Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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Chapter Twenty-eight

McAllen and Houston followed Antonio Caldero into the dirt-floored adobe hut. Whoever had lived here had abandoned the place long ago—in McAllen's opinion he should have known better than to try to carve an existence out of this desolate wasteland. Now Caldero used it as an occasional rendezvous point. According to Houston, Caldero by necessity led a nomadic life; it wasn't safe for him to stay in any one place for too long, especially north of the Rio Grande.

Several of Caldero's bandoleros came in, too, but he sent them right back out again. They protested—they didn't trust the Anglos and feared for their leader's life. But they obeyed. Caldero struck McAllen as a man who would administer harsh punishment to anyone who practiced disobedience. Besides, he seemed supremely confident in his own ability to handle any situation. No doubt he was a real hand with the pistols stuck buccaneer-fashion under the red sash that encircled his waist. Apparently the red sash had some significance, McAllen had noticed that all the Mexicans who rode with Caldero sported them.

The three of them—Houston, McAllen, and Caldero—sat on empty barrels at a rickety table, a jug of aguardiente between them. Houston declined a drink, explaining that he was practicing temperance in keeping with the promise he'd made to Margaret. McAllen didn't like the taste of the anise-based liquor, but he took a drink so as not to offend their host. Caldero indulged in a long swig from the jug. It might have been water for all the effect it seemed to have on him. Then he lit a cheroot by the flame of a tallow lamp. The windowless hut was dark and gloomy and McAllen heard something scuttling about in the back corner, but he couldn't tell what it was. Wreathed in acrid blue smoke, Caldero propped his booted feet on the table, his big-roweled Chihuahua spurs gouging the old gray wood.

"So tell me, Houston. Why have you come so far to see me?"

"To ask a favor."

"What makes you think I would do any Texan a favor, even you?"

"Don't you think you ought to find out what it is before you decide not to do it?"

Caldero shrugged indifferently. "I will listen, because at the moment I have nothing better to do."

"We've come to ask you to intercede on our behalf to free a young woman from the Comanches."

Caldero's piercing blue gaze swung to McAllen. "Your woman, no doubt, señor."

"She will be when I get her back."

"The Comanches took her during the big raid two months ago," said Houston. "I'm sure you've heard all about that."

"It made me very happy."

"A lot of innocent people got hurt," snapped McAllen.

"Easy, John Henry," advised Houston.

Caldero smiled and shook his head. "There is no such thing as an innocent Texan."

"I guess I ought not to be surprised that you think so," said McAllen bristling, "since your own men make no distinction between man, woman, or child when they attack our homesteads."

"We attack your settlers because they are trespassers. We make an example of all Anglos who dare to steal land that does not belong to them. And you must admit, our methods are effective. How many Texan farms did you see between here and the Nueces, eh?"

"Your methods are barbaric," replied McAllen.

"Really? I have also heard about the murders of the Comanche chiefs in San Antonio de Bexar, and of the attack on their encampment, where many innocent women and children were also slain. I am thinking that the look on your face tells me that you yourself were present, señor."

"I was," admitted McAllen bluntly. "And I don't like what happened there any more than I like what you and your men do."

"Gentlemen," Houston said with a sigh, "it's very entertaining to watch a couple of young bulls go at it head to head, but it really isn't accomplishing anything."

Caldero took another drink of aguardiente. "You are right, General. Your friend and I, we are much alike. I am thinking that one day maybe we will have to settle our disagreement. But not today. Today you have come to ask a favor of your enemy. But I cannot see why I should do this thing for you."

"Maybe because you're a romantic at heart," suggested Houston.

Caldero laughed and slapped the table with the flat of a hand. "You are right. I am a romantic. I am glad you did not say I should do this because I owed you a favor. If you had saved the lives of my men it might be so. But you did not save them."

"I wasn't trying to save their lives. All I wanted was for them to get a fair trial. No doubt they would have been hanged anyway. But at least it would have been a legal execution."

"A fine distinction," mused Caldero dryly, "and one that I am sure would have been wasted on them. But, even if I were to do this thing, there are many Comanche villages. Do you know which band took this woman?"

McAllen brandished the broken shaft of an arrow from beneath his dusty black shell jacket and handed it to Caldero, who glanced at the fletch and the markings and nodded.

"Quohadi," he said.

"The Antelope band?" asked Houston.

"Sí. They live on the Llano Estacado."

"So will you help us or not?" pressed McAllen.

"What will you do if I say no?"

"I'll find her myself. No matter how long it takes—or how many of your Comanche friends I have to go through."

Caldero looked long and hard at McAllen, and knew this grim and determined man meant every word he said.

Houston leaned forward. "Caldero, you know me. I've always tried my best to keep peace with the Indians. Even the Comanches. That hasn't been easy, since they've always raided our farms and settlements."

"As I said before, it is because you Tejanos are trespassers."

"I'm running for president again," said Houston, "and once I've replaced Lamar I'll try my damnedest to stop this war. More killing won't solve anything. If you help us find this girl and get her back, a lot of lives will be saved. And that will bring us one step closer to peace."

"You're taking the wrong tack with this man, General," decided McAllen. "He's not the least bit interested in peace."

Caldero puffed vigorously on his cheroot. "I tell you what, Houston. If I help you, you must do something for me in return."

"What might that be?"

"You will state publicly that the Nueces River, in your opinion, forms the southern boundary of your so-called Republic of Texas."

McAllen stood up in a hurry. "Let's get out of here, General."

"Hold on, John Henry."

McAllen was incredulous. "You're not even going to consider that—are you?"

"Caldero," said Houston, "you know I could never do that."

"I know that now. Just as I know now that you are a man of honor, whose word can be trusted."

So it had been a test, mused McAllen as he sat back down. Had Houston agreed to Caldero's spurious condition the bandit leader would have known he was lying, and that would prove Sam Houston was the kind of man who would say anything a person wanted to hear. And that, in turn, would mark him as an unreliable, unscrupulous man, a man without integrity. Though a bandit, Caldero had a code of honor he tried to live by.

Caldero took another drink. "I tell you what I will do," he said at last. "I will try to find out where this girl is." He pointed at McAllen. "But if I do locate her, you will have to go and get her. It will not be without risk. But then you don't care about that, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"You will have to give something of equal or greater value to the warrior who owns her, if he chooses to trade."

"I realize that."

Caldero nodded. "What is this woman's name, and what does she look like?"

McAllen told him.

"And where can I get word to you?"

McAllen told him about the plantation at Grand Cane.

"Go there," said Caldero. "Wait for word from me. It may take weeks. Months. I may never find her. She might be dead."

"No. She's alive."

"Wishful thinking? We shall see."

Riding away from the adobe hut, stirrup to stirrup with Houston, and with Joshua and Dr. Tice coming along behind them, McAllen didn't say a word until they were deep in the brasada scrub and out of Antonio Caldero's sight.

"I'm glad you came along, General," he said. "If you hadn't, Caldero would have been shooting at me instead of talking to me."

"I'm not sure I've done you any favors, John Henry. This is a dangerous proposition. You'll probably lose your life before it's over with."

McAllen didn't think he needed to explain to Houston that if he didn't find Emily his life wasn't worth holding on to anyway.

"I want to know one thing," said Tice. "Why did Caldero agree to help? What does he have to gain?"

Houston and McAllen glanced at each other.

"Damned if I know, Artemus," said McAllen.

"It's either ego or gratitude, I suppose," said Houston.

"I don't follow," admitted Tice.

"Either he's doing this just because he has the power to, and wants to show us he has that power, or he's grateful to me for what I tried to do for his men a few years ago."

"He didn't sound grateful to me," said McAllen.

"Regardless of what he said, I'll wager Caldero was bothered more than a little by the way his men were executed. They were treated like common outlaws. I doubt that Caldero sees himself or his followers in that light and would appreciate it if others didn't, either."

"Why did you try to get those bandoleros a fair trial, General?" asked Tice. "All it accomplished was to foster hard feelings between you and the Rangers."

"Because I knew even then that Antonio Caldero was a force to be reckoned with. I knew those men would die no matter what I did. But since I'd have to deal with Caldero sooner or later, I didn't think it would hurt to have a card up my sleeve."

"I declare, General," said Tice, chuckling, "you could teach old Machiavelli a thing or two."

Houston was thoughtfully silent for a while. Then he glanced at McAllen.

"John Henry, the day may come when I have to send you and your Black Jacks down here to take care of Caldero and his bunch. I don't know if anyone else could do the job. Could you do it?"

"I could try."

"I mean, even if you felt as though you owed him for helping you in this matter?"

McAllen thought it over. Then he nodded. "If you said it had to be done for Texas, I'd do it."

Houston reached out and whacked McAllen on the back, raising a cloud of dust from the trail-grimed black shell jacket.

"By the eternal, John Henry, I'm glad you're on our side."

Chapter Twenty-nine

Jonah Singletary's entire existence revolved around the Austin City Gazette. He had absolutely no other interests. After dinner each day he usually returned to his office to work late into the night, sometimes not retiring to his drab room in a nearby boardinghouse until the early morning hours.

Singletary was pleased with his work of recent weeks. Count de Saligny's guarded revelations had provided fodder for several editorials which, by establishing a conspiracy between Sam Houston and the British Crown to turn Texas into an economic vassal of Great Britain, had caused quite an uproar. In addition, Singletary had taken special delight in printed speculations of a most lurid nature into the relationship between Leah Pierce McAllen and the British officer Major Charles Stewart.

When Stewart came calling that night, the editor was so busy putting the finishing touches to his editorial for the next day's edition that he did not hear the Englishman enter. The only sound in the cluttered office off the printing room was the furious scratching of Singletary's pen. The newspaperman nearly jumped out of his skin when he looked up to find Stewart standing in front of the desk, looking down at him with regal disdain.

Singletary quickly recovered from the shock. Peeling the spectacles off his nose, he settled back in the chair—this put a little more space between him and Stewart, which was a good thing considering what the Englishman had done the last time they'd met—and donned a sardonic smile. "Well, well. To what do I owe this pleasure, sir?"

"I am sorry to say you have failed to heed my warning."

"We have a free press in this country. I refuse to be intimidated—especially by the likes of you."

Stewart sat on the corner of the desk. "I want to know one thing, Singletary. Why do you take such wicked pleasure in ruining a lady's good name?"

Singletary laughed. "I beg your pardon, Major. You, I believe, are the one actively engaged in ruining her good name, not I. Of course, the idea that Leah McAllen has a good name to ruin is ludicrous."

"That begs the question."

"Because I despise such women," snapped Singletary. "They are weak and sinful creatures. And I despise men like you, Major, who tempt them into sin. Most of all, I despise men like Captain McAllen, who do not have the courage to deal with the situation."

Stewart peered speculatively at the editor. "That is a lot of despising. I'll be damned, Singletary, if I don't understand you now. You were married once, weren't you?"

"I was. To a woman just like Leah McAllen." Singletary gazed darkly at his bony hands, which rested, fingers splayed, on the desk in front of him. "I should have killed her. And the man she was with. But I didn't. I. . . couldn't."

Stewart stood up. For an instant his back was turned, but when he swung back to face Singletary a pepperbox pistol was in his hand. Singletary presumed the pistol had been concealed in the folds of the Englishman's black cloak.

"I told you not to write about her again, or even to let her name pass your lips. You have failed on both counts. Now you must face the consequences."

Singletary shook his head. "You don't scare me. I've been threatened before."

"My threats are not idle ones."

"Who are you trying to fool? You don't give a damn about Leah McAllen. You—"

Stewart triggered the pistol. All barrels fired as one. Singletary's face disappeared in a pink mist. The impact threw his body violently backward, overturning the chair. He was killed instantly.

Leaving the office by the back way, Stewart kept as much as possible to the alleys in his return to the Bullock Hotel. The long black pilot-cloth coat helped him blend into the shadows. But it was after midnight, and the streets of Austin were empty. He wondered how long they would remain so; the report of the pepperbox pistol had been very loud, and surely someone would investigate. How long before Singletary's body was discovered?

His first instinct was to make a run for it. But that, he decided, would be stupid. He'd left no evidence behind, and no one could connect him with Singletary's murder. Murder? No, make that execution. Singletary had deserved to die. He was a troublemaker. Besides, what could the authorities do, even if they did suspect him? He was a subject of the Crown.

He made it to his room without being seen, left the cloak and pistol on the bed, and went out into the dark hallway and to the door of the room opposite his. He tried the knob before knocking, but the key had been turned from the inside, and he muttered a curse. He rapped his knuckles on the door, lightly but persistently, and kept it up until a sleepy-eyed Leah McAllen opened the door. Before she could protest he had pushed her aside and entered the room, shutting the door behind him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, irritated. "I don't like to be awakened in the middle of the—"

"Shut up." Stewart went to the window and peered through the curtains at the empty street below.

"What's the matter with you, Charles?"

He turned, smiling. "I've just done you a great favor. I've killed that spiteful worm Jonah Singletary."

"This is no time for jokes—"

"Oh, I'm in deadly earnest, darling."

"Oh, my God," breathed Leah, seeing the look on his face and realizing it was true. She shrank away from him instinctively. "How could you have done such a thing?" she asked, her voice pitched high with rising panic. "And why, in heaven's name?"

"How? It was very simple. The easiest killing I've ever done. As to why, he deserved to die. I've simply done what your husband didn't have the nerve to do."

"You idiot. You big stupid idiot."

Still smiling, Stewart backhanded her. The blow sent Leah to the floor, stunned, the taste of blood in her mouth.

"Really, I'd expected a little more gratitude," he said mildly. "And since I did this for you, I think you could at least give me a kiss."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to her feet, and his kiss was hard and bruising. She tried to fight him off, desperately tried to claw his face, but when she did he hit her again, harder this time than before, and she nearly passed out. She sagged, but he held her up.

"It's time we played the final round of our little game," he murmured.

She was too dazed to understand—until she found herself facedown on the bed and felt him tearing at her wrapper and nightgown. Then she began to struggle. His weight pinned her down, and he spoke softly in her ear.

"Don't make things difficult for yourself, my dear Leah. Remember, I've already killed one person tonight."

After that she didn't resist, crying softly as he had his way with her. He was rough, violent, and he hurt her, but what hurt Leah most of all was the realization that she was only getting what she deserved. She wished John Henry were here to save her. But then, why would he bother? She had been so cruel to him. Once he had loved her, of that she was certain. Now she was just as certain that he did no longer.

When he was finished, Stewart lay for a moment sprawled on top of her, and Leah lay very still. His touch, which she had once desired, made her sick to her stomach. Finally he got up and dressed and without another word left the room.

She spent the rest of the night in a chair, holding her torn gown about her, tears hot on her cheek. When the sun rose she got dressed and stumbled downstairs and found Mr. Bullock and told him that Major Charles Stewart had murdered Jonah Singletary. One look at her and Bullock had a hunch that wasn't all Stewart had done. Leah's face was bruised and swollen.

The innkeeper sent a boy to fetch the sheriff, who brought a deputy with him, just in case. The two lawmen went upstairs to Stewart's room and knocked on the door. The Englishman was clad in his immaculate dress uniform when he opened the door.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said coolly, glancing at the pistol in the deputy's grip. "How may I be of service?"

"You can come with us and not make trouble," suggested the sheriff.

"I think there must be some mistake."

The sheriff nodded. "I agree, and I'd say you're the one who made it."

"Allow me to get my cloak."

"Go ahead." The sheriff didn't think to question why a man would need a cloak on a warm and sunny summer morning.

Stewart turned back into the room. The sheriff and his deputy remained in the hallway. They weren't worried about Stewart getting away. They were on the second floor and there was no way out except past them and down the hall. Besides, the sheriff was a little overawed. He had apprehended his share of horse thieves and common highwaymen, but he had never even come close to arresting an officer in Her Majesty's Army. And, too, though he would never admit it, he was afraid of Stewart. The man was a cold-blooded killer.

The pilot-cloth cloak lay on the bed. Stewart made as though to reach for it, silently calling himself a bloody fool for not reloading the pepperbox pistol that lay underneath it. Then he whirled and with two giant strides was at the window. Covering his face with both arms, he hurled himself through the window in an explosion of splintered wood and glass shards.

Dumbfounded, the deputy stared at the sheriff. Both men seemed rooted in place.

"Well, I'll be damned," said the deputy.

The sheriff muttered a curse and ran to the window.

Stewart had landed in the mire of Bullock's pig pen. His once spotless uniform was saturated with a vile smelly concoction of slop and mud and excrement. The pen's inhabitants took a dim view of his sudden arrival and were milling excitedly, uttering a harsh cacophony of grunts and squeals.

The deputy appeared at the sheriff's side and aimed his pistol out the shattered window at Stewart. The sheriff knocked the deputy's gun arm up and the pistol discharged. The bullet sizzled harmlessly—the sheriff hoped—across the rooftops of Austin.

"Don't be a damn fool," growled the sheriff. "You might hit one of Bullock's Berkshires by mistake. Then there'd be hell to pay."

The deputy had to wonder how killing one of the hotelkeeper's pigs could be worse than letting a murderer escape, but he was fairly new to Austin and kept his mouth shut.

Down below, Stewart got up and vaulted the picket fence reinforced with baling wire, which was designed to keep Bullock's infamous livestock contained. The fence proved to be even less of an obstacle for the fugitive Englishman than it had been for the more determined members of Bullock's small herd. Stewart had not been hurt in the fall—the muck in the pen had cushioned the impact quite nicely.

Turning up an alley that ran along the west side of the hotel, Stewart made for Pecan Street, hoping he would find there a horse he could steal. But as he dashed out of the alley he ran straight into a chair swung with enthusiasm by Bullock, who had anticipated Stewart's escape route and selected one of the chairs on the hotel porch as the most likely weapon. Out cold, Stewart collapsed.

When the sheriff and his deputy bolted out onto the porch they saw the hotelkeeper standing over the fugitive.

"When you and the circuit judge get to splitting up his money betwixt yourselves," drawled Bullock, biting a chew off a pigtail of Kentucky burley tobacco, "just remember this one owes me for his bill—not to mention that window."

The sheriff grimaced. He didn't much care for the implications of Bullock's comment, but he said nothing, having learned the lesson just now taught to Major Charles Stewart of the Royal Scots Fusiliers—that one did not mess with Mr. Bullock.