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DAVY CROCKETT AN AMERICAN HERO By Tom Townsend
Read the excerpt below	Biography; "Balanced and offers a realistic insight into this popular folk hero." --School Library Journal Published by Eakin Press Reading Level 6.5. Published by Eakin Press ISBN 0-89015-643-3 $12.95 hardback ISBN 0-89015-627-1 $6.95 paperback Books By Tom Townsend Place an order home

Davy Crockett figures that, at best, he has about three hours to live. With one dirty hand, he pushes the
coonskin cap farther back on his head and looks up at the night sky. A million stars seem to hang there, just
beyond his reach. He has watched them all during the long night, and now Sirius, the brightest of them all,
has worked its way close to the western horizon. There
cannot be more than two hours left before dawn. After that, he reckons he'll be dead in no time.
     An icy north wind whistles through the walls of the old mission outside San Antonio de Bexar and chills him
beneath his ragged buckskin clothing. From his crouched position on the south wall, Davy can see the campfires
of the Mexican army. Like stars fallen to the ground, they are spread out nearly as far as the eye can see.
For days their reinforcements have been arriving from across the Rio Grande. Now, about 5,000 men of the best-
trained and best-equipped army in North America face 180 ragtag Texans entrenched behind these battered walls
of the Alamo.
     For twelve days the little garrison has held out against the constant pounding of the Mexican artillery.
Only since nightfall have the guns been silent.
     Crockett reasons that, for him at least, there could be many worse places to die than here, in battle for a
cause in which he so strongly believes. He is in gallant company, for behind these ancient walls are some of the
greatest fighters of the day.
     There are fifteen men from Davy's home state of Tennessee. Many of them fought in the Creek Indian War
with him over twenty years ago.
     Jim Bowie, perhaps the most famous knife fighter in all of the world, is here. And Col. William Barret
Travis, young, bold, and fanatically loyal, is the Alamo's commander. During his twenty-six years of life, he has
been an English teacher, a lawyer, and now a colonel in the revolutionary army of Texas. Glory and honor seem
foremost in his mind, and he has sworn a bloody oath that there will be no retreat and no surrender. Davy suspects                                                          he is a man with many secrets.
     There is Capt. Almeron Dickinson, who arrived two weeks ago with thirty-two men from Gonzales. With him
has come his young wife, Susanna, and their daughter Angelina. Like Davy, they had come to Texas from Tennessee                                                     with dreams of free land and wide open spaces.  Dickinson also once served with Davy under Gen. Andrew
Jackson during the Creek Indian War.
     A few scattered clouds race before the north wind, and for a moment they hide the crescent moon. Davy
closes his eyes. Perhaps there is still time left to think, to try and sort out some of his forty-nine years of life.
     He rubs his hand lovingly across the cold steel of the Kentucky long rifle cradled in the crook of his left
arm. The rifle has always been such an important part of his life.
     Images of the green hills of Tennessee float into his mind's eye. He sees the little log cabin, deep in the                                                                   wilderness on Big Limestone River, where he was born on August 17, 1786. The scene fades and dissolves                                                                      to the tavern that his father built on the road between Knoxville and Abingdon. Yes, perhaps it was there that                                                                     it really began, at least the important parts. It was there that David Crockett met Jacob Siler.

                                                                        * * *

     The smoke from a dozen clay pipes hung in a heavy gray haze about the common room of John Crockett's
tavern. Hickory wood blazed and popped in the big fire-place, which took up most of one wall. The odors of                                                         tobacco and wood smoke mingled with those of whiskey, dark ale, and fresh roasted venison. Candlelight flickered                                                  against the log walls and sent dancing shadows among the rough-hewn beams of the low ceiling.
     The customers were mostly wagoners. With wagons they owned themselves, these men hauled sugar, flour,
barrels of molasses, and other basic items needed by the settlers along the western frontier of Tennessee. They
would return to the East in wagons heavily loaded with corn, rye, and other farm produce to feed the growing
cities. They were a rough and rowdy lot, but there was a friendly fellowship among them. As with sailors and
soldiers, there was a kinship born out of the adventure and danger that they all faced. The roads they traveled
were barely trails through the wilderness. There were no bridges across the swift rivers, which could carry away
their wagons and teams. Blizzards froze them in winter and sudden storms in spring washed out the roads or
covered them with landslides. And, of course, there was always the danger of Indians.
     Twelve-year-old David Crockett staggered under a double armload of firewood as he weaved his way among
the customers.
     "The lad's quirky," he heard his father telling some one in the corner. "Most probable, he won't never amount
ta a hill-o-beans." David tried to ignore the comment. No matter how hard and long he worked, nothing he did                                                              ever seemed to please his father. In fact, there seemed to be nothing to look forward to in life except more hard,                                                                endless work. The travelers' horses had to be stabled and fed. Water had to be hauled for the kitchen. More firewood                                                   had to be chopped and split and then stacked on the hearth. Another voice, one with a strange accent, which
David had never heard before, was answering his father.  "He is gut boy. He listens to his elders und learns from
dem. Much like da little ones I remember from da old country,"
     "Reckon that's about the only good thing I ever heard said 'bout me," David thought as he dropped the fire-
wood onto the stone hearth. He sneaked a glance at the corner table. Beside David's father sat a solemn-faced
man with sandy hair and a bushy mustache. There was a pewter mug of ale in one big fist. His eyes were a brilliant                                                        blue and seemed to pierce into his very soul. David turned away quickly and started for the door.
     "Get yourself over here, boy," his father's gruff voice halted him.
     "Aw, heck," David whispered to himself as he turned around and started toward the table in the corner. "I
reckon I'm in fur it now."
      There was a long moment of awkward silence as David stood in front of the two men. "This here's Mr.
Siler, Mr. Jacob Siler. He's drivin' a few head uh beef north up Pennsylvania way."
     As David nodded his head, his eyes fell on a rifle that lay on the table in front of Jacob Siler. It was beau-
tiful, David thought. The barrel looked as big as a cannon and the stock was a golden blond wood, polished and oiled
until it looked more like a piece of jewelry than a weapon. There were pictures of birds and deer and mountains,
and all matter of designs inlaid with bright silver on the barrel and lock. David could have admired the weapon for                                                      hours, but his father's next words shocked him back to the harsh reality of frontier life.
     "You're bound out to Mr. Siler now. You work hard, do what he tells ya, and he'll pay five dollars when ya
get up ta Pennsylvania. Now, get yer things together, you'll be leavin' come first light."
     David's mouth dropped open but he could say nothing. He did not even know where Pennsylvania was,
except it was somewhere far to the north, and he was sure it would take weeks or months to get there driving
cattle.
     "Yes, Sir," David finally managed to answer as he turned to leave and cast one more look at Jacob Siler's
beautiful rifle.