Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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But the Comanche knew all this, too—knew she could bring death down upon him with a single word. And yet he had removed his hand from her mouth. He was giving her permission to call out. Why? In that split second of decision Emily sought the answer in his dark eyes.

He did not want to live! Yes, that had to be the reason.

Emily had not really thought of him as a human being before, but of course he was, and at this moment, for whatever reason, he did not feel that life was worth all the pain of living. She had felt the same way time and time again during her captivity. She had endured the depths of despair which her captor was now experiencing.

She remembered how he had saved her from the Comanche who had tried to trade her for a horse or a jug of whiskey, who had stripped her naked and presented her to his companions as though she were a slave girl on the auction block. She was certain she had been spared from a fate worse than death. And she remembered how this warrior had reacted to the deaths of the white mother and her baby, and how he had raged at the murderer. And how could she forget that this man had fed her and given her water, all the while never striking her or even attempting to molest her during this horrible ordeal?

Now he had put his life in her hands, fully expecting her to throw it away.

Emily thought of home, of Uncle Yancey, and, most of all, of John Henry McAllen. John. He had asked her to call him John. And she thought of the flower which he had preserved and which he treated like some precious artifact.

She began to cry silent tears, because she could not cry out, could not save herself if it meant signing the Comanche's death warrant. Sinking to her knees, she covered her face with her hands and wept. But she wept quietly.

Gray Wolf sat on his heels beside her and watched her cry. His heart went out to her, even as he marveled at the fact that he was still alive. Why had the woman spared him? He was her enemy. The urge of war and revenge abandoned him in that moment and left him oddly empty and directionless. A white man had spared his infant son's life months ago, when the Rangers attacked the Comanche encampment outside of Bexar. Now a white woman had proved she would rather remain a prisoner, her fate uncertain, than be the instrument of his death. Gray Wolf was puzzled. He tried to sort through his jumbled thoughts.

Eventually the woman could cry no more. She lay down and went to sleep, curled up in a ball, and Gray Wolf removed the blanket from the back of his war pony and covered her with it. Suddenly he felt very protective toward this woman. He wanted no harm to come to her. He knew he ought to set her free, so that she might return to home and loved ones. Now was the time, before they got too far into the wild country. Until morning he debated with himself. But in the end, as the new day dawned in soft shades of gray and pink, he came to the realization that he did not want to let her go. He did not want to part with her.

Chapter Twenty-two

On the night that Emily let slip the chance to save herself, John Henry McAllen and his Black Jacks attacked the Quohadi war party which Gray Wolf had forsaken.

The day before, McAllen thought they had lost the trail of Emily's abductors. Hard rains had obliterated the sign made previously on hard ground. But they pressed on westward, and though they missed the place where the Quohadis had camped—and where Gray Wolf and his warriors had reunited with the group led by Red Eagle—they could not miss the tracks left by eighty warriors and a herd of more than one hundred stolen horses, especially when the sign was made on rain-soaked ground. The Indians he was following had joined an even larger group, and McAllen realized that would make rescuing Emily more difficult, but for the moment he was glad for it—the Comanches left a trail a blind man could follow.

McAllen entertained some hope of acquiring a few reinforcements himself. After all, by this time it had to be common knowledge up and down the frontier that another band of Comanches besides those whipped at Plum Creek were on the loose east of the Colorado River. And yet, with the exception of the men from Columbus who had fired on the Black Jacks by accident, McAllen hadn't seen another soul on the prowl for the hostiles. And where, pray tell, were the Texas Rangers? The men Mirabeau B. Lamar counted on to make the Texas frontier safe? Where had those vaunted Indian fighters been keeping themselves during the great raid?

But then McAllen decided it was probably just as well that there were no Rangers on the trail of the Comanches who had raided Grand Cane. Their first priority—their reason for being—was killing Indians, while his was rescuing Emily Torrance.

As usual, the Comanches sought the cover of trees in which to make their night camp, in this case the willows and cottonwoods which grew along a shallow, rocky creek, with open prairies to the north and south. They knew that San Antonio and Austin were but a long day's ride to the southwest and northwest, respectively, so they were on the constant alert for armed bands of Texans. The horse herd was driven down into the timber, and the herd guards were charged with keeping them there. No fires were permitted. Most of the stolen whiskey had been consumed long ago, and there would be no boisterous recounting of warpath exploits; the Quohadi warriors were bone-tired, and most of them just wanted to get home to the Llano Estacado.

Following their trail, and spotting the line of trees up ahead as the last shreds of daylight melted out of the western skyline, McAllen halted the Black Jacks and considered the situation. He did not need Joshua to tell him that they were but an hour or two behind the hostiles, and those trees yonder made a perfect site for the Comanche night camp. He sent Joshua ahead on foot to reconnoiter. The half-breed was back in a quarter of an hour with news that was music to McAllen's ears. The Comanches were there and settled in for the night.

The odds were about seven to one, but this in no way deterred McAllen and his men. Never in their history had the Black Jacks enjoyed numerical superiority going into battle. In a dozen major engagements against the Seminoles, in the Battle of San Jacinto, and on previous occasions when they had tested the mettle of Comanche war parties, the Black Jacks had always been outnumbered. Perhaps never so greatly, but these men were not the type to be discouraged by what they considered a minor point.

They waited for hours, sitting or lying in the tall prairie grass, reins tied to their wrists. A few took this time to get a bite to eat—cold, hard biscuits and jerky. Others tried to sleep. No words were spoken. No tobacco was smoked—they were about a quarter mile from the Comanches, and Indians had sharp noses. All weapons had long ago been loaded and primed.

McAllen waited until midnight, checking his key-winder more than was necessary, battling the demons of impatience. He had set for himself the goal of locating Emily as soon as they entered the Comanche camp. Nothing else mattered. Whether Yancey had the same intentions was not a factor. Yancey had changed, and McAllen could not be sure what was in his friend's mind. Possibly his desire to avenge Mary's death might blind him to his responsibilities. His behavior regarding his son Brax had raised serious doubts in McAllen's mind.

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.

Matters got worse. Burnet negotiated a treaty with the captured Santa Anna in which the self-styled Napoleon of the West promised to persuade the Mexican assembly to recognize the independence of Texas in exchange for his release. Members of Burnet's own cabinet were incensed and refused to sign on; Santa Anna's words, they declared, were as worthless as a three-legged mule. Burnet stubbornly went ahead and put Santa Anna aboard the Texas man-o'-war Invincible, bound for Mexico. Unfortunately for Santa Anna—and Burnet—Thomas Jefferson Green and over two hundred North Carolina volunteers arrived in Velasco at that moment. Green boarded the Invincible, shackled Santa Anna, and dragged him unceremoniously back onto Texas soil. Burnet lost the trust of the Texas Army and the Texas people as a result of this incident. He blamed Houston and accused the hero of San Jacinto of conspiring against him. The army was ready to throw Burnet out, but Houston kept them in line. Though he had been shoddily treated by Burnet, Houston refused to countenance mutiny.

During Houston's term as the republic's first elected president, Burnet had constantly heckled him and ridiculed his policies, particularly in regards to making peace with the Indians. Now Burnet was Lamar's vice president. He spent most of his time in Galveston. Singletary was certain he would become Lamar's chief hatchet man in the upcoming campaign. Already he was sharpening his claws on Houston's hide with those articles in the Houston Telegraph and Texas Register, under the pseudonym of Publius.

"If memory serves," said Singletary, "Burnet once challenged Houston to a duel. It will be interesting to see what happens this time around."

"They are both quick-tempered men," observed Lamar, nodding.

"Houston would be a fool to allow himself to be baited into an affair of honor. Live or die, he would lose. After the Goodrich-Laurens business, dueling is greatly out of favor here."

Lamar smiled. "I'm sure you will do your part, sir, to make sure Mr. Houston loses. Now, if you will excuse me . . ." He and Wingate and the two bodyguards proceeded down Congress Avenue. Singletary, though, wasn't so easily dispensed with. He fell in step alongside the president.

"You seem to be afraid of me," said the newspaperman.

That stopped Lamar in his tracks. "What makes you think so?"

"The City Gazette has consistently supported your policies, Mr. President."

"Yes, yes. That's true."

"You might say I have dipped my poison pen in the blood of your enemies."

"Quite so," conceded Lamar. "But why? I do not perceive your motives, sir. If you have convictions, political or otherwise, they are concealed from me, and everyone else. If you do not know why a man is doing something for you today, then how can you be sure he won't turn on you tomorrow?"

Singletary pursed his lips. "Hmm. I see your point." He touched the brim of his hat. "I'll detain you no longer, Mr. President. Good day."

Lamar watched the City Gazette editor angle across the wide, dusty expanse of Congress, a lanky, narrow-shouldered man clad in austere black attire who walked with an ungainly, bent-kneed stride.

"A strange fellow," Lamar murmured to Wingate. "I have felt the sting of his acid wit a time or two, and I do not relish it on a regular, or public, basis. And yet I cannot help but feel that Singletary, in some form or fashion, will in the end do me harm."

"Maybe somebody will kill him," said Wingate. "He's been a burr under many a man's saddle."

Lamar gave the Ranger captain a curious look and walked on.

As he had hoped, Albert Sydney Johnston, general of the Army of Texas, was in his office in the dogtrot shanty of weathered clapboard which served as the republic's War Department. The burly, fair-haired soldier was hunched over a cluttered desk, perusing a document which Lamar immediately recognized, since he had penned it only yesterday. Johnston fastened his cold blue eyes on Lamar.

"I have here your authorization to conduct a campaign against the Comanche Indians," rasped Johnston. "I would find it humorous, sir, except that I have no sense of humor."

"So you cannot do it, is that what you're saying, General?"

"With all due respect, just how the hell could I? I have a couple of hundred poorly equipped men scattered in outposts from one end of Texas to the other. My artillery consists of a few old rusting six-pounders. As for personal weapons, my men have nothing to compare with the Colt Patersons which the government saw fit to provide the Ranger companies."

"I quite understand," said Lamar smoothly. "Sadly, in these hard times, the money simply isn't there to meet all the army's needs."

Johnston sighed and sat back in his chair. A man of action, he disliked riding a desk, and he put Lamar in mind of a caged tiger. "Under the circumstances," he said, "a campaign such as you suggest is out of the question."

"But we can't very well let the savages go unpunished, now, can we?"

"I've had reports that militia companies bloodied the hostiles at Plum Creek. And, according to rumor, John Henry McAllen and the Black Jacks have been nipping at the heels of a war party all the way from the Brazos River to the Colorado. The Comanches didn't get away scot-free. My advice is to leave well enough alone."

"I can't do that," said Lamar bluntly. "Houston will say I am guilty twice over—once for inciting the Comanches to war with a policy that resulted in the Council House debacle, and again for being unable to protect the frontier."

"Then send the Rangers."

"Perhaps I will have to do just that." Lamar acted as though the thought hadn't occurred to him, and Johnston hated him for the charade. He knew perfectly well what Lamar was up to. From the first, the president had known the regular army was in no condition to conduct a campaign against the Comanches. His own policies had rendered Johnston's department virtually impotent. Now, though, he had an excuse for sending his hired killers out after the hostiles—the army had been unwilling to take on the job.

Johnston decided he ought not make it too easy for Lamar. Rising, he leaned forward and planted big fists on the desk. "Sir, I repeat. My advice is to leave it alone. The Comanches have had their fun. Some of us expected a raid after the Council House fight—though, admittedly, not one of this scope. We'll have no more trouble from the Indians until next spring. They've got to head west and hunt the buffalo and get ready for winter. Concentrate on your reelection and leave the Comanche problem for later."

"The political aspects are what move me to press the attack against the savages," replied Lamar. "The people will appreciate our vigor. And they know we must deal with the Comanche menace before we can realize our destiny and stake a claim to New Mexico and, yes, even California. No, General Johnston. There is no time to waste."

"Well, sir, you're the politician." Johnston didn't sound convinced by Lamar's line of reasoning.

Lamar turned promptly to Wingate. "I will need a good man to lead two or three Ranger companies, whatever can be spared from frontier defense, to strike deep into Comancheria, to attack the Indians wherever they are found, to destroy their villages—in short, to teach them a lesson they will never forget. I suspect you are the man I am looking for, Captain. Am I correct?"

Wingate's eyes were ablaze. This was what he had long dreamed of—carte blanche to carry out a campaign of extermination against the red devils who had murdered his kin and cost him his arm.

"Damn right," he replied.