Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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Chapter Sixteen

When Gray Wolf and his Quohadi warriors made a bend in the road and came to the outskirts of Grand Cane they were greeted by thirteen men strung out across the street. Surprised, Gray Wolf checked his pony, but Red Eagle uttered a shrill war cry and urged his own pony forward. Most of the warriors followed him—straight into a murderous volley. Men and horses fell before the withering fire of the Black Jacks. Miraculously, Red Eagle was untouched, but seven Quohadis died in that instant. The Comanche charge came to an abrupt and bleeding halt. When the powder smoke cleared, Tice and his colleagues had scattered, seeking cover on both sides of the street. They began firing from the cover of corners and doorways and shuttered windows.

Gray Wolf tried to restore order among the Quohadis. Oblivious to the bullets burning the air around him, he sent Running Dog, Tall Horses, and twenty other warriors in a flanking movement around the settlement, then led the rest in a charge down the street. Running the gauntlet of Black Jack gunfire, the Comanches answered with a swarm of arrows. Some veered off into the passageways between buildings, trying to flush their prey out into the open.

Yancey Torrance, running up the road into town, saw the Comanches coming straight at him. He stopped, fired a hasty shot at Gray Wolf, whose warbonnet singled him out as a chief. Yancey cursed a blue streak when he realized he'd missed his mark—then lunged under a wagon that stood, luckily for him, near at hand in front of Scayne's general store. A dozen arrows pursued him. Yancey rolled out from under the wagon on the other side, only to discover that a Comanche had circled the wagon—the warrior struck with his long red lance, and Yancey only just managed to deflect it by using his rifle like a club. With a bloodcurdling shriek the Comanche leaped off his pony. Yancey caught him in midair. His mighty arms bulging with iron thews honed by years of black-smithing, Yancey hurled the Indian clear over the wagon. Dazed, the Comanche got up, stumbled, and then fell beneath the unshod hooves of Quohadi mounts. One of the horses also fell, throwing its rider.

Yancey took advantage of the confusion to crash through the door into the general store. A Comanche on horseback followed him in. Yancey hefted the nearest weapon, a tree ax, whirled, and drove it with all his might into the Quohadi. The ax head completely severed one of the warrior's arms and bit deeply into his side, crushing his rib cage. Yancey felt a spray of hot blood and then the Comanche's war club struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder. It was enough to send Yancey to the floor. The Comanche toppled from his pony, dying, and Yancey got up, shut the door, and dropped the bar. He knew Scayne had several brand-new rifles in the store, and he began to load them all.

Coming up on Grand Cane from the south, McAllen checked the gray hunter at the riverside cabin of Yancey Torrance. While Major Stewart and Joshua waited outside, McAllen checked the interior. Since there was no one home he could only assume that Yancey was in the thick of the fighting, and that Mary and Emily were on Cedric Cole's ferry headed for the east bank of the Brazos.

The three men continued along the river road and, as they neared the outskirts of the settlement, ran into the Comanches led by Running Dog.

Though outnumbered seven to one, McAllen gave no thought to running. Dismounting, he drew one of the Colt revolvers from his belt and began firing. He held on to Escatawpa's bridle, using the gray hunter as a shield, knowing a Comanche warrior, sure to be a horse lover, would hesitate to kill such a splendid prize.

The Comanches were on them in an instant. Major Stewart remained in the saddle, charging into the midst of the Indians with his saber held at tierce point. The saber's blade flashed in the morning sunlight as he deflected a lance and then slew the Indian who was trying to impale him with it. Another warrior came at him from the other side. Stewart ducked under the war club, which missed by scant inches smashing his skull, and as his horse carried him on by, he used the saber to cut the Quohadi open below the sternum. Pulling a pepperbox pistol from under his shell jacket, he fired point-blank at another warrior. He appeared to be having a grand old time, entirely in his element—until an arrow embedded itself in his thigh. Snarling at the pain, Stewart tried to pull the arrow out, but the barbed head was hooked behind bone, and he had to settle for snapping the shaft in two. Comanches swarmed about him, yelling like banshees, and though he tried to keep them at bay with the saber, one of the Indians struck home with his war club, and Stewart fell from his horse, his blood, as scarlet as the uniform he wore so proudly, staining the pale Texas dust.

The Comanche who had struck the final blow leaped from his painted pony, intent on harvesting the fallen Englishman's scalp. Stewart was stunned by the war club's impact, even though it had been a glancing blow. He was unable for the moment to defend himself. But McAllen recognized his plight and rushed forward, blazing Colt Patersons in both hands now. The would-be scalper fell, riddled with bullets. Another warrior somersaulted off his horse, shot through the heart. A third prepared to drive his lance through McAllen's back. But Joshua arrived, driving his horse into the Quohadi's pony. Men and horses fell in a thrashing tangle.

Standing over Stewart, McAllen aimed his guns at an Indian bearing down upon him with tomahawk raised. The Colts' hammers fell on empty chambers. Even in the din of close combat the ominous sound echoed loudly in McAllen's ears. Then another gun spoke, and the tomahawk-wielding Comanche fell. Suddenly those warriors left alive were withdrawing, and McAllen saw three horsemen coming along the road, firing after the Indians. He recognized them as Matt Washburn, Morris Riddle, and Riddle's son Walter. Washburn and Riddle were Black Jacks whose farms were located northwest of the settlement. They were riding to the sound of the guns and McAllen was glad to see them, knowing he owed his life to their timely arrival.

"Cap'n," said Washburn, "you appear to be wounded."

Surprised, McAllen noticed for the first time that blood was dripping from the fingers of his left hand. His sleeve was soaked with blood. A tomahawk had gouged his arm. The pain hit him then, and he felt light-headed.

"It's nothing," he said.

He spotted Joshua coming toward him, leading his horse. The half-breed hadn't come through unscathed, either. He held an arm tight against his side where a Comanche knife had bitten deep. Seven Comanches lay on the road. All but one of them was dead. The seventh was swiftly dispatched by Morris Riddle—a single rifle shot to the head. Riddle was as dispassionate as he would have been in killing a rattlesnake that had crossed his path.

McAllen turned his attention to Stewart, even while he listened with an experienced ear to the sounds of the battle still raging in town. He ached to join his Black Jacks in their struggle against the Comanches, but he couldn't very well leave Stewart to bleed to death in the road.

"Morris," he said, "Sam Houston is on his way here to meet this man. We've got to do our best to keep him alive. You and Walter take him back to Yancey's place and see what you can do for him."

Riddle was obviously disappointed. McAllen's order would keep him out of the scrape. But the thought of protesting the order never occurred to him. He nodded. "Leave him to me, Captain."

McAllen retrieved Stewart's saber and turned to the gray hunter, who stood nearby. Escatawpa was trained to stick close to him no matter the circumstances. Back in the saddle, McAllen saw that Joshua was trying to remount and having some difficulty due to his injury.

"Go back to Yancey's cabin," said McAllen. "Wait for me there."

His features drawn taut with pain, Joshua got on the horse and just stared at McAllen, defiant and resolute. McAllen just shook his head. He knew that was one order Joshua would not obey. "Come on, Matt," he told Washburn, and the three of them rode into Grand Cane.

Yancey Torrance was the first Black Jack in town to witness McAllen's arrival. He saw the captain and Joshua and Matt Washburn galloping hell for leather up the street as he peered through a gun slot in the stout wooden shutters covering the windows of Scayne's store. Yancey let loose with a whoop and a holler and unbarred the door, running out into the street with a loaded rifle in each hand.

The fight had quickly deteriorated into numerous individual life-and-death struggles from one end of the settlement to the other. While some of the Comanches concentrated their efforts on coming to grips with the elusive and hard-to-kill Black Jacks, others broke into empty buildings looking for plunder. Several houses were already burning, having been looted by the quick-working Comanches. The Comancheros—Mexican traders who engaged in commerce with the Comanches—took almost anything of value in exchange for the whiskey, tobacco, blankets, and, lately, even firearms for their Indian customers.

Matt Washburn shot at one warrior coming out of a house with his arms full of plunder. Washburn's bullet would have drilled the Indian's heart but for the big, leatherbound family Bible that got in the way. The Indian couldn't believe he was still alive. Dropping everything except the Bible, which he clutched to his chest, the Comanche turned and ran. Washburn would later say he had converted that Indian—only not in the way he had originally intended.

Gray Wolf's thoughts turned to the Comancheros that day, too, though he did not engage in any looting. It occurred to him that if his people were going to have any chance at all against the Texans they were going to have to forsake their traditional weapons and become proficient in the use of the white man's rifle. Quohadi warriors would need to stop trading for "fire water" and flashy gewgaws with which to decorate themselves and their squaws, and acquire guns and black powder from the Comancheros. Many of the traders were reluctant to give their Indian customers weapons which might be turned upon their own people, but there were enough who, for the sake of profit, cast scruples aside.

The advantage of the rifle and pistol over the lance or bow and arrow offset the Black Jacks' disadvantage in numbers and allowed them to turn the Comanche tide. The warriors filtered through the buildings and out into the countryside, having had enough of the fight. Those who lingered too long for loot were being eradicated one by one.

Down by the river, Emily was having difficulty with Mary Torrance. Minutes after Brax left them to their own devices they came within sight of the ferry, which was already loaded with people and on its way across the Brazos.

"We're too late," said Mary.

"Mr. Cole will come back over," replied Emily. "Let's hurry, Aunt Mary."

But Mary balked. "No. No, I must get home. I don't want to cross the river. I want to go home."

"We mustn't go back. It isn't safe."

"Let loose of me. I won't go across the river. I won't!"

Emily was perplexed. Mary seemed to be in a state of shock. Her expression was blank, her eyes staring and out of focus, like those of a blind person. Emily tried to lead her, but Mary broke away and started to run south along the river. Calling after her, Emily hesitated, glancing back at the ferry, at salvation—and then took off in pursuit of her aunt. She could see Mary up ahead, stumbling through the trees, and then, to her horror, she spotted three Comanches on horseback galloping down the slope to cut Mary off. One of them uttered a savage shriek which froze the blood in Emily's veins. Mary saw them then and screamed. She whirled and threw herself into the river, but the Comanches were already upon her. One leaped from his pony and pounced on her in the shallows, hurling her up onto the riverbank.

Emily threw herself to the ground behind an old log. Miraculously, the Comanches had not seen her. The log rested on its stump at one end, and there was a space between it and the ground through which she peeked to watch in terror as the Comanche who had plucked Mary from the river now crouched over her with a knife in hand. Mary's babbling screams tore at Emily's heart. She thought at first that the Indian was stabbing Mary, but then realized he was using the knife to cut away her dress. Still mounted, the other two warriors laughed at the sight of Mary's pale, trembling nakedness. The warrior on foot did not appear amused. He kicked Mary brutally and screamed at her. Apparently he did not like what he saw.

Filled with shame and fury, Emily could lie still no longer. Beside her lay a limb several feet in length and thicker than Uncle Yancey's arm. She picked it up, shot to her feet, and charged the three Comanches, yelling at the top of her lungs.

"Leave her alone, you dirty savages!"

Startled, the Comanche ponies shied away. Emily launched herself at the warrior standing over Mary, and though he threw up an arm to block the blow, she swung the limb with such desperate force that the impact knocked him off his feet and into the shallows. Emily pressed her advantage home, trying to bash his skull in, but he kicked her in the belly, knocking the wind out of her, and she fell backward over Mary. It was as she lay on the ground trying to breathe that she realized Mary wasn't trembling anymore, wasn't moving at all, and her lifeless eyes were staring straight through Emily, with the terror of her last moment frozen in them for all eternity.

Then the Comanche she had attacked was on Emily, hitting her in the face with his fist, straddling her, and she tried to fight back but to no avail, thinking at first that he was going to rape her. But he raised his knife overhead and she knew suddenly that he intended to plunge the blade through her heart, and she actually felt relieved. . . .

One of the other warriors, dismounted now, grabbed the hand that held the knife and spoke curtly in his guttural tongue. The first warrior got off Emily, spat in her face, and turned angrily away. As the second Comanche lifted her roughly to her feet, Emily began fighting all over again, but the Indian hit her with his fist and her world turned black so that she was blissfully unaware of the way he threw her bellydown across his pony's withers, remounted, and rode away from the river with his companions following.

Chapter Seventeen

Yancey Torrance assumed that Mary and Emily had crossed the river on the ferry with the rest of Grand Cane's women and children, and after the fight was finished he went about helping the other Black Jacks who were trying to contain the fires which the Comanches had started. A few of the men combed the town making sure all the Indians left behind were dead. Now and then a shot rang out. McAllen didn't intervene. No one expected him to. A Comanche prisoner was at the very least a pain in the neck, and dangerous besides.

Even when Brax showed up, Yancey wasn't worried. His son swore he had seen the womenfolk to the ferry and then come to town to help his father. He'd run into a couple of Comanches on the way and killed them both. He was proud of himself. Yancey was perturbed. He'd wanted Brax to remain out of harm's way, but he realized that, had the roles been reversed, he would have done the same.

It was only when the families began to filter back into town and he saw no sign of Mary and Emily, and some of the people who had been on the ferry swore they hadn't seen them, that Yancey experienced a twinge of anxiety. Thinking they might have gone straight home and that in the confusion some of the others on the ferry had not noticed them, he headed down the road to his cabin. McAllen rode along beside him, Joshua in his wake. Arriving at the cabin, they found Morris Riddle and his son doing what they could for Major Stewart.

"He's lost a lot of blood," said the elder Riddle. "Dr. Tice needs to take a look at him."

McAllen nodded. "He'll be along directly. We've got some wounded in town."

"Anybody kilt?"

"Yes. Nathan Ainsworth and George Sellers. Have a feeling Jellicoe Fuller might be dead, too."

"Damn them Comanches," growled Riddle. "Damn their red hides to hell."

"My wife and Emily," said Yancey. "Have you seen them?"

Riddle said he hadn't. Yancey decided to check the ferry. He got up behind McAllen, and Escatawpa carried them to the river crossing. Cedric Cole told them he had not seen the women. They had never arrived at the ferry.

"Dear God in heaven," gasped Yancey. He suddenly had trouble catching his breath. Every bit of color drained from his face.

"We'll check along the river between here and your place," said McAllen. "Maybe they got cut off and found a place to hide."

"Please, Lord, let it be so."

A few minutes later they found Mary Torrance.

McAllen tried to stop Yancey from getting too close, but Yancey was strong as a bull, and he would not be restrained. With a sobbing groan, Yancey fell to his knees beside his wife's body. That was the only sound he made. Gently, he tried to arrange Mary's torn dress more modestly. McAllen stood nearby, watching his friend, his own heart in anguish. He was vaguely aware of Joshua checking the ground for sign. The half-breed's wound was severe, but McAllen knew he wouldn't quit until all his strength was gone.

After a while Joshua came up to him and McAllen asked softly, "How many were there?"

Joshua held up three fingers.

"And Emily? Was she here?"

Impassive, Joshua nodded yes.

McAllen had a copper taste in his mouth as he said, "They took her, didn't they?"

Again Joshua nodded.

Yancey overheard. He got slowly, wearily to his feet. "Let's get after them," he said flatly, and started to walk past McAllen, heading for the horses.

McAllen clutched his arm. "Not yet, Yancey. If we go on our own we'll just end up getting killed, and that won't help Emily. We've got to take the whole company. First we'll bury the dead, and then we'll get organized."

"The longer we wait, the less chance we'll have of getting her back."

McAllen motioned in Joshua's direction. "Have you ever known him to lose a trail?"

Yancey shook his head. "I keep seeing that captive woman in my mind. You know, the one in San Antonio. I can't bear to think of Emily like that. . . ." His voice faded and he struggled to maintain his composure.

McAllen put his hand on Yancey's shoulder. "We'll get her back."

Yancey heaved a deep sigh. He took Mary in his arms and carried her back to the cabin. McAllen and Joshua followed, leading their horses.

Brax was at the cabin when they returned. His grief at the sight of his dead mother was the only thing that saved him from his father's wrath. "If you'd done what I told you," railed Yancey, shaking a fist in his son's face, "your mother might still be alive." He went no further. There was no need to say more. Brax completely broke down, crushed by the burden of his guilt.

Yancey took Mary's body into the bedroom, where he washed her and dressed her in her best clothes. Then he exchanged the clothes he wore, the ones that reeked of powder smoke and were stained with Comanche blood, for his Sunday-go-to-meeting garb. Leaving Mary laid out on the bed, looking for all the world as though she were only sleeping, he started for town. "I'm going to see about a coffin," he told McAllen and Tice, who had just arrived.

Tice stood in the bedroom doorway, looking in on Mary. He did not approach the bed, sensing without having to be told that Yancey did not want anyone to get near his wife.

"I didn't see a mark on her," McAllen told him.

"Probably died of pure fright," said Tice sadly. "I think she had a weak heart." He turned to McAllen. "Shuck that shirt, John Henry, and let Morris bandage your arm while I see what I can do for our English friend."

"My arm can wait," said McAllen. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, he was afraid that if he sat down he might not be able to summon the strength to get back on his feet. "There are a great many things to do before we can start after those Indians."

"You may not be going anywhere if you don't get that wound tended to. Now sit down. That's an order."

McAllen did as he was told. For the first time the despair that he had been keeping at bay got the better of him. "Of all the people in the world," he muttered, "why did they have to take her?"

Turning to Stewart, who was laid out on the table in the cabin's common room, Tice pretended not to hear McAllen's remark. There was no good answer to the captain's question.

His wound cleansed and dressed, McAllen got back to his plantation early that afternoon and was relieved to find it untouched by the Comanche scourge. Though the danger had passed, Joshua had kept everyone on the east bank of the Brazos. Only when he saw McAllen on the landing near the sugar mill, gesturing for him to bring the others over, did Jeb proceed to load the boats.

Leah was in a perfect rage. She had been sitting for hours on a dirty old log in this wretched heat, and the incessant exertions of Ruth, her personal servant, in fanning her with an apron had been to no avail. She was hot and eaten up by bugs. Worst of all, her snowy-white dress was soiled. On the way back across the river in the skiff, Leah rehearsed in her mind all the scathing words she would fling at her husband. But McAllen didn't even have the courtesy to wait for her on the landing! That was positively the last straw. When she reached the house she searched her husband out. Finding him in his bedroom, she began to launch into her tirade—and then, as he gingerly shed his bloodstained shirt and she saw the bandages on his arm, she stopped in midsentence.

"Where is Charles—I mean, Major Stewart?" she asked, alarmed.

"In town. Yancey's place. He took an arrow in the leg, and Dr. Tice thinks he has a concussion. Don't worry. He'll live."

Leah's hand flew to her mouth. Belatedly, she realized she ought to demonstrate some concern for her husband. "Are you badly hurt?"

"I've been hurt worse," he said, giving her a strange look. "But thanks for asking."

She saw that he had taken the black shell jacket from the wardrobe, the one the women of Warren County, Mississippi, had made. The one he had worn in the Seminole campaign and the war for Texas independence. She had seen him in it a few times, the first occasion being the Galveston victory ball her parents had put on, the night she had first met John Henry McAllen. Since then he and his men had donned the black jackets a couple of times, when they were setting out after Comanche raiders.

"You're going after them?"

"I am," he said. "They took Emily Torrance. Killed Mary Torrance. We found her down by the river."

"Oh, my heavens!" gasped Leah. "The poor girl." She did not know Emily Torrance personally, but the thought of anyone being made prisoner by those hideous savages . . . It was simply too horrible to contemplate.

"I'm sure you'll be able to look after Major Stewart," said McAllen dryly. The black jacket donned, he left the room.

He told Jeb to hitch up a wagon so that he could bring Stewart back to the plantation. Leah went down to the veranda to see him off, but while McAllen bid Bessie and Roman affectionate farewells, he was very perfunctory in his parting with her. Leah knew something was terribly wrong. Perhaps she had gone too far with Major Stewart. She had done so because she didn't have any respect for her husband. How could she? He knew about her flirtations, her infidelities, and still he did nothing. She didn't love him, either—at least she didn't think she did. Now, though, she was afraid. Afraid he might have reached the end of his rope. Might divorce her. How humiliating that would be! Oddly enough, she felt jealous of Emily Torrance. Her husband was riding into the jaws of death to rescue that girl. It was so romantic. Like something out of a Sir Walter Scott novel.

As she watched McAllen ride away, with Jeb driving the wagon alongside, Leah realized for the first time that Joshua was nowhere to be seen. It was odd to see her husband without that mute half-breed around. Maybe Joshua had been killed. Well, I won't waste any tears if that is the case, she decided.

Then she had a thought so awful she actually felt guilty just for thinking it.

Maybe she would never see John Henry again. What if he was killed on the trail of those red devils? Being a widow was a noble thing, and far better than divorce! But she would have to wear mourning black for a respectable period of time. Oh, well. A small sacrifice, really. She gazed out across the fields of young sugarcane, her eyes sparkling with newfound interest. She'd never before been the least bit interested in the plantation before. But if John Henry didn't return, this would all belong to her. Leah cut a wicked glance at Bessie and Roman, who stood at the top of the veranda steps watching McAllen ride away. They looked so sad and worried. Well, they would most certainly have something to worry about when she became the mistress of Grand Cane, mused Leah, and without John Henry to protect them. Oh, yes, there would be some changes made. . . .

Will Parton read over four fresh graves in the Grand Cane cemetery late on the afternoon of the Comanche attack. To some, the haste with which the dead were laid to rest was a bit unseemly—normally, the deceased would lay in an open coffin at least overnight, while family and friends gathered to have their last look and pay their respects. Though Nathan Ainsworth, the carpenter, had died in valiant defense of the settlement, some went right to work making the coffins, while others dug the graves in the shade of the oak grove west of town. On a rise, the cemetery was well situated, overlooking the town and the river beyond.

Along with Ainsworth and Mary Torrance, farmers George Sellers and Jellicoe Fuller were also buried that afternoon. Fuller's charred remains had been found in his burned-out cabin. He had given a good account of himself, for several Comanche dead were discovered, as well. The Indian corpses were hauled away and left unburied for the wolves and the turkey vultures. There would be no Christian burial for the heathens.

McAllen and the others took some comfort in the knowledge that all the women and children, save for Mary and Emily Torrance, had been spared thanks to the plan for their evacuation, which had succeeded as a consequence of the brave sacrifice of men like Fuller, Ainsworth, and Sellers. Still, the Black Jacks grieved, for those three had been friends and comrades-in-arms for many years. A longing for vengeance burned like red-hot coals in the warlike souls of the survivors.

Following the conclusion of the service, the Black Jacks congregated at Deckard's tavern. When all were present and accounted for, McAllen rose to speak. The others knew what was coming. The black jacket their captain wore said it all.

"I intend to set out after the Indians in one hour's time," said McAllen. "We have a full moon, and with any luck the night will be clear. Which means we might be able to steal a march on the enemy."

"We're with you, Captain," said Matt Washburn.

The others loudly concurred.

"We can't all go," said McAllen. "The wounded must remain behind. Their task will be to look after things here. I don't think the Comanches are coming back, but we can't leave our town and our families unprotected."

George Scayne grimaced. His arm, broken by a Comanche war club and set by Dr. Tice, rested in a sling. "Hellfire, Captain," he groused, with a smile.

"You and Joshua are wounded."

McAllen smiled back at him. "That's true. But we need Joshua. He's the best tracker in Texas. And as for me, well, I'm pulling rank. So that's it, boys. If you haven't already done so, gather up all the cartridges you can find, pick out a good horse, and we'll ride. But travel light. The Comanches will probably make a run for home. We've got to move fast."

As the others departed, Brax approached his father. Yancey was nursing a jug of corn liquor, compliments of A. G. Deckard, and sat tilted back in a caneback chair near the old stove, gazing moodily at the floor.

"I want to come along," said Brax.

McAllen heard him. "You'd better stay," he replied. He didn't think Yancey wanted the boy along after what had happened, and feared there might be more trouble between them. It was just best to keep the two separated for a while. "Billy Fuller asked me if he could ride with us, too. Wants to avenge his father's death. But I told him like I'm telling you."

"Billy Fuller's only fourteen. I'm nearly eighteen. I'm the best shot in the county. I kilt two Comanches today."

"Let him come along, John Henry," said Yancey. "He's got a lot to make up for."

Though it was against his better judgment, McAllen gave in.

Within the hour fifteen men had returned to Deckard's place. All of them, except Brax, wore the black jacket. Long blue shadows of day's end spread across the street as they rode out of Grand Cane, their loved ones waving good-bye and holding in their hearts fervent wishes for their safe return.

All John Henry McAllen could think about was finding Emily and bringing her home safe and sound.