Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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Chapter Twenty-six

Emily thought she was in another world. The Llano Estacado—the legendary Staked Plains—were unlike anything she had ever experienced.

This was a land without trees and, it seemed, very nearly without water, a limitless expanse, almost perfectly flat, of wind-scoured sage and goldenrod and other hardy grasses. The Spaniards had given it the name it was now known by because expeditions had driven stakes into the ground to mark their passage so that they could return by the same route, since there were no landmarks. A knack for dead reckoning was necessary for traversing this sea of grass.

Emily didn't know it, but Coronado and his conquistadores had crossed the Staked Plains almost exactly three hundred years earlier. In the canyons of the Palo Duro and the Tule they had found Gray Wolf's ancestors living off the buffalo. Coronado did not linger long on the Llano Estacado. His tents were destroyed by hailstones. His men suffered from a shortage of drinkable water and resorted to using the stomach juices of the buffalo to slake their thirst, an old Indian trick. The incessant prairie wind could drive a man stark-raving mad.

Two hundred and fifty years later the Comancheros ventured out into the Llano Estacado. They traded whiskey, bright-colored cloth, beads, and other trinkets to the Indians. Like Coronado, they did not linger. They came, conducted their business, and went home, which in most cases was Santa Fe; they considered the Staked Plains good for nothing. Leave it to the Indians.

But the plains were good for a wide variety of wildlife. Wolf packs followed the immense buffalo herds in their slow, annual migrations. The pronghorn thrived in the open country where it could spot danger from great distances and use its tremendous speed to escape. Rattlesnakes and jackrabbits thrived. Millions of prairie dogs lived in huge "towns" many miles wide; they in turn supported a population of black-footed ferrets, hawks, eagles, owls, and coyotes. Despite the variety and number of predators, the prairie dogs flourished. Not even severe drought could curtail them, since they did not drink water.

Drought was a common occurrence on the Llano Estacado. The few alkaline lakes usually dried up in the summer months, turning into lifeless alkali flats. Shallow circular depressions, playa lakes, caught rainwater, but in the summer months, when Emily crossed the plains with Gray Wolf, they were usually dry, too, or nearly so, containing only a puddle of sludge which reeked of buffalo excrement.

It seemed to Emily that the only break in the monotony was the canyon where the Quohadi Comanches lived. Steep walls protected the canyon's inhabitants from the winter wind. The color of the canyon cliffs astonished her; there were broad horizontal bands of deep red, salmon pink, lavender, orange, yellow, and white. And there were trees in the canyon, too—tenacious junipers clinging to the steep canyon walls, mesquite and cottonwood growing in the bottom. A fork of the Red River curled in serpentine fashion down the canyon. It had water year-round and did not dry out until it left the canyon and lost itself in the rocky badlands to the southeast. A mile or two miles wide where the Quohadi village was located, the canyon expanded to seven miles in width at its mouth.

When Emily arrived with Gray Wolf, the whole village turned out to greet the war chief. Women and children crowded around Emily. An old hag picked up a stick and hurled it at her. Others closed in and clutched at her sunburned legs, trying to drag her off the mule. A sharp word from Gray Wolf cut like a whip and sent her molesters scurrying away. Emily later learned that Quohadi females often mistreated captive women, beating them mercilessly, occasionally even burning them at the stake. Warriors sometimes gave woman captives to wives, mothers, aunts, or grandmothers as slaves.

Gray Wolf's solicitude for Emily immediately set tongues to wagging. Obviously he wanted her to warm his blankets, though how he could desire one so pale and scrawny was unfathomable. No one was offended that Gray Wolf sought to take a woman so soon after Snow Dancer's death, but that he preferred a white woman to a Comanche maiden raised some eyebrows and engendered no little resentment toward Emily among the young unmarried girls.

Gray Wolf had arrived before any of the other Quohadi warriors who months before had ventured forth to participate in the great raid, retribution for the Council House betrayal. The men who remained in the village, those too old or too young to go on the warpath, were curious to know why Gray Wolf was not leading the others, as one would expect of the Antelope band's most respected war chief. "Gray Wolf will not make war on women and children," he said—and that was the sum total of the explanation he offered, except to Spotted Tail.

When the lame Quohadi came to Gray Wolf's skin lodge, he was as intrigued as anyone else by the reticent war chief's return. But Spotted Tail did not ask Gray Wolf for an explanation, and Gray Wolf was grateful for that consideration. Spotted Tail, the pacifist, was the one person he could confide in.

"You were right," he said. "I saw many Texans die, and yet my heart still bleeds. I grow sick of the killing. I no longer have the stomach for war."

Spotted Tail nodded sympathetically. "Snow Dancer's death has opened your eyes to the truth, my friend. Now you know the cost of war is too high. And yet now we are in a war. One we cannot win. The Quohadis will look to their greatest war chief for leadership. They will depend on Gray Wolf now more than ever."

"No warrior will again follow Gray Wolf. I turned my back on my brothers. I told them they were without honor to murder defenseless women and children. In time, a council will be called upon to decide whether I will even be allowed to remain among my people."

Spotted Tail could manufacture no words of comfort to assuage his friend's anguish. He glanced at Emily, who sat in the shadows of the tepee. "Why have you brought this one back with you, Gray Wolf?"

"I wanted to let her go. But I could not."

"She is very brave?"

Gray Wolf smiled. Spotted Tail knew a lot without having to be told. "Yes. Very brave."

"My wife will bring her something more suitable than a blanket to wear."

"Thank you."

"What of your son?" asked Spotted Tail gently. "I only ask because we both know you never intended to come back from the raid. And yet here you are."

"Keep him," replied Gray Wolf brusquely, in a futile attempt to mask his sadness. "He will have a better future with you."

Two days later, Red Eagle and Running Dog arrived with the rest of the Quohadi warriors and the herd of stolen horses. There was much joy in the village at their safe return, and much grief, as well, for the more than thirty brave men who did not come home. Female relatives of the dead wept, cut their hair short, and tore at their clothing. For weeks they would go about in rags as a token of their mourning. Some gashed themselves with knives—these wounds were not allowed to heal until the mourning period was over. The names of the dead were never uttered and never would be again, not for fear of conjuring up ghosts, but rather to avoid reminding those who grieved of the deceased.

Red Eagle, who had always resented Gray Wolf's prestige and popularity, wasted no time in making his rival's life difficult. Gray Wolf's desertion of the war party had left many of the warriors feeling betrayed. Calls for a council to determine whether Gray Wolf should be punished grew more strident in the days that followed. When the council finally did meet, Red Eagle's hopes were high. But the decision merely to strip Gray Wolf of his status as war chief rather than banish him from the Antelope band fell far short of Red Eagle's goal. Consideration of Gray Wolf's heroic service in the fighting against the Utes and the Apaches was the decisive factor.

For his part, Gray Wolf attended the council but did not speak in his own defense. That he was no longer a Quohadi war chief was of little consequence to him. But the cold contempt with which many in the Antelope band treated him cut deeply.

Shortly after the return of the war party, plans for the buffalo hunt were set in motion. This was a matter of the greatest urgency, for it was late in the season, and if the hunt proved unsuccessful there would be many empty bellies in the Quohadi village come winter. The buffalo were fat in the summer, they had shed their winter hair and their hides were in prime condition. Scouts roamed far and wide to locate a suitable herd. Luck was with them. One was found not far from the canyon. A dance of celebration was held. It was time for the Comanche harvest. The next day a large portion of the village, men and women, set out after the herd.

Gray Wolf went along. It was his responsibility to bring home enough meat to feed himself and Emily, and Snow Dancer's death had not released him from his obligations to provide for her family. In addition, he intended to help Spotted Tail bring back sufficient meat to feed his family. The fact that he had given his son away did not mean Gray Wolf would let the child go hungry. Spotted Tail's disability had rendered him something less than a nimble horseman, and horsemanship was essential to success—and survival—in a buffalo hunt.

On the day of the hunt, the Quohadi men approached the buffalo from downwind and then encircled the herd. They began to ride around the herd in a counterclockwise direction, forcing the shaggy beasts to mill. The hunters approached their prey from the right side, closing to within a few feet before firing arrows into the buffalo's flank, aiming for a spot behind the ribs so that the arrow would pierce the animal's heart. Some of the men preferred to use a lance. Stung by arrow or lance, the buffalo usually tried to run faster, if the fatal blow was not delivered at the outset. But sometimes the beast would turn and try to gore horse and rider. Several men were badly injured, but the Antelope band considered it fortunate indeed that no one was killed.

When the killing was done and the remnants of the herd dispersed, butchering commenced. With the help of Spotted Tail's wife, Emily learned how to cut the hide along the spinal column, pull it down along the sides, and then disjoint and cut up the carcass. The meat was wrapped in the hides and packed on horses or mules.

For some time after the hunt, following the Quohadis' return to their canyon, Emily was put to work dressing buffalo hides. The hide was stretched out smoothly and the hair scraped off with a knife. Then the skin was placed in a hole and soaked with water, after which she softened it by walking in place on the hide for hours until it was pliable. The next step was to stretch the hide and rub it with her hands until it was absolutely dry.

Emily did her best to adapt to her situation. She tried to do what Gray Wolf wanted of her and thanked her lucky stars that he did not make sexual advances. Intuition told her that he desired her, but for reasons she did not understand he withstood those desires. Not once did he mistreat her. Nor did anyone else, out of fear or respect for Gray Wolf. She was allowed to come and go as she pleased; the Comanches were not worried that she might escape. Hundreds of miles from the nearest settlement, an attempt would be foolish if not suicidal. At first she did not stray far from Gray Wolf's tepee for fear that the Quohadi women would waylay her. But as time went on she became emboldened. She discovered that if she showed courage in the face of taunts or threatening moves she could go about without being attacked.

She tried to locate the little boy and girl who had been captured, like her, during the raid. Though it took some time to cover the entire camp, she finally managed to find them. For herself, she just wanted someone to talk to in English, feeling it would be a great comfort to her to do so. And she thought maybe she could be of help to the children; though she was powerless to do anything for them, her mere presence might make them feel better. But the Comanche family that had adopted the children drove her away. From what little she saw of them, Emily concluded that the children were not being mistreated. That was something, anyway. In time they would adapt to their new environment—children were much better than adults at that sort of thing. Emily felt sorry for the true parents. If they were still alive, every day would be a living hell, not knowing what had become of their little ones.

Every now and then she managed to steal a few moments of solitude down by the river fork, away from the village. She would sit on the bank and rinse her feet in the water, just like she used to do in the Brazos behind the Torrance cabin. The great canyon cliffs—her prison's walls—soared high above her, and she would try not to think about all the miles that lay between this place and Grand Cane. She tried to have hope, but sometimes reality got the better of her, and she would weep bitter tears, wondering why Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen had not rescued her. Would she ever see John Henry McAllen again? The thought was a dagger through her heart. Oh, what a fool she had been to listen to Artemus Tice when he had advised her to bide her time and keep her feelings for McAllen to herself.

Sometimes Gray Wolf followed Emily when she went in search of a quiet place along the fork of the Red River. He never let her see him; she never once had an inkling that he was there, hiding in the trees, and he would stand there and watch her, and when she cried it touched his restive heart.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Antonio Caldero was a legend at the age of twenty-two.

His father, Trinidad, was a ranchero in the province of Coahuila and, though unlettered, exercised considerable influence in provincial affairs, thanks in no small measure to his wife, in whose veins flowed the best Spanish blood. Though Mexico had successfully revolted against Spanish rule, full-bloods like Caldero's mother were still highly respected. Antonio's older brothers were educated in the best schools available and became pillars of the community. But Antonio became the family's black sheep. In his youth he preferred the rough and rowdy company of Trinidad Caldero's vaqueros.

Antonio was strikingly handsome and charismatic. He was slender and agile, with flashing blue eyes and a mane of jet-black hair. He could be very charming when he wanted to be, and extremely dangerous when his volatile temper got the better of him. When it suited his needs he could be as well-mannered as his mother would ever have wanted, but he could play rough, too.

Unlike many of his countrymen, Antonio did not fear and despise the Comanches. His father had wisely fostered good relations with the Indians, so that when they rode south to raid they never molested the Caldero ranch. In return for this consideration, Trinidad allowed the Comanches to take an occasional horse or cow.

As he grew older, Antonio had even more contact with the Comanches. A thirst for adventure motivated him to join a band of mesteneros when he was only sixteen; his mother was inconsolable and swore she would never see her son alive again, but the hard life of a mustanger suited Antonio. Mesteneros and Comancheros were cut from the same cloth, and in time Antonio established strong ties with the Indian traders and became a familiar face in the Comanche villages.

When the Texans rebelled against Mexican rule, Antonio rode with a company of irregular cavalry known as the Rancheros, who served primarily as scouts for Santa Anna's regular army. Texans likened the Rancheros to the notorious Russian cossacks, and accused them of unabridged rape and pillage.

Antonio exhibited no sympathy for the Anglos. He believed it to have been a grave mistake to let them settle in the province of Texas in the first place. They were an unscrupulous and avaricious people. Worst of all, they were Protestant scum. Antonio was a very religious person, a zealous Catholic. Considering his reputation as a killer and a womanizer and a thief, there were some who found this odd, if not ironic. But Antonio's opposition to Texas and Texans bore the unmistakable imprint of a religious crusade.

After San Jacinto, Antonio took it upon himself to keep the disputed strip of land between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande out of Texas hands. He enjoyed no commission, no official sanction from Mexico City, but to his banner flocked a small army of patriots—or ruffians, if you were looking through the eyes of Texas.

For four years Antonio had waged his undeclared war. The result was that precious few Texas homesteaders dared try to stake a claim to a piece of land south of the Nueces, and the few crazy enough to do so never lasted long. Antonio kept two companies of Texas Rangers busy trying in vain to catch and kill him. When pursuit got too hot, Antonio would slip across the Rio Grande and seek refuge on the vast holdings of his father, land he knew like the back of his hand. Occasionally the Rangers, bold men all, conducted forays south of the river, but while they were indisputably brave, they weren't fools, and they never lingered. Neither did they ever come close to capturing Antonio Caldero. The people were Antonio's allies when he was on the run. He was a hero, another Joachim Murietta, and they would never betray him, neither out of fear nor avarice.

The Rangers did, however, manage to nab a few of Caldero's men—and promptly hanged them. This occurred while Sam Houston was president of Texas, and when word of the executions reached Houston he flew into a rage and attempted to have the men responsible charged. Houston's contention was that the Mexicans should have at least been given a fair trial. But the Rangers suffered no consequences, and the river of bad blood between them and the hero of San Jacinto flowed deep.

Somehow Caldero heard about what Houston had tried to do, and he was grateful. He wrote a note of thanks to the Texas president. The note was found pinned by a knife to the door of Houston's residence. Many were alarmed that Caldero or one of his cutthroats could have gotten so close to Houston without being seen, without even leaving a trace. But Sam Houston was amused. He thought he understood the renegade; in some ways they were much alike.

Apart from the physical danger of a journey into the Nueces Strip, Sam Houston was aware of the political damage he might suffer if Texas learned that he was in contact with Caldero—the "Blue-Eyed Devil," as some folks called him. It mattered not that the purpose for meeting Caldero was to rescue a white woman from the Comanches. One could not make a deal with the devil and expect people to understand.

But Houston entertained no second thoughts. John Henry McAllen needed his help and he would give it, and the consequences be damned. The Black Jack captain was in love, and Houston knew what that was like, thanks to Margaret. His friend's future was at stake. As for Leah McAllen—well, Houston had had grave doubts about McAllen's marriage from the first. Not that he'd tried to talk John Henry out of it. That wasn't his style. But he didn't like Leah, if for no other reason than that she had made his friend's life a pure hell. Houston was not one to ordinarily give credence to scandalous rumors, especially when they targeted the gentler sex. but in Leah's case he knew there was more than a grain of truth to all the lurid tales about her shameless escapades. So if John Henry had found someone else, someone who could make him happy instead of miserable, someone who truly loved him, then good for him.

The Nueces River lay several days' hard traveling south of San Antonio de Bexar. The region subject to dispute between the republics of Texas and Mexico was arid, rocky land spotted with horse-crippling cholla and drought-stunted mesquite, and McAllen had to wonder why so many men were willing to fight and die for it. Only rattlesnakes seemed capable of prospering here.

"How do we find this fellow Caldero, General?" Tice asked Houston the day they crossed the Nueces.

"He will find us, Doctor, rest assured."

Tice bleakly surveyed the desolate horizons and flexed sun-hammered shoulders. "Seems to me that we could ride around down here until doomsday and never see another living soul."

"I would be very much surprised if Caldero doesn't know about us already," said Houston.

That night, while they sat around a campfire cooking a pair of sage hens Houston had bagged from the saddle earlier in the day, Joshua shot suddenly to his feet and whirled, crouching, pistol in one hand and Bowie knife in the other. An instant later one of the horses whickered a warning. That the half-breed had been aware of the intruders even before the horses were did not astonish Tice. He knew how uncannily sharp Joshua's instinct for danger was, and he reached for his own weapons confident that trouble was imminent.

From all points of the compass men emerged from the night shadows and paused at the rim of firelight—dark, savage-looking men wearing sombreros and red sashes and chaquetas and leather chaps to protect their legs from the thorny underbrush of the brasada country. Each man carried a minimum of one rifle, a brace of pistols, and a knife.

Only Houston remained seated, apparently unrattled by the sudden visitation of seven well-armed, scowling ruffians. He spoke briefly to the men in Spanish. One of the Mexicans answered. Houston said something else and then looked up at McAllen.

"Relax, John Henry. These are Caldero's men, sent to do away with us. I told them who I was and that I wanted to speak with Caldero."

McAllen thought it unwise to take his eyes off the bandoleros, but he shot a slightly perturbed glance in Houston's direction. "And?"

"We're still alive, aren't we?"

As silently as they had come the Mexicans melted back into the darkness.

"Where are they going?" asked Tice.

"They'll be back at daybreak, Doctor. They won't go far, but they don't like Anglos well enough to share a night camp with us."

"That's wonderful," said Tice dryly. "I won't be getting much sleep tonight, knowing those fellows are lurking somewhere out there."

"Can we trust them?" McAllen asked Houston.

"I think so. We'd be dead now if they intended to kill us."

McAllen realized then why the general had insisted on coming along. Without Houston here we'd be getting our throats cut right about now. . . .

The next morning the Mexicans returned at first light. Now they numbered six, and McAllen surmised that one man had been sent ahead to notify Caldero. They rode due south until late in the afternoon, the Mexicans in advance of McAllen and his three companions—another manifestation of their resolve to engage in no fraternization whatsoever with Texans.

In the lengthening shadows of day's end they came at last to an adobe hut located near a dry wash. Several horses were tethered to the shaggy cedar poles of a ramshackle corral.

Three men sat at a trestle table in the striped shade of the adobe's pole-roofed porch, sharing a jug. One of them rose as McAllen and the others drew near. He was a slender youth, wearing concho-studded pants, an embroidered chaqueta without a shirt, and a bandanna tied Indian fashion around his head to keep long, thick, jet-black hair out of his face. His glacier-blue eyes were narrowed to slits as they studied McAllen. Tice, and Joshua—finally coming to rest on Houston.

"You must be Sam Houston," he said. His English was good.

"And you must be Antonio Caldero."

Smiling, Caldero bowed with a melodramatic flourish. McAllen did not trust that wolfish smile at all.

"I hope you have a good reason for coming here, General," he said, "because I need a good reason for letting you and your companions live. My men, they do not comprehend. . . ."

Sam Houston dismounted. "I can assure you I didn't come down here for my health."

Caldero laughed. He relayed Houston's comment to his men, who also found it amusing. The ice was broken. McAllen felt a little better. Not a lot, but a little. He knew now how Daniel had felt in the den of lions, and thought he and his friends would need divine intervention, too, to get out of here alive if things went sour.