The Black Jacks (24 page)

At midnight McAllen stood up. As one the Black Jacks also rose, watching their leader. McAllen gestured for them to fan out and then began to walk toward the trees, leading Escatawpa. The others followed suit. The only sounds to interrupt the stillness of the night were the rustle of the tall grass made by their passage, the cry of a distant nighthawk, the occasional whicker of a horse. Three hundred yards. In spite of the coolness of the night, McAllen found himself sweating. Two hundred yards. The Black Jacks' horses smelled the creek now, and their whickering was answered by a few ponies in the Comanche herd.
Any second now,
thought McAllen,
and the alarm will be raised.
One hundred yards. McAllen could see the milling shapes of the stolen horses in the silver-blue moonlight that filtered down through the trees.

Close enough. McAllen stopped and mounted the gray hunter, drawing one of the Colt Patersons from his belt. To left and right the Black Jacks climbed into their saddles. McAllen drew a deep breath and kicked Escatawpa into a gallop.

The Black Jacks thundered straight into the Comanche camp, yelling like banshees, their pistols and rifles spitting flame. Escatawpa carried McAllen across the creek and into the very center of the Indian encampment. All was noise and confusion. Muzzle flash sporadically illuminated the scene. Some of the Indians sought only to escape, leaping upon their ponies and scattering, or taking off on foot. Others turned to fight. The horse herd stampeded. The Black Jacks tore through the Comanches like a scythe through wheat. "Glory Hallelujah!" shouted Will Parton as he dealt death. "Glory Hallelujah!" McAllen emptied his Colt Paterson, jammed the pistol under his belt, and drew its fully loaded mate. Each time he fired, a Comanche went down, dead or dying.

As usual, Joshua was by his side. A Comanche, fleet of foot, came up on McAllen from behind and leaped on the back of Escatawpa with a war club raised and a cry of savage triumph on his lips. But before he could strike, Joshua was leaping out of his saddle and dragging the Indian off the gray hunter. They hit the ground in a jumble. With one swipe of his Bowie knife, Joshua nearly decapitated the warrior. McAllen shot down another Quohadi who was closing in on the half-breed. Quid pro quo. It had always been so. McAllen had been fighting side by side and back to back with Joshua in more scrapes than he cared to remember. For both men it was second nature to look out for the other.

Guns and surprise worked in favor of the Black Jacks. Twenty Comanches fell in the first two minutes. The death of so many brothers discouraged the surviving Quohadis. The merciless fury of the Black Jacks discouraged them even further. The survivors broke and ran. Some were chased down and shot to death. But the Black Jacks did not stray too far afield. They were too experienced for that. They regrouped beneath the trees. Dying Comanches were finished off; no prisoners would be taken. McAllen put Joshua to work looking for some sign of Emily, and set about doing the same. But there was no sign of her to be found, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach McAllen wondered if she had even been here.

Matt Washburn was found lying dead in the creek, a lance jutting from his chest. Cedric Cole had taken an arrow in the arm. The shaft was broken and then pulled through. Then Cole's wound was cauterized with gunpowder set aflame. McAllen led his men a few miles up the creek before calling a halt for the night. He didn't think the Comanches were in any condition to launch a counterattack, but it wasn't wise to tarry too long at the scene of an Indian fight.

The men who rode with him were grim and silent. There was no elation, no crowing about the hurt they had put on the hostiles. The trail from Grand Cane had been a long one, and McAllen sensed that they were near the end of their rope. He sat down with his back to a tree trunk and reloaded his Colts and faced facts. That wasn't an easy thing to do. He was not the kind of man who easily admitted failure.

Yancey walked up and sat on his heels in front of him. In the darkness McAllen could barely make out his old friend's face, but then he didn't really need to; he knew what Yancey was going through because he was going through the same thing himself. For a while neither man spoke, for neither much cared to hear the truth spoken right out loud.

"We lost her," said Yancey finally, choking on the bitter words. "Somewhere along the line we lost her. I don't think she was with this bunch."

"We'll go back down the creek in the morning," said McAllen. "Joshua may find a footprint or something." He tried to inject some optimism into his voice, but the attempt was feeble.

"The Colorado's less than a day's ride," said Yancey, his tone of voice dull and lifeless. "After that. . ."

He didn't finish. They both knew what he meant. Yancey took a deep breath and abruptly stood. "You better take the boys back home, John Henry. They've got families and such to take care of. Crops or businesses to tend to. This is a losing proposition."

"Yancey, what about your boy?"

Yancey walked away without answering.

McAllen took a handkerchief from the pocket of his trail-grimed black shell jacket—the handkerchief enfolded the flower Emily had given him. Fresh determination intruded upon his misery. As long as there was a chance, he would not give up. Clearly he would not be able to find Emily this way. But there was another way. . . .

When dawn came, a grave was dug for Matt Washburn. McAllen sent Joshua to look again for some sign of Emily at the site of the Comanche encampment. When the half-breed returned, Will Parton was reading over Washburn's final resting place. The black jacket had been removed from the corpse—it would be given as a keepsake, along with his other belongings, to his widow. McAllen was sure Nell Washburn would cherish the jacket. She knew how proud her husband had been to wear it.

Joshua answered McAllen's querulous glance with a head shake. No sign. McAllen made up his mind in that instant, and when the amens were said he stepped forward.

"Boys, we're going back to Grand Cane."

The others did not speak. Not one of them would have suggested giving up the chase, but in their hearts they were relieved. They looked for Yancey, wondering how he would react. Only then were they aware of Yancey's absence.

"Where's Yancey, Captain?" asked Morris Riddle.

"Gone. He rode out before first light."

"After the Comanches? And you just let him go?"

"I did. It's what he wanted." Yancey hadn't said so, not in so many words, but McAllen knew.

The expression on their captain's face made it clear to the Black Jacks that the decision to let Yancey Torrance go on alone had not been an easy one for McAllen. They also realized that Yancey hadn't wanted any more of them to die for what he now believed to be a lost cause. Still, they were torn between loyalty to Yancey Torrance and the desire to respect the wishes of their friend and comrade.

"We're going home," repeated McAllen forcefully. He would carry the burden of the decision to leave Yancey on his own. To give his men a vote in this would be an abrogation of his responsibility as their chosen leader. They would follow his orders without question—they always had—and they could look Brax Torrance in the eye without flinching because the onus was on McAllen now.

"That's not to say," added McAllen, "that I've given up on getting Emily Torrance back. I haven't given up and I never will."

"What do you have in mind, Captain?" asked Riddle.

McAllen absently stroked the scar on his cheek with a thumb. "Caldero."

That was all he said. He headed for his horse without another word. No other words were needed. The Black Jacks knew who Caldero was. All of Texas knew Antonio Caldero, friend to the Comanche, implacable enemy of the republic.

Chapter Twenty-three

Failing to find Mirabeau Lamar at his San Jacinto Street residence, Jonah Singletary went in search of the president at Capitol Square. It was a fine summer day, sunny but not too hot. In another month Austin would become as unpleasantly warm as Dante's Inferno, but even then Singletary would not fail to take his daily stroll. When the legislature was in session he usually included Capitol Square in his itinerary, in the hopes of learning what new scheme the representatives of the people had in store for their constituents. Today, though, the legislature was not in session; it had been adjourned at news of the Comanche raid, so that the solons could go home and attend to the protection of their property and loved ones. The Comanche scare was over, as far as Singletary was concerned, and yet the streets of the Texas capital were oddly empty. Expectations of an Indian attack on Austin had run high; apparently there was still some concern in that regard among the inhabitants.

With the legislature gone, Singletary's best source of information on the subject of the republic's governance was Lamar himself. The newspaperman found the president leaving Capitol Square, striding down Congress Avenue, a stocky and erect figure clad in a plum-colored coat and gold vest, his head, with its mop of unruly hair streaked with gray, uncovered. Trailing along behind the president were two men in homespun. Both carried rifles. One cradled his weapon in his arms. The other had his long gun by the barrel and slanted over his shoulder. Walking beside Lamar was Captain Eli Wingate of the Texas Rangers. This was the first time Singletary had seen the Ranger captain since the Council House incident. Wingate's empty sleeve was pinned to his belt. He looked more grim and gaunt than usual.

"Ah, Singletary," said Lamar, as the
City Gazette's
editor approached. "How are you today?"

"Never better, Mr. President, thank you. Hello, Captain. It is a pleasure to see you fully recuperated." Singletary glanced past Lamar at the pair of riflemen. "And who are these gents?"

Lamar grimaced. "My bodyguards. General Johnston insisted I have them until the Comanche threat is passed."

"Regular army? It's only fitting that the general assigned an entire company to your protection, sir."

Lamar smirked. "Amusing, Singletary. Very amusing."

"It's just that this is the largest contingent of the Texas Regular Army I have ever seen assembled in one place."

"That's because I had put my faith—and the republic's funds—in the Ranger companies." Lamar glanced with displeasure at Wingate. "I had depended on the Rangers for the protection of the frontier. And yet, to my knowledge, not a single Ranger managed to engage the Comanches."

Wingate grimaced. "My men have bottomed out their horses patrolling between here and San Antonio. We figured the hostiles would show up sooner or later. They obviously split into small groups after the Plum Creek fight and slipped through. Besides, we have three companies down on the Nueces Strip. They couldn't be summoned in time, and it would have been unwise to do that anyway, on account of the Mexicans might've taken advantage of the situation and launched a raid of their own. And then there's Caldero and his bunch. Colonel Karnes and his men were responsible for the protection of San Antonio. That leaves two companies strung out north of here all the way to the Cross Timbers, in case the Comanches turned due north. We need more men. That's the long and short of it. I've always said so and I guess I'll always have to."

"More men means more money," said Lamar.

"You could always levee a new tax, Mr. President," said Singletary wryly.

"This is hardly the appropriate time for such a measure, and you know it."

Singletary nodded, sympathetic. "Yes, I see your point, sir. Why give Sam Houston any more political ammunition?"

At the mention of his nemesis, Lamar's features darkened into a scowl. "So you've heard that Houston intends to challenge me for the presidency."

"And I was hoping for a comment from you on that subject. One suitable for publication."

Lamar gave the request a moment's careful consideration. "I trust the citizens of this great and glorious republic will elect the candidate who has demonstrated by his deeds that he has their best interests at heart."

"Meaning you, of course, Mr. President."

"I would hope that the people will have better sense than to elect a drunkard and an Indian lover," said Wingate.

"I've heard Houston has foresworn strong spirits," remarked Singletary.

"Big Drunk couldn't swear off liquor any more than a dog could swear off biting fleas," retorted the Ranger captain.

"Mind if I quote you?"

Wingate shrugged supreme indifference. Lamar said, "Of course you may print that, Singletary. Just make sure you give the captain the credit."

Singletary nodded. He understood completely. In the great tradition of American politics, Lamar would let his lieutenants hurl the truly vile slanders and innuendos.

"I'm told David Burnet has already been to attack Houston's integrity," he said. "In the
Telegraph,
over the signature of 'Publius.' "

"Has he?" Lamar could not disguise the fact that he was pleased. "And what has he said?"

"The usual things. He's charged Houston with committing just about every category of vice degrading to humanity."

"Well, well." Lamar chuckled. "There's little love lost between those two."

Singletary knew well the truth of that statement. David Burnet had left his clerking job in New York City forty years ago to seek adventure with Miranda in Venezuela. Later he had roamed the far western frontier, living with the Indians. It was said that he never went anywhere without a Bible in one coat pocket and a loaded pistol in the other. During the Texas Revolution, Burnet had been elected provisional president of the new republic. He and Sam Houston had not gotten along. Burnet kept insisting that Houston turn and fight the Mexican Army, and when Houston just as consistently refused, Burnet accused him of cowardice. After the guns had fallen silent at San Jacinto, Burnet appeared at the battlefield and confiscated a stallion, formerly the property of a high-ranking officer in Santa Anna's army, which had been presented to Houston by his admiring men. It was said that the soldiers would have gladly drowned Burnet in the chocolate-brown waters of the San Jacinto had Houston given the signal, but Houston exercised extraordinary—some would say uncharacteristic—restraint in this instance.