Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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Chapter Twenty

When Roman knocked on the door, Leah McAllen flew out of Major Stewart's embrace like a bird escaping from its cage. "Just a moment!" she gasped, her tone frantic, and she was trying to rearrange her clothing as the door swung open and the old black man tottered in, bearing the Englishman's dinner on a tray. It all happened in the blink of an eye, and Leah was rattled by the knowledge that she had very nearly been caught in flagrante delicto. Her heart was racing, her cheeks hot, and she realized, belatedly and with dismay, that some of her lip rouge was smeared on Stewart's face. The major was smirking; he seemed to find it amusing that she was so flustered, and he took his own sweet time wiping the damning evidence from his impossibly handsome face.

"I told you to wait a moment," Leah snapped at Roman, infuriated.

Roman wore a seamless look of innocent surprise. "I's old and deaf, Miss Leah. Reckon I didn't hear right."

"Old and deaf and perfectly useless," said Leah spitefully.

The insult had no apparent effect on Roman. He pretended not to hear it, and put the tray on a table next to the bed where Stewart lay. "Here's your dinner, Major, suh. Bessie she say you gots to eat it all, or answer to her."

"Thank you, Roman. I will eat every bit of it, I promise. I'm famished."

"Yassuh. Will there be anything else?"

"Get out," muttered Leah.

"Yessum." Roman shuffled out of the room and closed the door very gently behind him.

"Oh!" exclaimed Leah, furious. "That insufferable old man."

Stewart was chuckling now.

"How dare you!" she cried. "Are you laughing at me? Do you realize they are spying on us?"

"Why do you care what they think?"

"It's what they tell John Henry when he returns that matters, you reckless fool."

"So suddenly you care what your husband thinks."

Her green eyes shot daggers of emerald ice at him. "I doubt even he would tolerate this kind of thing under his own roof."

"You're simply nursing me back to health. I find your kisses a miraculous curative." He reached out for her. "Come here and give me another."

She danced out of his reach with a sultry and coquettish smile touching ruby lips parted slightly to reveal just a glimmer of white teeth.

"No, I don't think I shall kiss you, sir, since you have laughed at me."

Stewart shrugged. "Well, then, I suppose I'll just have my dinner instead."

He took a cup of tea from the tray, but she struck it from his hand and threw herself on top of him and kissed him passionately—then bit his bottom lip so hard she drew blood. Stewart bucked her off with such a violent reaction that his leg wound gave him a shot of pain that robbed him of breath. Now Leah was the one laughing as he wiped blood from his mouth, and the sight of her, one of the most beautiful women he had even seen, lying there on the bed, made the anger in his eyes dwindle while the desire within him soared, and he crushed her body with his. This time her lips were pliant and willing. Leah closed her eyes and surrendered herself to him, her heart racing.

Suddenly Stewart rolled off her and, sitting on the edge of the bed, took a napkin from the tray and tucked it into the collar of his linen nightshirt. "I really am starving," he said, "and this smells delectable. Um, some of Bessie's famous stew. She really is quite a good cook, you know—"

"Oh, you!" Indignant, Leah jumped off the bed and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Stewart tried not to laugh so loud that she would hear him from the hallway, but he couldn't help it.

When Roman entered the kitchen, Bessie was kneading a mound of sourdough for biscuits. Flames licked at the blackened bottom of the Dutch oven hanging on an iron hook above the big fireplace, and it was warm in the room; perspiration beaded her moon-shaped face as she worked. She was humming an old spiritual tune "Roll Jordan Roll," but when she saw the scowl on Roman's face she stopped short.

"Now what's got into you?" she wanted to know.

"Dat woman, she's a devil chile," declared Roman, shaking his head.

"You mean Miss Leah."

"It jis' ain't right, the way she be carryin' on."

"Hmph." Bessie planted a fist on each beefy hip and looked askance at Roman. "And jis' what you gwine do about it? I'll tell you. You ain't gwine do nuttin', you hear me?"

"It jis' ain't right."

"Who tole you ever'thing gwine be right in dis ole world?"

"Marse John he deserve better."

"Well, if he deserve better den he'll get better. Doan you think he know what kind of woman he married to? Sure he do. And he'll take care of things in his own way and in his own time. Now you jis' keep your mouth shut, ole man. Doan go stickin' your nose into business what ain't none of your concern." As she spoke, Roman was edging over to the Dutch oven, sniffing the air like an old hound dog, and Bessie added, "And keep your grimy fingers out my stew, else I'll knock you upside de head."

Jeb appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Rider comin'. It ain't Marse John, though." With that he was gone.

Jeb arrived at the front of the house just as the rider checked his horse at the gate in the hedge of Cherokee rose. The newcomer was a big, burly man wearing a leopardskin vest under his broadcloth coat. Steely gray eyes peered at Jeb from beneath a broad-brimmed planter's hat.

"I am Sam Houston," announced the rider. "Come to see Captain McAllen."

"He ain't here, suh. He gone after dem Comanches."

Houston nodded, sweeping his gaze across the house and the sugarcane fields below the bluff. "Yes, I heard you've had some trouble. Well, then, is there an Englishman here by the name of Stewart?"

"Yessuh, he's here. They took a Comanche arrow out of his leg a few days back."

Houston swung out of the saddle and handed the reins to Jeb. "I would have a few words with Major Stewart."

"I wish I could have brought my wife along," said Houston. "She would have liked to have made your acquaintance, Major."

They sat in the downstairs parlor, Houston in a chair facing Stewart and Leah McAllen, who were seated at opposite ends of a mohair sofa. Stewart had managed to dress for the occasion—he wore the uniform of an officer in the Royal Scots Fusiliers—but the effort to do so had worsened his already weak condition. Houston had sent Bessie upstairs with word that he would not mind at all if Stewart chose to stay in bed during their meeting, but the major would have none of that. "I have come halfway around the world to meet General Houston," he explained to Leah, "and I shall accord him the honor he merits by presenting myself to him in a condition befitting the occasion."

"I regret missing the opportunity to meet Mrs. Houston," replied Stewart gallantly. "I am the poorer for it. And what of my good friend Dr. Smith?"

"He wanted to come with me, but I persuaded him to remain in Galveston to look after my Margaret. I did not bring her, on account of the Comanche trouble."

Stewart indicated his leg. "I've had a taste of that brand of trouble, General. They are quite extraordinary fighters, aren't they?"

"Which is a lesson Lamar will learn," rasped Houston. "But at what cost? How many Texans must die before he learns it?"

Roman brought them their drinks—a sangaree for Stewart, a mint julep for Leah, and an orange bitters for Houston. Houston accepted the glass with a sigh. Now more than ever, with the frontier aflame and a rigorous political contest ahead of him, he felt the need for a good stiff drink. But he would not break his word to Margaret. Sam Houston never went back on a promise.

"I have," he said with a rueful smile, "taken the pledge, as they say in the temperance leagues."

"Mebbe the gen'ral like a seegar," suggested Roman.

"Indeed I would, Roman! One of John Henry's fine Cuban smokes. I have not, thank God, forsworn the weed per humo, as they say."

As Houston was lighting his Dosamygos, Stewart gazed speculatively at the hero of San Jacinto. "Captain McAllen has informed me you intend to challenge Lamar for the presidency. Since your victory is assured, perhaps you will be able to make peace with the aborigines."

"I doubt that. They're madder than hornets now. And my victory is by no means assured, sir. The campaign will be hard fought."

Stewart leaned forward. "I am at your service, General."

Houston smiled. "Of course you are. You know California isn't safe as long as Lamar is president."

"I have it on good authority that my government will mediate a peace between Texas and Mexico—assuming Texas elects a responsible man to lead her."

"Is that so? And this peace would include Mexico's recognition of Texas independence and sovereignty?"

"I feel certain that it would."

Houston's eyes gleamed with delight. "Such a generous offer would necessarily require reciprocation."

"Her Majesty would also like to affix her seal to a free trade agreement with the Republic of Texas."

"What largesse!" exclaimed Houston. "And Her Majesty would expect nothing in return?"

"Of course not."

Houston nodded. He knew perfectly well what Great Britain would expect in return—an independent Republic of Texas which would once and for all reject any notion of annexation to the United States. If Andy By God Jackson knew I was sitting here even discussing such an alliance with the British he would cane me to within an inch of my life. Flicking his ashes into the spittoon old Roman had placed beside his chair, Houston contemplated the glowing tip of the long nine for a moment. He had to choose his words with care. The wrong ones might come back to haunt him. This was a dangerous game he played.

"There are some who believe that independence best suits Texas," he replied mildly, "and I have always wanted only what is best for my adopted country."

Stewart smiled. The Old Chief was a crafty fellow. He had not gone so far as to say that he himself was one of those who relished keeping Texas a sovereign republic.

"The main thing is to oust Lamar," said the Englishman. "I have it in mind to go to Austin and meet with Count de Saligny, the French chargé d'affaires. Perhaps there is something that together we can do to enhance your election prospects, General."

"My fate rests in the hands of Texas citizens. But I am grateful for the offer of assistance, and you may be assured that Great Britain's generosity and concern will not be forgotten. Still, I cannot help but wonder, what will the British public think about their government allying itself with a nation of slaveholders?"

Stewart shrugged. "That's why I have no desire to be a politician. I don't have to worry about that sort of thing. But I have it on good authority that there are a great many Englishmen with adventure in their hearts who will want to try their luck in a new land—especially one of boundless opportunity like Texas."

"You mean a colony?"

"I do indeed, sir. I understand the French and the Germans intend to establish colonies here."

"Grants of land have been awarded for that purpose, yes, but to my knowledge no colonists have yet been settled."

"Perhaps you could persuade the legislature to award a similar grant for a British enterprise."

Houston sipped his orange bitters, thinking fast. Word of a British colony would certainly light a fire under the members of the United States Congress, who were dragging their feet over annexation! But, considering the general feeling toward Great Britain that existed in Texas, it was a risky thing to propose.

Steering the conversation onto another course, Houston spent the better part of an hour trading war stories with Stewart, much to the dismay of Leah McAllen, who was bored almost to tears by all things martial. Finally Houston rose to go. He was, he said, honored to have finally met Stewart, but he did not wish to hinder the Englishman's recuperation by prolonging the occasion. He was confident that they would meet again. He was bound for Brazoria, where he planned to discuss the presidential campaign with certain prominent supporters.

Shaking Stewart's hand, he said, "I have one more question, Major. Why did your government send you, a soldier, on a diplomatic mission?"

"Two reasons," replied Stewart. "One is that as a fellow soldier, they thought I might develop a better rapport with you, General. Then, too, they could not be so indiscreet as to send a diplomat of any note. The news of that would be in Washington and Mexico City before the man had ever reached Texas. And, as I understand the game of diplomacy, one is often better served by not allowing the left hand to know what the right hand is doing."

As Houston rode down the lane to the river road, he was wrapped in thought. Stewart was not altogether right about the game of diplomacy. In his case, at least, Houston would get the right hand—the United States—to do what he wanted by letting it know that the left hand—Great Britain—had designs on Texas. He was encouraged by the information Stewart had provided him. A trade agreement with the British Empire, and recognition of the republic's sovereignty by Mexico! Could Great Britain pressure the Mexicans into the latter concession? Houston felt sure it could be done. But he would have to walk carefully; he had no intention of letting the British lion get her claws into Texas, even though some Texans might find the enticements of peace and free trade too attractive to resist. It was a dangerous game he was playing, and Houston was fully cognizant of that fact. If the United States persisted in its reluctance to annex Texas, even after learning of Great Britain's intentions, his scheme would fail and Texas might indeed find itself allied God forbid, with the British.

Such an event would ruin all of Houston's dreams for the future. He planned to be one of the first senators sent by the new state of Texas to the United States Congress, and from there he would set his sights on the White House. He liked the idea of Margaret Lea Houston becoming the first lady of the land. His bride was quite right to say that his destiny was entwined with the destiny of Texas. But Texas would not prosper unless she joined the Union—and neither would he.

Once Sam Houston was gone, Leah wasted no time in asking the question she had been dying to ask for more than an hour.

"And when do you plan to go to Austin?"

Stewart was sprawled, exhausted, on the parlor sofa. "I should be fit enough to travel in a few days," he replied, watching her wander restlessly around the well-appointed room. In fact he didn't feel fit enough by a long shot—his head throbbed and his leg ached. But he wanted to get a reaction out of her.

She whirled to face him. "A few days! You can't! You simply can't!"

"Will you be sad to see me go?"

"Not at all. It's just that Dr. Tice said you needed complete bed rest for at least a fortnight."

Stewart smiled wryly. "My talent for healing quickly has always confounded doctors. Tomorrow I shall walk down to the river and back. The day after I shall be in the saddle. The day after that I should be very much surprised if I am not on my merry way to Austin town."

Leah went to one of the tall windows and pouted. "You don't have to sound so eager to be gone."

Stewart got to his feet and hobbled over to her, laid his hands gently on her pale, soft shoulders, and breathed deeply the French perfume she wore. Lavender, wasn't it? Probably Guerlain.

"So why don't you come to Austin with me?"

"Come with you? Oh, I couldn't. That would be too . . . blatant."

"Then come a day or two after me. Pretend to everyone that you've gone to Austin on some other business. Shopping, perhaps."

She scoffed at that. "Shopping? Austin is no place for that sort of thing. One must go to Galveston to find a selection of merchandise worth making such a trip for."

"I'm afraid I'm not going to Galveston."

"Fiddle."

"We would at least be safe from the prying eyes of Grand Cane's domestics. I will introduce you to Count de Saligny. Perhaps there will be a dance while we are there. . . ."

He kissed the back of her neck and she shuddered involuntarily.

"You must think me a shameless hussy," she said, feigning indignation.

"Not at all. My mother's first husband paid her no attention, and she had to seek affection elsewhere. Is the woman to blame for such a sad state of affairs? I think not. A woman needs to be loved, and shame on the man who fails to satisfy his wife in that respect. It is he who has broken the vows of marriage."

She turned to face him. "I never thought of it in quite that way."

"I'm sure you'll see the logic," he replied, and tried his best to sound sincere, even as he marveled at what a simpleminded girl she was.

Leah began to make plans in her mind for the trip to Austin. With luck she would be back home before her husband returned from his foray against the Indians. Assuming he did return. And even if he heard rumors about her and the major in Austin, well, that didn't matter, since John Henry didn't seem to care too much what she did while she was away from Grand Cane.

Chapter Twenty-one

Yancey Torrance had been right about the prospects of saving his son's foot. It was Dr. Tice's prognosis that an amputation would have to be performed, and soon. He did not want to operate on the open prairie unless he had to. A. G. Deckard was dispatched to locate a wagon at the nearest farm or settlement. Brax would be transported back to the location where Deckard found the conveyance, and there Tice would do what he had to do to save Brax's life. In the meantime, he prevented Brax from bleeding to death by using a gun barrel heated red-hot in a fire to close the artery which the bullet had severed before smashing the bones in the boy's ankle. Brax was given a strip of leather cut from a saddle's cinch strap to bite down on while the cauterization was performed. He passed out during the process. McAllen noticed that Yancey looked on with a face that might have been etched from stone.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to stay with your son," said McAllen.

"I'll be going after the Comanches."

"Brax will need you, Yancey."

"He'll have to make do on his own."

"You know I'll do everything in my power to bring Emily home."

"No," snapped Yancey. "I'm going on, and that's my final word on it." With that he walked away into the darkness to be alone with his personal demons.

McAllen stared after him, incredulous. He was shocked by the transformation Mary's death had wrought in his friend. There was precious little left of the old Yancey.

Joshua had been sent to fetch the rest of the Black Jacks from their camp by the creek, and before long the men had arrived. McAllen told them what had happened and how close they had been to catching the Comanche raiders. He suggested they get a few hours' sleep. It was his intention to be back in the saddle by first light.

McAllen sensed that some of the men were of the opinion that they should press on after the hostiles, though none among them stepped forward to challenge his decision to tarry here. But he knew that there would be no catching the Indians tonight. Besides, men and horses all needed rest. In the past couple of hours he had reconciled himself to the fact that this would be a long pursuit.

A little while later Deckard returned driving an old spring wagon. Even with only one arm he handled the pair of mules in the traces with skill. There was, he announced, a homestead about eight miles northeast. The farmer had taken a potshot at him, thinking him an Indian in the dark; the man knew of the great Comanche raid—who on the frontier did not know of it by now?—and had spent the last few days in mortal dread of a visitation by the red heathens. After this little misunderstanding, the farmer had assured Deckard that his home was at the disposal of the Black Jacks and their wounded comrade.

Tice did not want to wait until dawn to get under way. Brax, still unconscious, was loaded into the wagon, and McAllen told Deckard to go along.

"I sure do hate to miss out on giving them Comanche devils what for," said Deckard unhappily. "But you're the captain."

As the wagon creaked and rattled off into the night, McAllen stretched his aching body out on the hard ground and tried to steal a couple hours' sleep. It was no use. He stared at the star-strewn sky, partially obscured by moon-silvered clouds scudding low and fast out of the south, and thought about Emily. He couldn't think about anything else. With each passing day the chances of rescuing her would dwindle. If the Comanches managed to get west of the Colorado into the wild country, odds were he would never see her again. That thought pushed him right to the brink of panic.

The handkerchief was in his coat pocket. He took it out and gazed for quite a long time at the flower she had given him. A token of . . . what? Was she in love with him? Or was it merely infatuation? He had to know. His whole future seemed to depend on it. What a fool he had been, that day down by the Brazos, asking her to be patient. In time, things will be different. But they might have run out of time now. Of all people, Emily probably knew better than to hitch her hopes and dreams to a tomorrow that might never come. The death of her folks had no doubt taught her the folly of that. And now, mused McAllen bitterly, I have learned the lesson. I pray to God I have not learned it too late.

The new day's dawning brought the promise of rain. Beneath an ominous sky, McAllen and Joshua and a dozen Black Jacks headed west on the Comanche trail.

Emily's hopes soared when she heard the gunfire as she lay, curled up on the hard ground in the wooded ravine, trying to sleep. She thought at first that Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen had come at last to rescue her, as she had always known they would. Then she realized that the sound was coming from too far away. There was no attack being launched on the Comanche camp. Worse, the Indians were alerted to the danger and in a matter of minutes were mounted and racing westward through the night with their white captive in tow. Tears of frustration scalded Emily's eyes when she thought about how close she had been to freedom.

It began to rain that morning. Sometimes the rain came down in wind-driven sheets, sometimes diminishing to a gentle mist, but it never stopped entirely. Emily was cold and miserable all day long, with the soaked blanket clinging to and irritating her flesh. The Quohadis seemed encouraged by the rain, and she surmised that it was their hope that the downpour would at least partially obscure their trail.

That evening they found the rest of the Quohadis, the ones who had not waited at the rendezvous near Grand Cane. The herd, which numbered at least a hundred stolen horses, along with a handful of mules, grazed out in the open, supervised by a couple of herd guards. The rest of the Indians had built some cook fires in a strip of timber. As the day darkened into night it was still drizzling. Exhausted, Emily sank into the mud at the base of a tree, heedless of the shower of water shaken out of rain-heavy branches overhead by the occasionally gusting wind. Reunited, the Comanches numbered more than eighty warriors, and Emily was hard-pressed to keep her hopes intact.

Wrapped in misery, she gradually became aware of an altercation near one of the campfires, where about twenty Quohadis were gathered, some of them cooking cuts of horsemeat impaled on long green sticks and seared in the flames. Two Indians were shouting at one another—her captor and the warrior who had murdered the white woman and her infant forty-eight hours ago. Remembering how incensed her captor had been to find the woman and child killed in such a brutal, senseless manner, Emily wondered if he was upbraiding the killer for committing the cold-blooded act. She thought the two men would come to blows, but other Quohadi intervened.

She could not know that Gray Wolf had called the warrior a coward for making war on defenseless women and children. That the whites murdered Indian women and children was no excuse. Was the Quohadi no better than the white man? His own wife, Snow Dancer, had been gunned down by a Texas Ranger, but Gray Wolf refused to dishonor her memory, and himself, by shedding the blood of innocents out of revenge. He would no longer ride with warriors who had no honor. Removing the bonnet of feathers which signified his status as war chief, Gray Wolf coldly announced his intention of going his own way. From now on, Red Eagle could lead the Quohadis. A few of the warriors tried to reason with him, including his brother, Running Dog, but Gray Wolf refused to listen.

As he walked angrily away from the campfire, Gray Wolf caught a glimpse of the fierce elation on Red Eagle's face. Red Eagle knew that Gray Wolf had destroyed his reputation by forsaking his responsibilities as a chief, especially while on the warpath. Few if any Quohadi warriors would ever again follow Gray Wolf, mused Red Eagle, who could not believe his own good fortune. His greatest rival for the loyalty of the Quohadi warrior class had figuratively cut his own throat, and over what? A dead white baby and its mother! Truly Gray Wolf had betrayed his true self. He was weak in spirit, and unfit to lead the Quohadis into battle.

That night Gray Wolf rode west, leaving the rest of the Quohadis in their camp, and taking Emily with him. Exhausted, she kept dropping off to sleep, jerking awake as she felt herself falling off the mule. Finally she did not awaken until her body hit the ground. The pain of the fall scarcely registered. She was wet, cold, and hungry. Her inner thighs were rubbed raw from riding countless miles bareback.

To her surprise, Gray Wolf did not make her get back on the mule. They spent the remainder of the night in a rocky draw. He gave her some pemmican, and she consumed it. Then she lay on the hard wet ground and went to sleep.

He woke her before dawn and they were on their way again. At least the storm had passed. About midday they crossed a wide river. Grasping his pony's mane with one hand, Gray Wolf held on to Emily with the other. The mule swam across on its own recognizance. She assumed the Comanche was afraid she might try to escape by letting the current carry her away. The thought had occurred to her, but she quickly discarded it; she doubted that she had the strength to fight the river and keep from drowning. But then, it was possible that he knew she was too weak to swim on her own and did not want her to drown.

Emily had no idea what river it was, but the fact that she was far from home was made manifest by the starkly different landscape. This country was arid and rocky and rugged, dotted here and there with dusty mesquite trees and wind-sculptured post oaks, the grass sparse and brown, the soil red and sandy. Clumps of prickly pear cactus were everywhere. It was a far cry from the grassy meadows and thick forests of the Brazos blacklands. This alien and inhospitable terrain did nothing to alleviate Emily's dull despair. Still, flying in the face of all reason and reality, she clung to the belief that Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen would save her.

The day seemed to go on forever. A hot sun blazed in a colorless sky. The blanket did not cover very much of her body, and her flanks and arms were soon burned. Finally Gray Wolf stopped and helped her off the mule. She sank immediately to the ground, but he took her roughly by the arm and half dragged, half carried her down into a dry creek bed, leading the horse and mule. Emily could tell by the expression on his face that something was wrong. They reached a cutback and Gray Wolf pressed her back against the hard, fluted red earth, a hand clamped over her mouth. Emily's heart leaped against her rib cage. The sound of horses drifted out of the twilight's purple haze.

Minutes crawled like hours. The darkness deepened. Gray Wolf was watching the rim of the cutback overhead. Emily gazed over his shoulder at the far side of the dry wash, and it was there that she saw the shape of a horse and rider seemingly rise up out of the ground, silhouetted against the indigo backdrop of the western sky. She could tell it was a white man by the distinctive shape of his broad-brimmed hat. She gasped at the sight of him, even as she realized that the man could not possibly see her or her Comanche captor—the shadows that had gathered in the dry wash were blacker than the devil's heart.

Gray Wolf heard her gasp, felt her body go rigid, and he turned his head to look behind him. The sight of the rider not a stone's throw away gave him a start, but he didn't move an inch, his eyes narrowed to slits. The horseman rode on, seeming to sink back into the earth as he quit the high ground. Gray Wolf looked at Emily. She was gazing at the spot where the rider had disappeared, and the anguish in her eyes was apparent even in the gloom of twilight, and he experienced a twinge of remorse. He admired this woman's courage and stamina and intelligence. In some ways she reminded him of Snow Dancer. The memory of his dead wife was still agonizing, and it occurred to him that there was probably a white man who loved this woman as he had loved Snow Dancer, and who was suffering the same kind of agony.

Without fully knowing why, he removed his hand from the woman's mouth.

Emily stared at him in disbelief. They stood close together, and she thought she recognized a kind of calm resignation on his face—a face painted for war with traces of vermilion strokes across his forehead and beneath the eyes, strokes that had once been boldly delineated but now, after a rainstorm and a river crossing and many days on the warpath, were mere shadows of their former selves.

She could cry out for help—the rider was close enough to hear her in the stillness of the evening, and he wasn't alone; she was sure she'd heard several shod horses. Perhaps it was Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen and the Black Jacks. Whoever it was, they could kill this lone Comanche and she would be saved. Her long, hideous ordeal would be over. She could go home.