Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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Chapter Six

When Tall Horses found Gray Wolf, the war chief was in his tepee, having just finished a meal of mush made from mesquite beans, buffalo marrow, and bee honey. It was Comanche custom to eat a light meal early in the day, with a heavier meal to follow in the evening, and usually Gray Wolf had a healthy appetite. His pretty wife, Snow Dancer, was a good cook, and she knew what pleased his palate most—her husband was especially fond of raw liver flavored with the contents of the deer or buffalo gallbladder, and the curdled milk taken from the stomach of a buffalo calf was a special treat.

Today, though, Gray Wolf barely tasted the savory mush. He ate only because he knew his body needed nourishment. He would be on the move all day, scouting far to the south and east. The nearest white settlement was less than two days' ride from this camp; the newest enemy of the Comanches—the Texan—was too close for comfort.

Tall Horses was a young warrior, and he stood in awe of Gray Wolf, who, though only a few years older than he, had already proven himself to be one of the greatest fighters of the Quohadi, or Antelope band. This was why Gray Wolf had become one the band's war chiefs. Though young, he was wise beyond his years. And, though a war chief, he was one of the leading proponents of peace.

"Gray Wolf," said Tall Horses, dropping to one knee just inside the tepee's entrance, "Maguara has summoned the council."

Gray Wolf nodded. He was not a member of the council—that distinction was reserved for the old patriarchs—but as a distinguished war leader his opinion was sometimes sought, since the council always pursued unanimity in its decisions.

Tall Horses glanced at Snow Dancer, who sat in the back shadows of the skin lodge on a buffalo robe, nursing her ten-month-old son. Her dark eyes were troubled, reflecting the disquiet in the young warrior's own soul. He turned his attention back to Gray Wolf and found the war chief gazing at him intently.

"Speak your mind, Tall Horses."

"There are many who do not trust the Texans. They will try to persuade the council not to go to Bexar." He knew San Antonio only by its old Mexican name.

"You do not think we should make peace with the whites?"

Tall Horses was not shy about making his feelings known. All that Comanche etiquette required of him was to wait for Gray Wolf to ask his opinion. Every male who had returned from his first war party was entitled to have his say. Among Comanches, individual independence in thought and action was encouraged.

"The white man cannot be trusted. If he gives his word at Bexar he will not keep it. The one called Houston is no longer their chief. Now there is this one called Lamar, who wants to destroy us."

Gray Wolf smiled grimly. "Many have tried to destroy the Comanches before. The Apaches have tried. The Spaniards and then the Mexicans. But all have failed. We survive. Go tell Maguara that Gray Wolf will be present at the council."

After Tall Horses had left the tepee, Gray Wolf stood and glanced at his wife. "You do not think we should go to Bexar, either," he said.

"It is not my place to say," replied Snow Dancer. But he had always encouraged her to speak frankly, and having paid lip service to tradition, she proceeded to voice her opinion. "I agree with Tall Horses, but for a different reason. The Texans will not make peace with us, so it does not matter that they cannot be trusted to keep their word."

"If they do not want peace, then why have they asked us to come to Bexar?"

"It is a trap. They intend to kill us all. Besides, we asked for peace, for a boundary, and they said they would not talk until all the white captives held by the Comanches were brought in. The Quohadi have no white captives. We live too far away to raid the white settlements. For this reason we should not go to Bexar at all."

Gray Wolf stared at his infant son, snug in his papoose, nuzzling the milk-gorged breast of his wife, and felt a keen anxiety. "I will not let anything happen to you or our son," he said softly. "You know that I keep my promises."

Her smile was wan. Gray Wolf was a tall, broad-shouldered, exceedingly handsome man, and she loved him more than life itself, and wondered what she would do if she lost him. "I know you will try, my husband."

He kissed her on top of the head. Lately she had been so grave. What had happened to the carefree girl he had married only two summers ago? He remembered that night, after he had returned from his first war party and had distinguished himself by his valor against the Utes, when she had slipped into his tepee and introduced him to the pleasures of lovemaking. Among the Comanches, it was a quite common practice for the girl to make the advances. From that moment on Gray Wolf had eyes for no one else, though he was so good-looking and brave and full of promise that all the maidens in the Antelope Band had vied for his attention. His happiest day had come, nearly a year later, when he took a splendid stallion laden with buffalo robes to Snow Dancer's father, who had silently driven the animal in with his own ponies, in this way signifying his approval of the marriage of his daughter to this bold young warrior.

It was the responsibility of the son-in-law to provide his wife's parents with meat, but in Gray Wolf's case that was no burden, as he was as skilled at hunting as he was in war. And he was fortunate in that Snow Dancer's younger sister was already married, since otherwise he would have had to take her as his wife, also. That was just as well, because Gray Wolf realized he would never love another with the depth of feeling he had for Snow Dancer, and he knew she felt the same way about him. Gray Wolf's love for her was so strong that he refused to lend her to his brother, Running Dog, even though it was customary to do so and Running Dog had long desired Snow Dancer. Brothers were not supposed to exhibit sexual jealousy, and it was perfectly normal for a man to sleep with his brother's wife when the latter was on the warpath. After all, Running Dog would oe obliged to take Snow Dancer into his tepee if anything happened to Gray Wolf. But Snow Dancer did not want to lay with Running Dog, and Gray Wolf could not bear to think of them together. He was Snow Dancer's love for life and she, likewise, was his. This had caused bad feeling between Gray Wolf and his brother, but some things could not be helped.

Leaving his tepee, Gray Wolf paused to take a slow look around. He carried his bow of seasoned Osage orange, a quiver of dogwood arrows, and a bison-hide shield. A warrior did not venture from his skin lodge unarmed when the enemy was so near. Gray Wolf's shield was decorated with bear's teeth, signifying his attributes as a hunter, with horse tails to herald his prowess as a raider, and, in addition, was adorned with several Ute and Apache scalps and a circle of feathers around the rim. A war club depended by a thong from his wrist. He wore beaded moccasins, fringed deerskin leggings, and a red breechcloth. His hair was parted in the middle and braided on the sides, the braids wrapped in fur. A yellow hawk's feather dangled from his scalplock.

The Quohadi had encamped on the upper Brazos, less than a hundred miles northwest of Torrey's Trading Post and the town of Bucksnort, beyond the Cross Timbers—that north-south band of ancient pine forest—from the major settlements of the Republic of Texas. The normal range of the Antelope Band was far to the west, and so they, of all the Comanche bands, had tangled least with the Texans. A dozen times Gray Wolf had fought the Utes, who feared the Quohadi and called them the komantcia—"enemy"—from which the white man had coined the name Comanche. But, unlike the warriors of the Penatekas, the Tanimas, and the Tanawas, Gray Wolf had yet to raise a hand in anger against the whites. He hoped he would never have to.

All along the river more than a hundred tepees had been erected beneath the bright green willows and dusty gray cottonwoods. The larger skin lodges of the old patriarchs stood nearby, and Gray Wolf bent his steps in that direction.

The council was about to get under way, and many of the Quohadis had congregated to listen to the leaders of the Antelope band, as was their right. The crowd parted respectfully to let Gray Wolf pass, and he took his place among the young war chiefs in the circle of council members in front of the tepee of Maguara, the principle chief of the Quohadis.

Maguara rose to speak first. He was obliged to explain why he had called the council. He reviewed what had gone before: how the Texans had met with chiefs of the Penateka band a year ago, and rejected the Penateka request for the establishment of a boundary between the settlers and the Comanches—a boundary initially proposed by the old chief of the whites, the one the Cherokees called The Raven, who was no longer in power. But the Texans had suggested another meeting, this one to be attended by representatives from all the Comanche bands. As a demonstration of good faith, the Comanches were to turn over all their white captives. Texas agents had circulated among all the bands, and the Comanches had listened to what they had to say. Any man, even a Texan, who came into a Comanche camp to talk peace was safe.

So the Quohadis had come to this place on the upper Brazos—not all of them, only the chiefs and sixty warriors, many with their families. Yet now that the meeting with the Texans was imminent, doubts had been raised about the wisdom of going through with it. Maguara had summoned this council in the hope that these differences could be worked out.

The old chiefs spoke first. Although they were known as the peace chiefs, not all of them were keen on making a peace treaty with the Texans. A couple believed that the best way for the Quohadis to keep the peace with the whites was to go back to the Llano Estacado and mind their own business. This would not do, argued others who took a broader view. What of the other bands who ranged much closer to the settlements of the Texans? Unless a boundary could be established and peace maintained, the Texans would continue to spread ever deeper into Comanche land, and soon they would reach even the Staked Plain, and then the Quohadis would no longer be able to ignore the problem. No, it was better to treat with the Texans now, before they began to invade the traditional range of the Quohadis.

Next it was the turn of the young war chiefs to speak, if they chose to do so. Two Eagles stood and addressed the council. He reiterated the apprehensions Tall Horses had earlier expressed to Gray Wolf. The Texans could not be trusted. Even if they gave their word they would not keep it. Look at what had happened to the Cherokees. They had agreed to a treaty of peace with the whites, and now the whites had attacked them and burned their lodges and driven them from their land.

When Two Eagles finished, Maguara's old eyes fastened expectantly on Gray Wolf, who rose to address the council.

"The Cherokees were the first to break their word," said Gray Wolf. "They made a pact with the Mexicans in which they promised to make war against the Texans. When they did that, did they not become the enemies of Texas? And does not Texas have the right to drive its enemies from its borders? Gray Wolf does not think it is fair to blame the Texans for what happened. The Cherokees brought it on themselves.

"Besides, we are Comanches, not Cherokees. There are many more of us, and we are better fighters. The Texans know this is true. They cannot drive us off our land so easily. And they cannot fight us and the Mexicans at the same time. There will be another war between the Texans and the Mexicans. We all know this is going to happen. The Texans have good reasons for seeking a peace with the Comanches.

"They want us to surrender our white captives before they will consent to sit down and talk peace. Who can blame them for that? The Penatekas and the Tanawas have been raiding their farms and villages for years. They have killed many Texans and taken many captives. Their young braves prove themselves in this way. Some of us do not trust the Texans. But tell me why they should trust us?

"The Quohadis have no white captives to surrender. We have never raided a Texas farm or village. We live too far away to do so even if we wanted to. So that condition is no hardship on us. And if we go in force into Bexar, the Texans will not dare attack us. Gray Wolf is a war chief of the Quohadis. He does not fear the Texans. But he does not want to war against them. The Quohadis are fighting the Utes and the Mescalero Apaches to the west. How can we continue to protect our villages from those enemies if we are fighting a new enemy in the east? It is in our best interests, too, to try to make a peace. Perhaps we will fail. But Gray Wolf is convinced we must try."

He sat down. Two Eagles shot to his feet again. "If we go into Bexar, we must not take our women and children. Two Eagles will not put his family in danger."

Gray Wolf got back up. "If we leave our women and children behind, the Texans will think we have come to fight, not talk. We must take the risk. We do not have to take our families into Bexar, but we must bring them to a camp near the town."

Maguara nodded. It was time for the council to make a decision. One by one, the council members were asked if they wished to continue to Bexar. All of the peace chiefs voted to proceed. Gray Wolf's well-reasoned arguments had swayed those who doubted the wisdom of going on. The war chiefs were not asked to vote. They could speak in council, but the old patriarchs were the ones who had to decide.

Gray Wolf was troubled as the crowd dispersed and he returned to his tepee. Immersed in thought, he walked slowly, his head down. What if Snow Dancer was right? What if they were being lured into a trap? Then he, Gray Wolf, would have sacrificed his wife and son on the altar of his convictions.

Chapter Seven

McAllen, Dr. Tice, and Joshua arrived in San Antonio three days before the peace talks were scheduled and two days before the first Comanches appeared.

The mission San Antonio de Valero had been established here in 1718, and by 1773 San Antonio de Bexar, the village which had grown up around the mission, became the official seat of Spanish government in Texas. Nestled in a bend of the river that bore the same name, the village of San Antonio had a population of twenty-five hundred on the eve of the Texas Revolution. Most of its buildings were constructed of adobe or stone and mortar, and were built in the flat-roofed Mexican style.

It was here, at the mission called the Alamo, that two hundred men under the joint command of William Barret Travis, Jim Bowie, and Davy Crockett had delayed Santa Anna for thirteen precious days, holding out against a vastly superior Mexican army. The defenders of the Alamo had stood their ground and perished like the Spartans at Thermopylae. A charred ruin now, the mission was still, and always would be, a shrine for Texans, for in those thirteen days Sam Houston had gathered together a force sufficient to defeat Santa Anna a few weeks later and win independence for Texas.

Yancey Torrance had preceded them to San Antonio, and there were rooms reserved for them at a hotel near the main aqueduct, just off Calle Dolorosa, the Street of Sorrow, and an arrow's flight from the Plaza de Armes, near which stood the old governor's palace and the Council House.

Tension was running high in San Antonio, reported Yancey. Expecting the Comanches to bring in their white captives, dozens of people from all along the frontier who believed their loved ones had been carried off in a raid were flocking to town. They were full of hope as well as anger.

"I talked to the town sheriff," said Yancey. "Asked him if he was taking on any extra help, just in case. He said he wasn't. No need, since there was going to be two companies of Rangers here to keep the peace."

"The fool," said Tice, chewing on the tip of his corncob pipe. "Keeping the peace is not what Rangers do."

McAllen spent nearly every daylight hour roaming the streets, with Joshua his constant shadow, imprinting the layout of the town on his mind, for he had visited San Antonio only once before, and then briefly, and was not familiar with it. He prowled from the Santo Campo Cemetery at the western end of town to the La Villita in the east, and all the way north to the Old Mill. The Ranger company commanded by Henry Karnes was already in place, and McAllen ran into Rangers at every turn. He was well known, and before long Colonel Karnes had tracked him down. In asking what had brought him to San Antonio, Karnes was cordial enough, and McAllen gave him a straight answer.

"Sam Houston sent me."

Karnes nodded. "Thanks for being honest with me. Captain Wingate sent word to keep an eye peeled for you and your crew."

"I'm just here to help."

Karnes had the look of a man who hadn't slept in a week. "I feel like a feller tied to a keg of black powder in the middle of a burning house, Captain," he admitted.

"Any chance of me getting into the Council House?"

"I doubt it. Morris and Wingate will be running the show for the president, and they just flat out don't like you. I'll see what I can do, but don't expect miracles."

The next morning, news of the Comanche arrival spread like wildfire. McAllen saddled Escatawpa and rode north to see for himself. Overnight, a hundred tepees had sprung up a mile along the river from the Old Mill. Though he did not venture too near, the Comanches spotted him. But they did not ride out to challenge him.

Returning to the hotel, he told the anxious Dr. Tice and Yancey what he had seen. "Just one band," he said. "Maybe three hundred, with the women and children included. I think they're Quohadis."

"Way those first riders sounded, you'd have thought the whole Comanche nation was out yonder," said Yancey.

"Well," Tice said with a sigh, "all I can say is, God help us all if this goes awry."

That same afternoon, John Morris arrived from Austin with Captain Wingate's company of Texas Rangers. Another large group of Comanches had appeared by this time, but McAllen could not now go see for himself, as Karnes had thrown a cordon of Rangers across the north end of San Antonio. It wasn't the Comanches that worried the colonel; he was afraid some Texas hotspurs might try to ride out to the Indian encampment and start a scrape.

The Comanches sent three runners into town to confer with John Morris. A mestizo who had himself been a captive of the Comanches for a dozen years and who was attached to Karnes's Ranger company, acted as interpreter. Morris learned that only the Tanawas and the Quohadis had arrived, but the Comanche envoys were confident that other bands would show up by the morrow. When asked if the white captives had been brought along, the runners said that all whites in Comanche possession would be delivered. Encouraged, Morris made arrangements for the Comanche entry into San Antonio in the morning. Since the presence of hundreds of Indians on the outskirts of town was making the local populace very anxious, only thirty chiefs would be permitted to enter the town.

That evening, San Antonio was unusually subdued. The cantinas, where on any other night one could find a lively fandango in progress, were virtually empty. Steely-eyed Rangers patrolled the dark streets in pairs.

A premonition of disaster prevented John Henry McAllen from sleeping well. He was up before dawn. Even so, by the time he and Tice and Yancey and Joshua had reached the Plaza de Armes, a substantial crowd had already gathered. The vast majority were men who, if they had families, had locked them safely in their houses. All of them were armed. More than ever, McAllen was struck by the unreasonable nature of the task Sam Houston had set for him. How could he prevent an eruption of violence if it was in the cards?

Yancey's thoughts were traveling the same path. "Maybe we should have brought everybody," he told McAllen, meaning the whole company of Black Jacks. "What do you want we should do, John Henry?"

"Split up. Mingle with the crowd. Keep your eyes open. If you see trouble starting, try to nip it in the bud. If there is any shooting, though, get out of the way."

Less than an hour later the Comanches arrived. It was odd, mused McAllen, to see these fierce warriors on their painted ponies filing down the street in all their untamed glory, flanked by Texas Rangers. By the time this procession reached the Council House, a long low stone building fronted by an arched gallery, McAllen had worked his way near the front of the ominously silent crowd of armed men. He spotted John Morris in his black broadcloth standing with Eli Wingate, the town sheriff, and Indian agent Robert Owen, in the shade of the Council House gallery.

As the Comanche delegation dismounted, McAllen heard a muttered curse to his left and promptly pushed through the crowd in that direction. A man, his face stamped with hate, was muttering about "red devils" and how to "cure" them, and McAllen didn't like the way he was gripping his old flintlock rifle. McAllen slipped a hand under his frock coat and took hold of the Colt Paterson stuck in his belt. Behind him, Joshua gripped the handle of his Bowie knife, but did not draw the blade from its sheath.

But before they could close in on the troublemaker, Tice appeared. The physician deftly caught the man's ankle with the staghorn handle of his walking cane and pulled hard. The man fell flat on his back. Alarmed, the crowd surged away in all directions. McAllen pressed against the current and into the opening. A smiling Tice was kneeling on the fallen man's chest. "My diagnosis is that you've had too much forty-rod for breakfast," he said amiably. McAllen looked around to see Colonel Karnes steering his horse through the press of onlookers, followed by one of his Rangers. Karnes looked at the fallen man, Tice, and McAllen. Reading the situation in a glance, he nodded curtly. "Haul that man off to jail," he told the Ranger, then reined his horse back toward the Council House. The Ranger dismounted and hustled the stunned, belligerent drunk through the crowd by his collar.

"Karnes isn't a bad sort," Tice remarked, as he joined McAllen. "For a Texas Ranger. At least he seems serious about preventing bloodshed."

"Some things no man can prevent. Look there."

Tice saw that among the Comanches was a single white woman. She was thin as a rail, dirty-faced and haggard. Her clothes were soiled and tattered. She was barefoot and walked with her head bowed, so that her long, tangled yellow hair concealed her features.

"She's been through hell," murmured Tice. "Wonder who she is."

McAllen shook his head. "Thing is, she's the only one. That's not good."

"A valid point," conceded Tice, glancing about him at the grim faces of the Texas crowd.

John Morris made two grievous errors.

The first was failing to insist that the thirty Comanches who entered the Council House lay down their arms. He made the observation that it did not appear as though the Indians had come in peace, since all were so heavily armed. But he couldn't convince them, or even himself, because he knew the Comanches weren't fools, and were he in their place, he would certainly not have entered an enemy camp unarmed. Besides, the Texas Rangers—the implacable foes of the Comanches—were also armed to the teeth. Counting Colonel Karnes and Captain Wingate, there were a dozen Rangers in the Council House, with another seventy or eighty outside. Bearing this in mind, John Morris was comforted. He didn't think the Comanches would try anything.

"It has come to my attention," he said, using the mestizo for interpretation, "that only two bands are represented here today."

The Comanches stood at one end of the hall. Old wooden pews lined the walls, but none of the Indians chose to sit down. In the midst of his Quohadi brethren, Gray Wolf looked about him with some apprehension. The Spaniards had built the Council House a hundred years ago. Its walls of cold gray stone, the heavy timbered doors, the narrow windows that resembled gun slots and were barred besides—all of these things made him feel as though he were in a prison cell.

Maguara stepped forward. "Maguara will speak for the Quohadis. We have come many days from our homeland because we want peace."

"His homeland?" muttered Wingate. "Morris, remind this heathen that what he calls his land belongs to the Republic of Texas."

"I'm not here to start a war, Captain," said Morris.

Another old chief stepped forward. "Yellow Hand speaks for the Penatekas. Neither Yellow Hand nor Maguara has any say over what the other bands do."

"I see only one white captive," replied Morris with a stern look and the tone of a father addressing recalcitrant children."I thought we made it clear we would not discuss terms of a peace treaty between our peoples unless and until all the white people whom you have torn from the arms of their loved ones had been returned."

Maguara scowled, disliking Morris's condescension. "The Quohadis have no white captives."

"That's a dirty lie," snapped Wingate, eyes ablaze.

"Captain!" snapped Morris. "Please let me handle this."

"He's probably telling the truth," said Owen, the Indian agent. "The Quohadis live on the Llano Estacado. Their warriors have probably never raided this far east. It's not that taking our people captive is against their religion. But they just haven't had the opportunity."

Morris turned back to the Comanches. "And you, Yellow Hand? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Yellow Hand took the white woman by the arm and held her out in front of him. "This is the only white among us."

"Now, that I find hard to believe," remarked Owen.

Because the mestizo had been instructed to translate only what John Morris said, Gray Wolf did not understand the Indian agent. But he did not believe Yellow Hand, either. Of all the bands, the Penatekas lived closest to the white settlements, and their warriors had carried out numerous raids. It angered Gray Wolf that the Penatekas were acting in bad faith and jeopardizing the peace talks. Yet he held his tongue. Maguara spoke for the Quohadis, and Gray Wolf did not intend to show the old chief any disrespect by superseding him.

Morris shook his head. "We know for a fact that the Penatekas have many more white captives." Of course he knew nothing of the sort, but he hoped to intimidate Yellow Hand into a confession.

Adamant, Yellow Hand shook his head. "She is the only one. Here, take her."

Morris grimaced. He looked at the woman. "What is your name, ma'am?"

The woman would not even lift her head, much less respond.

"Christ," said Wingate. "Look at her. These savages obviously treat their dogs better."

At that moment a commotion at one of the doors attracted the attention of John Morris. A civilian was trying to get past the Texas Ranger posted there and was meeting with no success in the endeavor.

"You are not permitted to enter, sir," called Morris, exasperated.

The homespun-clad man was distraught. "You don't unnerstand. I know who she is. That's Mathilda Hunt. She's my wife. The Comanch' took her off our farm three years back. That's my Mattie, I swear. Please, let me through."

It was then that John Morris made his second mistake.

"Let him through. Perhaps he can identify her."

The man came to stand beside Morris. He stared at the woman. After a moment, Morris grew impatient.

"Well, man? Are you certain this is your wife?"

The man's shoulder sagged. "Mattie," he groaned. "Mattie, what have they done to you?"

The woman looked up at the sound of his voice. Her haunted eyes were veiled by tangled yellow hair.

The man drew a quick breath, as though someone had punched him and knocked the wind out of him.

"You shouldna let 'em put their filthy hands on you, Mattie," he said, his voice lifeless. "You shoulda kilt yourself 'fore you let 'em do that."

He drew a pistol from under his shirt and fired at point-blank range.

The bullet struck her in the head and knocked her back into Yellow Hand, who felt the warm splatter of her blood on his face. Stunned, he stared at the pitiful corpse that fell at his feet.

For an instant everyone was frozen in place.

Then some of the Rangers went for their pistols.

A Quohadi war chief directly behind Gray Wolf shouted the alarm.

Maguara whirled. His eyes met Gray Wolf's. They reflected no alarm, no anger, no disappointment. Just calm resignation.

Wingate lunged forward and savagely pistol whipped Maguara. The old chief collapsed. Wingate turned to his Rangers. His voice trembled with fierce elation.

"Take these red devils prisoner. We'll hold 'em hostage until they turn over the rest of our people—or we'll see 'em all hang."