Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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Chapter Eighteen

The Quohadi Comanche who had captured Emily Torrance rode north parallel to the river road from the place at the river where they had discovered their prey. The fighting was still going on in Grand Cane, but they knew it was going badly for their cause, and they did not want to risk losing their prize. It was for that reason, when they turned west upon seeing the McAllen plantation, they assumed it would be well defended, when in fact it was deserted.

Gray Wolf had arranged for a rendezvous point due west of the settlement. Since he was unfamiliar with this country he had told his warriors to ride until sunset, and then begin to look for one another. That was one reason why Gray Wolf was the most respected war chief of the Antelope band—he planned for every eventuality. If a raid went poorly, it was the common Comanche tactic to split up into groups of two or three warriors and reunite later at some prearranged place. In this way pursuit was made more problematic for the enemy.

The three Comanches made quick time, keeping whenever possible to low, wooded terrain. A few miles from the Brazos, Emily regained consciousness. Draped belly-down over a galloping pony made breathing a hardship, and she was not inclined to long endure the discomfort. In a panic to escape, she gave no thought to the odds of success. When her captor crossed the rocky bed of a small branch and slowed his horse to ascend the opposite bank, Emily made her move. She slipped off the pony, tearing free of the warrior's clutches. Stumbling down the slope, she ran along the creek, swift as a hunted deer. With a shout the warriors gave chase. Emily slipped on a water-slick stone and fell. Before she could get up again the Comanches were on her. The warrior from whom she had escaped—at least for a moment—jumped off his galloping horse and bore her down into the shallows. She picked up a rock and hit him on the head with it, but it was only a glancing blow, just enough to infuriate him, and he struck her in the face with a fist, just like before, and once again Emily blacked out.

She came to a few minutes later to find her wrists tied together with strips of rawhide. Her left eye where he had hit her was swelling shut. The warrior put the loop of a horsehair rope around her neck and pulled it so tight she could scarcely breathe. He said something to her, and his tone of voice was angry. Then he remounted, the other end of the rope firmly in his grasp, and kicked his war pony into motion, following his two companions. Emily stumbled along behind. Several times she lost her footing and fell, but the warrior did not stop, did not even look back, and she realized that if she fell and didn't or couldn't get up he would be quite content to drag her along by the neck until she was dead from strangulation.

Emily considered falling on purpose and letting him kill her. But her instinct for survival asserted itself. She had to live because Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen would rescue her. Yes, they would save her. She had to believe in that. She had to have faith.

The five-mile walk seemed to her an unending ordeal, but at last it did end, at a large island of trees around a sweetwater spring. The three Quohadi warriors were overjoyed to find about fifteen of their brethren hiding in the woods. Within the next hour, as the last light of day faded from the purpling sky, other warriors arrived, so that soon the total number had swollen to about seventy. A herd of stolen horses, with a few mules mixed in, were brought in and then pushed on at a rapid pace to the west-northwest. During this time Emily sat, exhausted, on the ground at the base of a tree to which she was bound. The bubbling spring nearby tormented her; she had been all day without a drink of water. But she did not cry out or struggle against her bonds. She didn't want to attract any attention to herself. The warriors were busy relating their exploits to one another and for a while she thought they had forgotten all about her.

As the Comanches congregated at the rendezvous, several more captives were brought in—a woman with an infant child, and a boy of about ten with a girl of five or six, obviously brother and sister. Emily did not know any of them. They were not from Grand Cane. She took comfort from the knowledge that none of her friends or neighbors had suffered the same fate as she.

As the night deepened a growing restlessness pervaded the Quohadi camp. Emily surmised that there was some discussion among them as to whether they should stay here throughout the night or move on. There did not seem to be a genuine leader among them.

Across the way, the mother sat with her child. The baby was squalling, and though the woman tried to nurse it she could not comfort or quiet the child. She asked her captor for a little flour and water with which to make a gruel that the child could digest. The Indian yelled at her, snatched the baby from her grasp, and, before she could stop him, threw the infant high in the air and let it fall to the ground. Sobbing, the mother hugged the limp and lifeless form, rocking back and forth on her knees. Emily could only look on in horror.

As night fell, some of the Comanches made up their minds to move on. A mule was brought for the woman whose baby had been murdered. The woman's captor took the tiny corpse from her, tied a string around her neck, and secured the other end of the string to the horn of the saddle strapped to the mule. He ordered the woman to get into the saddle, but she refused, even when threatened with a lance. Finally, growing weary of the game, the Quohadi impaled her on the lance. He mounted his war pony and rode on with thirty other warriors in the process of leaving the bosque. The white boy and girl were taken. The woman left behind took a long time to die, and her pitiful, whimpering cries of pain were almost more than Emily could bear.

A short time later her captor approached and cut her loose from the tree. Her hands remained tied. A fire had been built in a clearing to throw back the night, and many of the Comanches who remained were getting drunk on jugs of whiskey stolen from the cabins of settlers. Emily was dragged into the circle of firelight, and it took only a moment for her to realize that her captor hoped to interest one of the others in a trade. He wanted whiskey and horses in exchange for her.

One prospective buyer, swaying from the effects of too much firewater, rose from his place by the fire and came up to Emily. Though terrified, she stood her ground. He yanked on her hair and checked her teeth as though she were a horse, which elicited gales of laughter from his comrades. Then he began to fondle her breasts. Emily closed her eyes and willed herself not to scream. Her captor, deciding the other Indian had sampled the merchandise long enough, finally intervened, pushing him away. Some of the men shouted at him derisively, ridiculing him for trying to barter away a woman that he would not let them see. Stung by the rebuke of his peers, the warrior grabbed the bodice of Emily's soiled and tattered dress and with one vicious pull exposed her to the view of the others. They roared their approval. Shamed beyond measure, Emily nonetheless stood defiantly in place and began to sing softly, her eyes closed, her face lifted to heaven.

"Swing low, sweet chariot,

Coming for to carry me home. . . ."

Belatedly she realized the warriors had fallen silent. Opening her eyes, she saw that they were staring at her in slack-jawed amazement. She couldn't fathom why. Perhaps it had something to do with the song. Her voice tremulous, she continued.

A curt voice interrupted her, and she noticed a warrior emerging from the night shadows under the trees, leading a painted pony on which rode a wounded Comanche, slumped forward.

Gray Wolf took one look at the scene and knew what had transpired. The sight of the liquor jugs infuriated him. Dropping the horsehair reins of the pony he had been leading, he waded into the warriors sitting around the fire like, Emily thought, Jesus in the temple of the moneylenders. He snatched up the jugs and smashed them into the fire, and only stopped when it occurred to him that the ninety-proof brave-maker was causing the flames to leap higher.

"Put out that fire!" he snapped. "Throw away the white man's poison. I did not know Quohadi warriors could be such fools."

"We thought you were dead, Gray Wolf," said Running Dog. "Red Eagle led the others west. We decided to wait a little longer. . . ."

Gray Wolf stared at the bodies of the white woman and her infant child and trembled with rage. "Who did this thing?"

Running Dog told him that the murderer was one of the warriors who had gone with Red Eagle.

Gray Wolf nodded curtly. He had found his friend Tall Horses severely wounded, without a pony and unable to walk, not far from the Texas settlement. This had slowed him down, yet he had never once contemplated leaving Tall Horses behind.

He turned his attention to the white woman who had been singing. He had marveled at her song as he came through the trees into the clearing and now, as he gazed at her, was impressed by her courage. Confiscating a blanket from one of the Quohadis, he covered her nakedness and glanced coldly at her captor.

"I will give you five horses for her."

The captor readily accepted this offer. He would have taken much less—especially from Gray Wolf.

Gray Wolf addressed the other Quohadis. "The Texans will be here soon. We must go, quickly. This is not the time or place to stand and fight."

"Red Eagle says you led us into a trap," said one, of stouter heart than his brothers.

Gray Wolf's smile was bitter. "If you wanted to follow Red Eagle, why did you not go with him? The Texans fought well. What did you expect of them? We did not surprise them. If you don't want to listen to me, stay here and die. I am going."

In a very short time they were on their way. Tall

Horses now transported in a travois which had been swiftly constructed from sapling poles and blankets. Emily was mounted on a mule. She took the tattered remains of her dress, not wanting Yancey to find it for fear of what the discovery might do to him. Again riding his war pony, Gray Wolf led her mule by means of a horsehair rope. Instinctively, she knew she was better off in Gray Wolf's keeping. She would not try to escape. Escape was futile anyway, and if she made an attempt she risked antagonizing her new captor. No, she would invest all her hopes in Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen. She clung fiercely to her dream of a future with the man she loved, and refused to let reality insinuate itself, because reality would destroy the dream if she let it. And that dream was all she had left to make life worth living.

A few hours after the last of the Comanches quit the woods which stood at the site of the spring, Joshua led McAllen and the Black Jacks right to the spot. They had picked up the trail of the three warriors who had abducted Emily, and not once had the young half-breed been diverted from it.

A few of the men had brought storm lanterns along—these, in case the night became overcast, robbing them of the moonlight by which they followed the Comanche sign. In the gloom of the woods the lanterns were lit as soon as it was confirmed that the enemy did not lurk in ambush, and the lantern light revealed the bodies of the woman and her child. Joshua examined the ashes of the fire and found a bed of embers still glowing. Shards of crockery—the smashed liquor jugs—littered the ground. "How long ago?" asked McAllen. He had already made a good guess, and Joshua merely confirmed it by holding up two fingers, then extending a third. Two hours, maybe three. Tice saw the agony etched on McAllen's face.

"No use second-guessing yourself, John Henry," said the physician. "Who would have thought they'd linger here so long?"

"We should have set out sooner," said McAllen. "There's no justifying it."

"We had to bury the dead and pay our last respects. We needed to make arrangements for our families while we were gone. We had to prepare ourselves for a pursuit that could go on for days, or weeks."

"That's just it, Artemus. We would have caught them right here. If I hadn't made a mistake it would all be over now." He turned to Yancey, who stood nearby. "I'm truly sorry."

Yancey shook his head. "Don't be apologizin', John Henry. They'll have to slow down sooner or later. They've cut down a few saplings. Means they made a travois. So they've got at least one wounded they don't want to abandon to our tender mercies. I warrant we'll catch up right soon."

The mother and child were buried in a common grave. Cedric Cole said he thought he recognized the woman as the wife of a farmer who lived up near Brazoria. Will Parton read from his Bible. He was brief, like the others, he ached to catch up with the heathen savages who made war on innocents. After the "amens" he gazed at the dark, grim faces of the men gathered around the mound of newly turned earth.

"It's there, gentlemen," he said, patting the Bible. "Right there in Exodus, Chapter Twenty-one. 'Then it is life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound and lash for lash.' It also says in Romans, 12:19, 'Do not avenge yourselves, but leave room for divine retribution; for it is written, vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord.' But this here's the frontier, boys, and to my way of thinking the New Testament doesn't apply out here. Not yet. So it's the Old Testament for me, especially with these Comanches, because God helps those who help themselves."

"Let's go," said McAllen.

As one, the Black Jacks turned to their horses.

Chapter Nineteen

Come daybreak, Gray Wolf had bitterly accepted the fact that his friend Tall Horses would have to be left behind. For agonizing hours he had wrestled with the decision, seeking in vain some alternative, knowing that the consequence would surely be death for the young warrior. Finally, when the Quohadis paused at a creek to water their tired horses, Gray Wolf went to Tall Horses, who lay in the travois, conscious and clearly in great pain. The bullet remained in his leg, lodged against the bone, and even the slightest movement of the travois caused him discomfort. Gray Wolf had decided to come straight out and tell Tall Horses the truth, but when the time came to do so, he hesitated. Tall Horses could read his fate on the war chief's grim features and smiled wanly.

"Thank you, Gray Wolf," he said. "I do not wish to go on. I am glad you are leaving me here. The pain in my heart, knowing that because of me all my brothers may die, is far greater than the pain in my leg. I could not live with the shame."

Having gathered around the travois, the other warriors heard these words and were profoundly moved. They gazed at Tall Horses with respect bordering on awe.

Gray Wolf clasped the wounded warrior's hand. "The bravery of Tall Horses will be honored as long as a single Quohadi lives." He could say no more, and turned quickly away.

One by one the other warriors bade farewell to Tall Horses. Then they rode on, leaving him in the shade of a post oak, by his side his weapons and a pouch containing pemmican to sustain him in the remaining days—or, more probably, hours—of his life.

Studying the impassive faces of the warriors, Emily failed to discover the strong emotion most of them felt. All she could know was that these savages had abandoned one of their own, apparently because he was slowing them down. This was something white men would never do, she told herself.

A few miles farther on, Gray Wolf glanced back. He had seen no evidence of pursuit, but instinct warned him that the Texans were closing fast. Somehow he just knew they were on the way. He saw black specks in the clear summer sky, recognized them as turkey vultures circling over the place where Tall Horses lay. Gray Wolf silently asked the Great Spirit, Our Sure Enough Father, to take Tall Horses now to the next life, before the whites found him, for surely the Texans would mutilate the young warrior after death, and scalping a Comanche prevented him from attaining immortality.

The buzzards led McAllen and the Black Jacks straight to Tall Horses.

Cedric Cole had a telescoping glass which he had taken off the body of a Florida gunrunner who had paid with his life for the sin of arming the Seminoles with rifles for use against the United States Army and volunteers. As they neared the creek, utilizing the terrain to good advantage, McAllen used the glass to locate the solitary Quohadi warrior beneath the post oak. He, Cole, Tice, and Yancey were concealed behind a screen of dusty shrubs at the top of a low rise, and McAllen was fairly certain the Indian was unaware of their presence. The others used the glass in turn, and McAllen did not speak until all had taken a look.

"He's alone," said Yancey. "They left him behind."

"Doesn't look like he's long for this world," remarked Cole. "I can finish him off from here, Captain," he added, calculating range and windage for a long rifle shot.

"We could try to take him alive," suggested Tice. "Maybe I can keep him breathing until we can trade him for Emily. Or at least until he tells us how she fares. You speak a little Comanche, John Henry. Maybe you could talk to him."

"I don't think he'd talk to me. Besides, the Comanches wouldn't make that kind of trade." McAllen shook his head. "No, it's too dangerous to try to take him alive in broad daylight, and we can't afford to wait until dark." He sighed. There was a bad taste in his mouth. "Go ahead, Cedric. Kill him. There's nothing else for it."

Not wanting to watch, McAllen left the high ground. He flinched at the report of Cole's rifle, mounted up, and led the Black Jacks on to the creek. Cole's aim had been true; the Comanche lay sprawled lifeless beneath the tree.

"Damn good shooting, Cedric," said Morris Riddle. "You want his scalp for a trophy, or can I have it?"

Cole shook his head and Riddle drew his knife, but McAllen stopped him.

"Leave him be."

Perplexed, Riddle stared at him. "What's gotten into you, Cap'n? You didn't used to be squeamish."

"I guess I got that way in San Antonio," snapped McAllen, "when I saw thirty Comanche chiefs gunned down for no good reason at the Council House."

Frowning, Riddle sheathed the knife. It sounded to him like the captain was taking up for the redskins, and that was a disturbing thought. Too disturbing, in fact, so he let it pass without comment.

That morning, Gray Wolf led his Quohadi warriors across the San Bernard River. From this point westward the Texas settlements were sparse. That was the good news. The bad news was that now the terrain became less advantageous for fugitives—more open prairie and fewer trees. And two days' ride to the west lay Bexar and the new settlement called Austin. Gray Wolf hoped to run the gauntlet between these two towns, which lay less than one hundred miles apart. Once beyond them he would breathe easier, for then they would be in the hills where few Texans had yet ventured. From that point on to the Llano Estacado, Gray Wolf felt confident that their progress would be unhampered.

It was the war chief's hope that they might avoid the whites altogether, but he realized this was unrealistic, and that very afternoon his worst fears were realized when a pair of Texas horsemen spotted the Quohadis. These men hailed from Columbus, having joined Adam Zumwalt and his volunteer company in pursuit of the Comanche raiders following the Indian attack on Tucker Foley and Dr. Joel Ponton. They had thought the Comanche scare was over and had no idea there were more hostiles roaming so far to the east. Gray Wolf sent a handful of warriors after the duo. If the Texans escaped they would sound the alarm, and the Quohadis' chances of survival would be slim.

But the Texans did escape. The Quohadi war ponies were worn out. For nearly a fortnight they had been on the move, and for the last two days the warriors had been separated from the herd of stolen horses and so were unable to switch mounts. Crestfallen, the warriors who had failed to catch the Texans returned to Gray Wolf. He did not need to explain the consequences of their failure. They knew all too well—he could see it in their eyes.

Gray Wolf stopped for the night in a timbered ravine. The horses needed rest, and so did the warriors. A few miles back they had entered a creek and turned east rather than west, keeping to the water for a mile before emerging. Gray Wolf hoped this subterfuge would throw off the pursuit he had not yet seen but knew existed; the Texans would expect the Comanches to push ever westward. He told his brethren that they would hide in the ravine all night and through the following day. From now on they would travel only under cover of darkness. In this way they might be able to elude the Texans. There would be no fires, and no one was to venture out into the open.

Their ponies hobbled, the weary warriors stretched out on the hard, stony ground. Tonight there was no elation, no boisterous declarations of their exploits as Emily had witnessed the night before. Gray Wolf provided her with food and water, and he did not tie her to a tree, either. She could sense his anxiety and was encouraged. The two Texans she had seen at a distance that morning had obviously escaped. By tomorrow this country would be crawling with search parties.

Gray Wolf wasn't worried about the white girl trying to escape. He had no intention of sleeping; he was able to go many days without sleep and remain clear-headed. All night he kept watch, deep in thought. He realized now that he had led the Quohadis too far to the east, hoping to strike terror into Texan hearts. It was his responsibility to extricate his Quohadi brothers from this dilemma.

It was nearly dark when McAllen and the Black Jacks reached the creek where Gray Wolf had turned east rather than west. Once it was clear that the Comanches had not crossed the stream but followed its course, McAllen assumed, as Gray Wolf had hoped he would, that the Indians had turned to the west. The lanterns were lit, despite the fact that by the sign it was obvious that the gap between hunter and hunted was being closed. They traveled a mile along the creek, with riders on either bank searching for the place where the Quohadis had quit the water. Joshua stayed in the creek, going on foot in advance of the others, holding a lantern aloft, kneeling now and then to reach into the water. Puzzled, Tice watched the half-breed for a while and then turned to McAllen, who rode alongside.

"What is he doing, John Henry? I can't make head nor tails of it."

"With shod ponies you could expect some marks on the stones in the creek bottom. But since Comanche ponies are unshod, he's looking for overturned stones."

"Now how in heaven's name could he tell if a stone had been turned over?"

"In most cases, the top side will be smoothed by the water. The bottom will be rougher in texture."

"Well, I'll be," said Tice.

A few minutes later Joshua turned and shook his head; McAllen called a halt, dismounted, and spoke in hushed tones to the half-breed. Joshua answered with hand signals, some of which Tice could not figure out. Finally McAllen called the Black Jacks together.

"Doesn't appear the Comanches came this way," he said. "We've been thrown off the track."

Matt Washburn couldn't believe his ears. "They wouldn't have turned east, Cap'n."

"Maybe they did, for a spell, just to throw us off."

Muttered curses filled the deepening darkness.

"Here's what we'll do," said McAllen. "Joshua and I, with Yancey, Brax, and Cedric, will go on ahead. We'll ride due north a ways and hope to cut their trail. The rest of you make camp here. We'll be back before first light and, with any luck, we'll be after them again by daybreak."

In an hour's time they had crossed the Quohadi trail; the Indians were heading west again, having left the creek somewhere to the east of where they had entered it. A lantern was no longer needed; the full moon had risen early and they could see the sign clearly. It was fresh, and McAllen thought the Comanche horses were on their last legs. The Indians would have to stop soon. He decided to follow the trail a few miles before turning back toward the creek where the rest of the Black Jacks were camped.

They had gone two miles when a shot rang out.

Blossoms of fire—muzzle flash—came from a thicket to their right. Brax cried out when a bullet smashed his ankle; Cedric Cole's horse went down, shot dead, but Cole was nimble enough to jump clear. McAllen was out of the saddle with a Colt Paterson in either hand, blazing away as Yancey and Cole helped Brax to cover. Joshua ignored the hot lead buzzing around him to gather up the horses. One, Brax's mount, got away.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

The shout came from the thicket, and McAllen saw a glimmer of white floating to and fro in the moon-silvered darkness. He stopped shooting, and a moment later the shapes of two men were distinguishable from the black background of the thicket; one of the men was carrying a flag of truce—white cloth tied to a ramrod.

"Who the hell are you?" rasped McAllen.

"Name's Daniel Strother," said one of the men. "This here's Tom Coplan. We thought you was them Injuns at first—until you started making smoke with those revolving pistols. Far as I know, them Comanch' don't have such weapons. Thank the Lord for small favors."

"Where are you from?"

"Columbus. Two of our neighbors spotted a war party not too far southeast from here. The Comanch' chased 'em, but they got away." Strother peered speculatively at McAllen's black shell jacket. "Are you John Henry McAllen, by any chance?"

"I am, and you're a pack of fools, shooting at people before you even know who they are."

Strother wore a sheepish expression. "I reckon we are that, and we've paid the price of our folly. One of our own is shot dead."

"Good God," breathed McAllen, realizing that the fatal bullet must have come from one of his own Colts.

"It ain't your fault," said Coplan. "Are any of your men hurt?"

"One, but I think he'll live. The dead man, did he have kin?"

"Wife and family," said Strother.

McAllen's guts churned. "I suggest you men go home."

Strother nodded. "We will. At least we know you and your Black Jacks are on the job, Captain. Those Injuns will get their comeuppance. Did you know that a big bunch was whipped at Plum Creek by Captains Caldwell and McCulloch?"

"No, I hadn't heard." The news was small consolation for McAllen. He was thinking about a faceless widow woman and fatherless children.

Strother and Coplan returned to the thicket. McAllen checked on Brax. He took a long look at the boy's ankle and then pulled Yancey aside.

"You and Cedric take him back to camp so Artemus can tend to that leg."

"There'll be no saving the foot," declared Yancey.

"I'm sorry."

"Maybe it's God's plan," replied Yancey flatly. "Brax let Mary and Emily down and he's got to pay for that."

"What's gotten into you? We all make mistakes. When are you going to forgive him?"

"It's myself I'll never forgive."

McAllen saw them off—Cole, Yancey, and Brax, Torrance father and son riding double. Then he and Joshua resumed following the Comanche trail.

Hardly more than a mile farther on they came to a wooded ravine. The ground was an open book to Joshua—it told the whole story. The Comanches had been here a short time ago. They had departed in haste. McAllen figured they had heard the shooting. He had been close to Emily! It made him sick to think just how close. But what was done was done. The chase would continue.