagged, bearing her gently to the ground. Her head rested in the crook of his elbow. It swayed toward him, and he saw her features clearly. Shock eclipsed the fear, and although his sense of self-preservation made him want to leap to his feet and seek cover before a Fox warrior pounced, he sat there, mesmerized, the same word echoing over and over in his mind. “Why? Why? Why?”
It was Wawaneechotinka’s mother, not the maiden. The arrow had skewered her heart, then ruptured out her back. A trace of a smile tweaked her mouth.
“Why?” Davy said aloud, at a loss to explain her selfless act. They had hardly known one another. What reason could she have had for throwing herself in front of him at the fatal instant? To keep her daughter from doing so?
Davy looked up. Wawaneechotinka was fifteen feet away, as dumbfounded as he, her bow slack at her side, her eyes moistening quickly.
South of them the battle was reaching its apex. Ojibwa and Fox warriors were locked in life-and-death struggles. By now every member of the Fox war party able to do so had reached the island. It was the crucial juncture that would decide whether the Ojibwas survived or perished, the moment that Davy had advised Keekweechiweepinank to wait for before committing the Ojibwas held in reserve. Leaping onto a log, Keekweechiweepinank screeched like a red hawk at the top of his lungs.
Wigwams disgorged more Ojibwas. Anxious to help their fellows, howling like ravenous wolves, they flew into the thick of the battle. In a span of less than a minute the advantage shifted to the Ojibwas, and did not shift back. Men fell on both sides, but now more Fox warriors were prone than Ojibwas. Slowly but inevitably the defenders ringed the raiders and forced them toward the lake. Though fighting continued, it was only a matter of time before the attackers were driven off.
Davy was worried about Flavius. Lowering Tokawonda, he started to rise. A gasp and a feral snarl was the only warning he had that at least one member of the Fox war party had not forgotten about Wawaneechotinka or him.
Kiyo Kaga had her by the throat. His war club was gone, but in its place he grasped a bloody knife. He snarled again as if daring Davy to do something so he would have an excuse to sink the cold steel into her bosom.
As still as a rock, Davy was helpless to prevent Kiyo Kaga from using Wawaneechotinka as a shield, just as he had the captive earlier. The bow was wrested from her grip and cast down. When she fought back, Kiyo Kaga nearly tore her hair out by the roots. Wawaneechotinka quieted, but she did not like it.
Davy’s rifle was gone. His pistols were empty. He still had his tomahawk and knife, both next to worthless unless he got a lot closer. He stalked them, alert for an opening.
Kiyo Kaga was in a hurry. He threaded through the fray with deceptive ease. Ojibwas who spotted him were stopped in their tracks by the sight of the knife scraping Wawaneechotinka’s skin. It did not take long for Kiyo Kaga to reach the canoes. Two other Fox warriors were in the act of pushing one out into the lake. At a word from him they boosted Wawaneechotinka into it, then all three climbed in.
If it was the last thing Davy ever did, he was not going to let Kiyo Kaga escape. Drawing his tomahawk, he darted into the mad whirlwind of battle-crazed enemies. Right away a lance nearly took out an eye. A swipe of his tomahawk drove the Fox warrior back. The man balanced for another try, but an Ojibwa piled into him first.
Kiyo Kaga was on his knees, Wawaneechotinka propped against him. The other two lifted paddles and began to swing the canoe around.
A cry that resembled the screech of a panther more than any human sound split the tumult like a cleaver splitting raw meat.
Keekweechiweepinank had seen his sister being spirited off. Heedless of his own safety, he sprinted toward the lake, shoving aside anyone and everyone who got in his way. Fellow Ojibwas tried to keep up with him, in vain.
Somehow Keekweechiweepinank reached the shore unhurt. He grabbed the end of a canoe and began to push it into the water. He never saw the blood-streaked Fox warrior who bounded toward him.
Davy did. He yelled, but he could not be heard above the clamor.
Keekweechiweepinank almost had the canoe in the water when the Fox behind him arced a knife at the center of his back. Suddenly the canoe lurched to a stop, snagged by rough ground. It threw the Ojibwa leader forward, and the blade intended for his heart cut into his side instead. Glancing off his ribs, it inflicted a severe wound but missed his vital organs.
Keekweechiweepinank tried to rise to face his foe. His hand slipped on the blood pumping from his wound.
The Fox warrior snaked the knife on high for another try. Five bows twanged. Five arrows thunked into the man, front and back. Bristling with shafts, he tottered, tripped over his own feet, and crashed to the bare earth.
Ojibwas surrounded their leader, helping him to stand. By then Davy was there. No one paid him any mind, so without a word he bent and pushed the canoe into the water. Vaulting into it, he scooped up a paddle and set out to save Wawaneechotinka.
“Wait, friend!” Keekweechiweepinank called. Supported by another, he weakly raised a hand.
Davy had no intention of stopping, and no time for jawing. He waved, then stroked briskly, cleanly, propelling the canoe across the lake toward the mouth of a stream. That was where Kiyo Kaga was headed.
A golden glow framed the eastern horizon. Blue sky had replaced the inky starry vault of night. In a short while the sun would rise, so as long as Davy kept the other canoe in sight, he would not lose them.
There was only one problem. Two men could paddle twice as fast as one. But the other canoe bore extra weight, so maybe Davy could hold his own if he paced himself and did not fall too far behind. Kiyo Kaga swept into the stream and was hidden by high reeds. Just as Davy came to the same spot, he glanced back at the village and saw Flavius and two Ojibwas climbing into a canoe.
The stream meandered in a winding course down the valley. At times Davy could see the Fox warriors. At other times his view of them was obstructed by reeds or either bank. He maintained a steady stroke, wary of taxing himself too greatly and faltering later on. Too much was at stake.
On both shores birds broke into their morning chorus. Deer drank along the stream’s edge. Now and again a fish would leap out of the water.
Davy was too engrossed in the chase to appreciate the verdant paradise. He had eyes only for the other canoe. Several times the Fox warriors looked over their shoulders, gauging how close he was. They were pacing themselves as well. They did not gain ground and he did not lose any.
Davy would have given anything to have his rifle along. Picking off the Fox warriors would have been as simple as breaking bottles. He negotiated a bend and saw their canoe sweep around another turn forty yards ahead. Arching his spine to relieve a cramp in his lower back, he diligently paddled on.
Around the next bend the stream temporarily narrowed. Across it a patriarch of the forest had fallen, an immense fir tree uprooted by one of nature’s temper tantrums. At its base it was as big around as his cabin, if not bigger. One end of the tree rested on each bank.
Davy started to slow, then saw that there was ample space underneath for him to pass. He veered toward a point where the limbs had broken off and ducked so he could slip through the gap unhindered. Its shadow fell across him. For several seconds he glided in a twilight realm, the bole of the forest giant a mere hand’s width above his head.
Bent down as he was, Davy could see that past the tree the stream turned yet again, this time to the north. The other canoe was nowhere in sight. He figured that it had already gone around the bend, and as he sailed out from under the fir, he raised his paddle to resume the pursuit.
Davy would never know what made him glance up. He did not hear anything. Nor did he detect movement above him. But glance up he did, to discover one of the Fox warriors perched on the stub of a thick limb, close to the trunk. In the warrior’s mouth was the hilt of a knife, which he grabbed as he pushed off from the tree and swooped toward Davy like a bronzed bird of prey.
Davy swung the paddle as the man alighted in the stern. It clipped the warrior on the shoulder, not hard enough to knock him out of the canoe but hard enough to cause the canoe to tilt violently. Both of them had to grip the side to keep from being dumped into the water.
The Fox recovered first and sprang, cold steel gleaming bright in the morning sunlight.
At a disadvantage because his back was to his foe, Davy twisted and lanced the paddle at the man’s chest. The warrior shifted to sidestep, but there was not enough room. The paddle caught him in the sternum. Before he could grab anything, he pitched overboard.
Davy stuck the paddle in the stream and commenced to pump his arms to get out of there. To his consternation, he saw the other canoe abruptly swing around the bend and zip toward him. Kiyo Kaga was coming back! The wily Fox leader had no intention of letting him get out of there alive.
Suddenly Davy’s canoe shook and swayed. The first warrior was attempting to clamber back in. Davy brought the paddle crashing down on one of the man’s hands—the hand holding the knife. Knuckles burst, bones cracked, and the blade disappeared in the stream.
Snarling viciously, the Fox warrior let go and treaded water. He glared spitefully, then lashed out with his right leg, kicking the canoe. It swung a few feet to one side. The man kicked it again, sneering broadly, as if what he was doing was unspeakably clever.
Davy thought it stupid. It accomplished nothing. He leaned over and went to straighten the canoe. That was when an outcry from Wawaneechotinka snapped his head up. In a twinkling he realized how wrong he was. The warrior had indeed been clever. For now his canoe was nearly broadside, and bearing down on it at top speed was Kiyo Kaga’s. He dipped the paddle in, managing a single stroke before impact.
The high-ended bow of Kiyo Kaga’s canoe rammed into the side of Davy’s, missing him by a few inches. It sheared clean through and out the other side. Birch bark splintered, chips of wood flying everywhere.
Immediately, Davy felt water spurt over his legs. He heaved to his feet. So did Kiyo Kaga and the other warrior. Kiyo Kaga had the knife, the second man a war club. Davy met them with his tomahawk in hand.
Since Ojibwa canoes were only a foot and a half wide, it was hard for a man to keep his balance. The warrior with the club found that out when he delivered a powerful blow that Davy evaded. Unable to check his swing, the warrior stumbled, exposing his head and neck.
Davy imbedded the tomahawk above the man’s right ear. He yanked on the handle to free it, but the steel was caught fast in the man’s skull. A sizzling stroke of Kiyo Kaga’s knife made him relinquish his grasp. It was either that or lose his hand.
Drawing his own knife, Davy crouched. His canoe was sinking swiftly. His sole hope lay in carrying the fight to the Fox chief, and with that in mind he leaped for the bow of the other canoe.
Kiyo Kaga was anticipating the move because he took a step when Davy was in midair, his blade arcing in an underhand thrust.
Davy was helpless to avoid it. He braced for the searing anguish that would burn through his chest into his heart. Only there was none.
At the last moment Wawaneechotinka threw herself at Kiyo Kaga’s legs. Slammed off balance, he flapped his arms like an ungainly bird, trying to recover.
Davy did not let him. He slashed once. Twice. Three times. The Fox leader’s shirt parted. So did his throat and abdomen. Futilely trying to hold back the deluge of scarlet and organs, Kiyo Kaga oozed over the side, barely causing a ripple on his way to the bottom.
Pivoting, Davy sought the first warrior, the man whose hand he had broken. Rustling reeds marked where the warrior had just vanished. Davy eased onto his knees, glad the nightmare was finally over.
“Red Cheeks!” Wawaneechotinka said tenderly, throwing herself into his arms and bursting into tears.
For the longest while the only sounds were her heavy sobs. Davy let her cry herself dry, his arm over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered several times. Once her warm lips brushed his and he responded, but only once.
~*~
They were huddled together when Flavius found them. Worried sick that his friend had been killed and he would have to find his way back to Tennessee by his lonesome, Flavius whooped for joy. “We did it!” he exclaimed. “Now we can head for home! Right, Davy?”
Davy Crockett absently nodded. But as he gazed out over the lush wilderness being bathed in the glow of the rising sun, he recollected being told about a tribe that lived to the west, a tribe that had piqued his curiosity. The Nadowessioux, some called them.
Maybe their gallivant was not quite over yet.
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