The story of David Crockett

Preface

"Be sure you are right, then go ahead," was Davy Crockett's famous motto. Davy himself lived up to it to the best of his ability, although in those rough-and-ready pioneer days it was not always easy to discover what was "right." Crockett was born in East Tennessee, over a century ago, when the country was little more than a wilderness. His father was a tavern keeper, and the boy early came in contact with the roving characters who passed by. He was bound out to a cattle drover headed for Virginia, and as a boy of twelve made his way back home across hundreds of miles of wild country. He grew up as a crack shot and a fearless hunter, either of wild game or of Indians. He was elected to Congress, where he made a picturesque figure, but soon returned to the frontier, his natural habitat. Then he went down to Texas to help that State achieve its independence. The whole world is familiar with the story of the Alamo — ^how a handful of men braved the Mexican Army until the last defender was slain. One of the very last to fall was Davy Crockett — facing the enemy to the last.

PREFACE

No hero in fiction ever led a more colorful life — as the present writer shows. The story is replete with adventure from first to last, but is founded closely on fact.

Contents

Wan-

OHAPTEB

I. The Tavern Keeper's Son

II Davy Sees A New World

The morning brought a threat of rain, that overhung the woods with somber menace.

"Up, Davy lad, stir yourself!" cried the tavern keeper, prodding the sleeping boy with his foot none too gently. Davy was awake instantly, as much because that is the way a wilderness boy wakes all at once, as because his father's boot was brought into action. In the shed outside, the teamsters were already busy with their horses, and Davy lent a willing enough hand. As he buckled on the harness, he caught sight of his father in earnest talk with the drover of the night before, and scraps of the conversation came to his ears.

"There's a likely boy," the Dutchman Siler was saying. "I need a lively young fellow like that to keep that there wild herd of mine on the road."

"Where you aimin' to go?" inquired Davy's father.

"Rockbridge, Virginia," answered the

17/ drover. "I'm makin' a move from Knox County."

"Let's see," observed the tavern keeper, "that there Rockbridge is somewhere around the Natural Bridge, ain't it?"

"About three mile one side of it," replied Siler. "Four hundred mile, all told, from here."

"The lad's never been away from home," Davy's father remarked. "He don't know much about travelin' — on foot too."

Davy's heart gave a sudden sink, and a lump came into his throat. So they were planning to send him away!

But with the bowl of cornmeal mush and milk that constituted his breakfast, Davy's gloomy foreboding began to lighten. After all, he loved the forest, and he had never asked an>i;hing better than to roam all day, tracking the gray squirrel or the red fox. Nor had he failed to note the fine rifle that the drover had carried with him the night before. He knew he could not carry the rifle himself, for it was too heavy, but he knew how to shoot, and perhaps the old Dutchman would let him take a shot at a deer or a bear, if they met one. Davy had never shot anything bigger than a squirrel as yet, and that not more than a half dozen times, for it was no easy task for a small boy to handle a hunter's rifle, made from an iron bar weighing somewhere around fifteen pounds. The more he thought about it, the more convinced Davy became that he would get a chance to shoot big game on this very trip, and his spirits rose accordingly. By the time he was standing before the tavern door, waving a last good-bye to his mother and his sisters and brothers, his heart was swelling with self-importance and confidence. A great world was about to open before him, the world of adventure and travel, and he swung off down the road behind the stragghng cattle with his head held high, and his moccasined feet striding forward with the easy, rapid gait of the woodsman.

The drover left the boy strictly alone; he was not talkative and the pace which Davy set was not conducive to the art of conversation. Old Siler kept it up for a few miles, then he called a halt.

"Now there, young fellow," he panted at last, "just take it a bit easier, can't you? Lots of fine scenery around here. I kind of hate to miss it by going too fast."

After that the little procession moved more slowly, the cattle going at a steady trot, and kept up to th6 mark by Davy's liberal use of a stick. By and by his movements became entirely mechanical, he put several yards between himself and the drover, and gave himself over to enjoying the charm of the wilderness. He felt quite like an explorer.

"Hi, lad," called the drover, some time later, "I reckon we could do with a bite of food. Keep a lookout for a spring or a clear brook and we'll rest a bit."

It was not long before Davy's sharp hearing caught the tinkle of a stream, and he called the attention of the drover to it; whereupon the two made their way among the trees and underbrush and found a little rippling brook where they could drink long refreshing draughts. They sat down upon the bank of the stream, and the Dutchman took pieces of dried venison from his deerskin pouch, dividing it with Davy. It was not very appetizing food, but there was little time to be wasted in hunting for fresh game, preparing it and cooking it over a fire, so they had to make the best of what they had. As soon as the two travelers had taken the edge from their hunger, they set themselves to rounding up the cattle again, and resumed their steady march along the rough highway. Now a little drizzling rain began to fall, and as the afternoon wore on the wind rose, playing a melancholy air among the bare, shifting branches.

When they reached a small open space among the trees, the drover halted the procession. "I reckon we've found our night's lodging, Davy," he remarked. "I see a pile of rocks yonder that ought to give us a sort of shelter for the night."

They drove the cattle into the little natural yard formed by the ring of trees, and left them to their own devices. They could pick up enough sustenance from the half -dead grass, the drover knew, to keep up their endurance, and instinct would warn them to huddle together when darkness fell. The old man then sought shelter for the boy and himself, but the rocky hillside which formed one side of the open space was singularly barren of any overhanging ledge.

"111 get some brush and we'll have a fire," Davy said, confidently. But he was doomed to disappointment. The rain had been falling for several hours, and the leafless trees had been no protection to the ground-covering of brush and dead wood.

The dried venison served again for a meal, which was shared by the dogs, and then, weary beyond regard for the wet, Davy and his employer cast themselves upon the ground. Only the dogs, nesthng close, provided them with a little warmth. Davy's cheek was pressed against a rough, shaggy coat ; he could feel the dog breathing and it gave him a sense of security and comfort. He lay listening to the night sounds for a few minutes; then his walk of twenty miles took its toll, and he dropped fast asleep.

Day broke brilliantly, as it is apt to do when there is frost upon the air. At the first sign of dawn, the drover was up, and while he fumbled for the dried venison in his pouch he roused Davy, who was very weary still. A drink of cool water from a nearby spring, and several pieces of the dried meat, however, put him in fine fettle. He was one day nearer his journey's end, he reflected, and it was not raining.

Except for this fact, the day was very like the one preceding. Tramp, tramp, over endless hillocks and broken boughs in the road, through low marshland where the cattle trampled the mire until it was knee-deep by the time Davy and the drover had to cross, the little procession wound its way. ISTo wayfarers were passed along the road; only the red fox and the soft-eyed deer watched them go, startled in their hiding-places by the occasional bellow of one of the cattle, by the dogs' barking, or the shouts of old Siler and Davy, when one of the animals became contrary.

Toward night, the drover paused and went forward into a thicket that fringed the road at that point.

"Here, lad," he called to Davy, " 'pears like that's an abandoned cabin, don't it? Reckon we'll camp here for the night, boy. T 'ain't often we'll find a spot just like this, and last night wa'n't none too comfortable."

Together they urged the cattle over the tangled underbrush, and turned them loose in what had been the dooryard of the cabin.

Then they started to inspect their own domain. That took very httle time, for the cabin consisted of one small room, without furniture of any kind. There was, however, a fireplace at one end, and Davy's eyes twinkled in anticipation of the cozy warmth they would soon enjoy.

"A bite of fresh game would taste good to-night, wouldn't it?" observed the drover, looking at the empty hearth. "You just scuttle around a bit, Davy, and get the fire going, and I'll see what the woods can offer us in the way of supper."

Rifle in hand Siler departed, and Davy left alone went out for dry leaves and the other needfuls for a fire. Soon the drover came back bearing a wild turkey gobbler, and Davy eagerly searched for a forked stick, begging for the boon of being allowed to hold it over the fire.

It was a fine fat gobbler, and as it spluttered over the flames it gave out an aroma that nearly caused hungry Davy to seize it as it was, half cooked, and sink his teeth into its appetizing frame. It was not the first time that he had cooked his own food out in the woods.

"Looks like that gobbler's done to a turn,"

remarked the Dutchman, after what seemed an interminable time, and Davy drew it back, laying it upon a bed of fresh leaves which he had prepared nearby. With his long hunting knife, the drover proceeded to cut the bird into edible proportions, and Davy's teeth sank into the tender, juicy flesh with rapturous joy, the instant he had a piece in his hand. For several minutes there was silence in the cabin, while the two travelers gave themselves up to the full enjoyment of fine food after a tenmile tramp in the frosty air.

After that the days and the nights went by in much the same fashion. The drover's party managed to make fifteen or twenty miles a day, for the most part — days that were varied chiefly by the amount of food obtainable and by the state of the weather. Frequently there were streams to be forded, often the wind was sharp ; there were many dreary rains and the wilderness road was rough and often muddy. It was with relief, therefore, that Davy and old Siler drew up at last at a lonely cabin, after twenty-five days of trudging and struggle. They were made welcome by a man named Hartley, who was Siler's father-in-law.

and T)sivy was at first disposed to forget the future in the joy of being certain of food and rest.

"You're a good lad, Davy," Mr. Siler told him one day soon after they arrived. "I reckon I've treated you kind of square, haven't I, boy?"

Davy nodded an affirmative. The Dutchman had been kind to him from the very beginning, and he was not ungrateful.

"Well then," the old man pursued, "I reckon you've found as good a place as any between here and Knoxville. I suppose you'll be glad to be staying, now that you're here, and your father's expecting it, as you know. Here's something for your trouble."

Davy took the five dollars that the drover held out to him, but his heart was troubled. He had expected to go home again as soon as they reached Virginia, and now he was being asked to stay where he was. Moreover, his father seemed to have intended it, and Davy had been taught obedience, frequently by the aid of a hickory stick. He said nothing, therefore, about going home, but remained at the Hartley cabin, helping with the cattle and doing odd chores, of which there were plenty. But he did not grow accustomed to his absence from home; he missed the companionship of his brothers, and the rough-and-tumble life of the tavern. Five weeks passed in this way, and then suddenly luck came rumbling up the road, in the shape of three wagons loaded with merchandise, and driven by a man named Dunn and his two sons. David recognized Dunn, he had traveled past his father's tavern before this, and often stopped there for the night. Slipping away from the two boys with whom he had been playing along the road, he followed the wagons until a bend in the road hid them from the Hartley cabin. Then he hailed the elder Dunn.

"Goin' my way?" he called airily, appearing suddenly almost under the horses' feet. Dunn reined in sharply.

"Whoa there!" to the not-unwilling horses. Then, after a moment's scrutiny of the small boy in the road :

"Davy Crockett — or I'm a liar!" he cried, good-naturedly. "How'd you come here, Davy? Folks moved?"

"No," exclaimed the boy. "I was a-helpin'

of a drover with his cattle. He lives back there," pointing to the bend in the road. "I wish I could go back home, though."

"What's the matter — don't he treat you right?" asked the kind-hearted Mr. Dunn.

Davy hastened to reassure him on the point. "Oh, he's kind," he said, "but I've been wondering what they're doin' up home."

"WeU, I'm bound for Knoxville," Mr. Dunn remarked. "We're spending the night about seven miles along the road here. Now, in case there was a young lad as wanted to be reaching Crockett's Tavern, it would be a mighty good thing for him if he caught up with us before daylight to-morrow, because he could follow along with these here wagons."

Ill

THE WAY HOME

It was Sunday evening, and Davy found the whole family out when he returned to the Hartley cabin. He was glad of that, for his heart beat so high that he was sure anyone observing him must suspect something.

"I'll get to bed," he decided at once, "and maybe get my sleepin' done before it's time to start." But for a long time his busy mind forbade sleep.

Then he heard the family returning, and he lay, pretending sleep, long after they had retired for the night. He hstened sharply for the heavy breathing that would tell him when the others were wrapped in slumber.

At last it reached his ears — ^the rhythmic rise and fall of breath that betokened profound sleep. Davy's hour had come ! Cautious as a cat, he crept across the loft, on all fours. Stealthily he began to descend the ladder, his feet, in their soft moccasins, as soundless as his bare hands.

With nerveless fingers Davy undid the bar that held the door, opened it a mere crack and squeezed his slender body through, backward, with his gaze intent on the interior of the cabin. In a moment more he had drawn the door shut, and his breath came with sharp relief as he faced about — ^to confront a world white with snow. The air was filled with the whirling flakes, borne on a wintry gale, and already the trees and bushes were weighted with their load of clinging snow. Davy's feet were buried above the ankle, but it never occurred to him to turn back; he covered his hands as well as he could with the folds of his leathern shirt, and bending his head, stepped out bravely in the direction of the big road. It was a half mile from the cabin to the highway, and in the darkness of the storm there was not a track of any kind visible.

"Now to find the road," he thought confidently. That was no easy matter, even for a boy who had been reared in a practically trackless wilderness. The heavy snowfall had obscured every familiar landmark, but, as he noted with satisfaction :

"This here snow is sure fiUin' up my footprints fast. Won't the folks be surprised when they wake up in the mornin' and find me gone, without ever a mark to show which way; I went?"

It did not take sharp-sighted Davy very long to discover where the main highway wound its tortuous way among the trees, for the opening it made between the mighty trunks told the forest boy where it lay. He turned in the direction the wagons had taken a few hours before and pushed on through the deepening snow.

The howl of a distant wolf sounded through the forest, but it was far away, Davy knew. He shook his fist in the direction of the sound, and wished aloud for the Dutchman's rifle. But after a while the cold began to creep up from his toes, along his sturdy legs, up, up, numbing his senses and dulhng his brain. He no longer thought of the cabin he had left, nor his home, still hundreds of miles away, across the dreadful wilderness; all his strength was gathered into one burning determination — to keep at bay the creeping cold until he should reach the camp of the Dunns. His eyes glazed under the strain of keeping the road clearly before him; he stumbled and fell more than once, but his determination never wavered. On he trudged — on — on

"Well, young feller," boomed the hearty voice of old Dunn, as Davy rounded a turn in the road and almost stumbled over the wagoner, who was feeding his horses close to the door of a wayside cabin. Davy's answer was a groan as he toppled forward in the snow. The old man picked him out of the drift, where he lay almost buried, for the damp whiteness was knee-deep by now. Within the cabin there was a fire and warm food, presided over by a motherly woman who had taken care of the Dunns for the night.

"Oh, the poor lamb!" she cried at the sight of little Davy's limp form. "Here, Jack," to one of her own children, "heat some milk while I rub his poor hands and feet."

The heat and the kindly ministrations of the household soon had their effect.

"Let me go!" cried Davy, suddenly sitting up. "Oh, has Mr. Dunn gone?" wildly struggling to free himself from the buffalo robe with which he had been covered.

"The Dunns are outside, getting the teams

DAVID CROCKETT i SS

ready," answered the woman. "Here now, take it easy. Rest a bit while you can and drink this good hot milk."

"Well, lad, are you most ready?" inquired the old man, appearing in the cabin door as Davy was swallowing the last of the food with which he ha4 been supplied. Without a word, the boy thrust aside the wooden platter which had served as his plate, and stuffing a last chunk of corn-bread into his mouth, he pulled on his beaver-skin cap.

For a hundred miles Davy moved on with the wagons, sometimes beneath sunny skies that made the world glaringly white, sometimes through sleet and driving storms that numbed the hardened wagoners no less than the small boy. But progress was slow.

"I could go twice as fast — if I didn't have to wait for the wagons," Davy put in one day, as a feeler, to Mr. Dunn.

"Is it daft ye've gone, Davy?" inquired the old man solicitously.

"I'm wastin' a good deal of time, Mr. Dunn," answered the boy, "and it ain't like

34 FAMOUS AMERICAiyS

I was any use to you. I'm sure obliged for all you've done for me, but I would like to be gettin' home."

"And now, what would your father be thinkin' of me, if I let you go traipsin' off through the wilderness alone?" demanded his benefactor. "Me, that's been tryin' to bring you home safe, as a favor to a good friend?"

But Davy was not to be dissuaded. He was "sure anxious to get home again," he repeated to all the Dunns' arguments, and at last, seeing that there was no holding the boy, and realizing that he would go without permission if he could not go with it, they agreed to let him start off on the following morning. Davy was jubilant; he reiterated all through the rest of the day his thanks for the kindness he had received at the hands of the Dunns. Next morning his determination was unshaken, and taking the deerskin pouch filled with dried venison which his friends offered him, he set out on his solitary journey.

It was true that he could move twice as fast when he did not have to wait for the wagons; before he had been walking very long he found that they had been blotted, completely, from the landscape. The world seemed suddenly empty.

"Now, look a-here, Davy Crockett," he hastily adjured himself, "you've got to jSght your way home; you just keep a stiff upper lip and go like a good feller."

Go he did, after that, and his courage held out for several hours. But the cold and the prolonged exertion began to have its effect, late in the afternoon, and, at the sound of a rushing river, Davy's heart sank.

" 'Pears like I'll have to fight that old wildcat of a river," he thought, and shivered in anticipation. But before many minutes had passed, a horse and rider came into view, leading another horse, riderless but saddled and bridled.

"Howdy, straggler," called the horseman cheerily.

"The best o' luck to you," cried Davy, his eyes on the extra horse.

"Where's the rest of yo're party?" inquired the man, curiously, for small boys of twelve roaming the winter forest were an uncommon sight.

"I'm just Davy Crockett; I'm goin' home,"

explained the boy, adding that his father kept a tavern between Jonesboro and Knoxville.

"'Way from out that-a-way!" exclaimed the stranger. "Wall, I'll be shot! I'm a-goin' yo're road, sonny," he said kindly, "and if yuh eared now, to avail yo'self of that 'ar horse, yo're quite welcome."

Davy needed no second hint. He mounted the extra horse, his head held high, and proudly seized the reins. After that the journey was pleasantly smooth and uneventful, the horses moving along steadily at a rapid walk. Davy learned that his benefactor had been down to Virginia to see some stock. He was very willing to have a traveling companion on the way back, and as he spun yarns about his adventures the time passed swiftly. Several days had slipped by when he finally announced that their roads were about to part.

"But," he added, "I reckon you can find yo're way hereabouts purty well. Yo're old man's place is only about fifteen mile yonder."

At the crossroads Da\y thanked his companion, slipped to the ground, and patted his horse's nose. Then he turned up his own road, and without a backward glance ran like a young deer. He reached his father's cabin that night.

"Well, Davy, you back?" was John Crockett's greeting. "Shake a leg there and bring in some wood."

IV Davy Takes To Flight

With the beginning of the next brief school term, Davy and his brothers were on hand.

The schoolhouse, which they entered, puffing lustily, a moment later, was a rude cabin with a big fireplace. The floor was the solid earth, the benches were rough slabs of wood with wooden stakes for legs. A huge table formed by a great slab three feet wide and resting on hickory pegs stretched across the room, and afforded space for the scholars to try their hand at writing, when it chanced that the pens of goose quills cut into shape by the master, a sufficient quantity of poor ink, and some paper were all available at the same time.

With much shuffling and gigghng the boys scuttled into place.

"Jim Aiken," began the schoolmaster, calling the roll. As his name was called, each boy responded by rising. Davy Crockett's name was very near the head of the list; Davy was always quick to respond. This morning, however, as he started to rise swiftly to his feet, one of his ankles was caught dexterously by a lean bare foot thrust out from behind. He was thrown completely off his balance, and swung ignominiously forward into a row of smaller boys, who promptly protested by vigorous struggles and loud cries.

"Silence!" roared Kitchen, laying his stick to right and left without discrimination. When order had been thus restored, Davy was commanded to step forward.

Blue eyes resentful, Davy approached as bidden.

"I'll teach you to be playing your tricks on me," said the master, in a cold fury, and without delay he proceeded to "teach" Davy, by means of the birch rod applied vigorously to his quivering shoulders. The class was delighted. Any suffering which did not directly concern these forest lads w^as to be taken in the nature of a show, and they enjoyed the present performance immensely, especially when Davy was finally thrown into a corner, to stand there the rest of the morning with his face to the wall. From the tail of his eye the angry lad observed the malicious grin on the face of his enemy. Job Higgins. His was the treacherous foot that had sent Davy sprawling across the benches, and Davy's heart smoldered within him as he stood in his ignoble position throughout the long morning.

All day Davy nursed his wrath, and when school was dismissed he was first out of the door, and off down the road like a streak. He was too wary to attempt revenge within sight of the schoolhouse, and he was well out of earshot of the master before he ambushed himself in a thicket.

*'The old turkey-cock will be goin' by in a minute," he exulted.

Sure enough, it was but a few minutes before he caught sight of Job Higgins, strutting along the road, brimful of joy on account of the trouble he had given to Davy Crockett. Several smaller boys accompanied him, and he was boasting loudly of what he was going to do to "that little weasel, Crockett," on the morrow. Unsuspecting, he came on, till he was opposite Davy's hiding place, when, with a howl that struck terror to the heart of his enemy, Davy leaped from the thicket like a catamount, landing square on the big boy's shoulders. Teeth, nails, agile heels and sturdyfists dug relentlessly into his opponent, while Davy proceeded to take all desire for "struttin' " out of him. The small boys looked on, applauding Davy's efforts.

"Go it, Davy!" they shrieked delightedly. "Smash his nose!"

"Lemme go!" cried the bully as Davy promptly acted upon the advice of his audience. "Aw — lemme up," for Davy now had his victim prostrate on the ground, and was pummeling his head with all the strength of his furious young fists.

" 'Nuff," whined the big boy, and Davy, panting from his exertions, but full of the glory of victory, rose to his feet and stood breathing hard, while the vanquished slunk off down the road. His brothers had been interested spectators of the end of the fight, and now they proceeded to give vocal proof of their admiration of Davy's fighting qualities.

"He won't be seein' any thin' but stars for a week," chuckled one.

"You shore took a piece out of his ear, Davy," said another. All the way home the boys talked about the great fight, and the glory that would ever after be Davy's. But before they reached the lonely tavern by the roadside a disquieting thought had arisen.

"Bobcats and alligators, Davy!" exclaimed the oldest boy suddenly, as they rounded the last turn in the road. "What '11 old Kitchen do to you when he hears of it?"

Davy made up his mind quickly. "I won't go back to school," he declared stoutly.

"The old man'll take the hide off o' you," replied his brother. Davy realized that only too well. "I'll go out with you, and come back at night, and stay in the woods all day," he announced. The others were doubtful of the result of this conduct, but Davy would listen to no doubts.

For several days all went well. Davy left the tavern each morning with his brothers, and returned with them each night, but he spent the interval in the depths of the woods, stalking game.

Then one day came the explosion. John Crockett received a note, brought by one of the pupils from the schoolmaster, in which he inquired why Davy had not been sent to school.

"Here, y' young toad!" called the elder Crockett, "what's this about not bein' in school? What about the fine 'coon skins I'm after payin' the master to learn yuh readin' n' writin'?"