The Black Jacks

by Jason Manning

  Will Parton read over four fresh graves in the Grand Cane cemetery late on the afternoon of the Comanche attack. To some, the haste with which the dead were laid to rest was a bit unseemly—normally, the deceased would lay in an open coffin at least overnight, while family and friends gathered to have their last look and pay their respects. Though Nathan Ainsworth, the carpenter, had died in valiant defense of the settlement, some went right to work making the coffins, while others dug the graves in the shade of the oak grove west of town. On a rise, the cemetery was well situated, overlooking the town and the river beyond.

  Along with Ainsworth and Mary Torrance, farmers George Sellers and Jellicoe Fuller were also buried that afternoon. Fuller's charred remains had been found in his burned-out cabin. He had given a good account of himself, for several Comanche dead were discovered, as well. The Indian corpses were hauled away and left unburied for the wolves and the turkey vultures. There would be no Christian burial for the heathens.

  McAllen and the others took some comfort in the knowledge that all the women and children, save for Mary and Emily Torrance, had been spared thanks to the plan for their evacuation, which had succeeded as a consequence of the brave sacrifice of men like Fuller, Ainsworth, and Sellers. Still, the Black Jacks grieved, for those three had been friends and comrades-in-arms for many years. A longing for vengeance burned like red-hot coals in the warlike souls of the survivors.

  Following the conclusion of the service, the Black Jacks congregated at Deckard's tavern. When all were present and accounted for, McAllen rose to speak. The others knew what was coming. The black jacket their captain wore said it all.

  "I intend to set out after the Indians in one hour's time," said McAllen. "We have a full moon, and with any luck the night will be clear. Which means we might be able to steal a march on the enemy."

  "We're with you, Captain," said Matt Washburn.

  The others loudly concurred.

  "We can't all go," said McAllen. "The wounded must remain behind. Their task will be to look after things here. I don't think the Comanches are coming back, but we can't leave our town and our families unprotected."

  George Scayne grimaced. His arm, broken by a Comanche war club and set by Dr. Tice, rested in a sling. "Hellfire, Captain," he groused, with a smile.

  "You and Joshua are wounded."

  McAllen smiled back at him. "That's true. But we need Joshua. He's the best tracker in Texas. And as for me, well, I'm pulling rank. So that's it, boys. If you haven't already done so, gather up all the cartridges you can find, pick out a good horse, and we'll ride. But travel light. The Comanches will probably make a run for home. We've got to move fast."

  As the others departed, Brax approached his father. Yancey was nursing a jug of corn liquor, compliments of A. G. Deckard, and sat tilted back in a caneback chair near the old stove, gazing moodily at the floor.

  "I want to come along," said Brax.

  McAllen heard him. "You'd better stay," he replied. He didn't think Yancey wanted the boy along after what had happened, and feared there might be more trouble between them. It was just best to keep the two separated for a while. "Billy Fuller asked me if he could ride with us, too. Wants to avenge his father's death. But I told him like I'm telling you."

  "Billy Fuller's only fourteen. I'm nearly eighteen. I'm the best shot in the county. I kilt two Comanches today."

  "Let him come along, John Henry," said Yancey. "He's got a lot to make up for."

  Though it was against his better judgment, McAllen gave in.

  Within the hour fifteen men had returned to Deckard's place. All of them, except Brax, wore the black jacket. Long blue shadows of day's end spread across the street as they rode out of Grand Cane, their loved ones waving good-bye and holding in their hearts fervent wishes for their safe return.

  All John Henry McAllen could think about was finding Emily and bringing her home safe and sound.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Quohadi Comanche who had captured Emily Torrance rode north parallel to the river road from the place at the river where they had discovered their prey. The fighting was still going on in Grand Cane, but they knew it was going badly for their cause, and they did not want to risk losing their prize. It was for that reason, when they turned west upon seeing the McAllen plantation, they assumed it would be well defended, when in fact it was deserted.

  Gray Wolf had arranged for a rendezvous point due west of the settlement. Since he was unfamiliar with this country he had told his warriors to ride until sunset, and then begin to look for one another. That was one reason why Gray Wolf was the most respected war chief of the Antelope band—he planned for every eventuality. If a raid went poorly, it was the common Comanche tactic to split up into groups of two or three warriors and reunite later at some prearranged place. In this way pursuit was made more problematic for the enemy.

  The three Comanches made quick time, keeping whenever possible to low, wooded terrain. A few miles from the Brazos, Emily regained consciousness. Draped belly-down over a galloping pony made breathing a hardship, and she was not inclined to long endure the discomfort. In a panic to escape, she gave no thought to the odds of success. When her captor crossed the rocky bed of a small branch and slowed his horse to ascend the opposite bank, Emily made her move. She slipped off the pony, tearing free of the warrior's clutches. Stumbling down the slope, she ran along the creek, swift as a hunted deer. With a shout the warriors gave chase. Emily slipped on a water-slick stone and fell. Before she could get up again the Comanches were on her. The warrior from whom she had escaped—at least for a moment—jumped off his galloping horse and bore her down into the shallows. She picked up a rock and hit him on the head with it, but it was only a glancing blow, just enough to infuriate him, and he struck her in the face with a fist, just like before, and once again Emily blacked out.

  She came to a few minutes later to find her wrists tied together with strips of rawhide. Her left eye where he had hit her was swelling shut. The warrior put the loop of a horsehair rope around her neck and pulled it so tight she could scarcely breathe. He said something to her, and his tone of voice was angry. Then he remounted, the other end of the rope firmly in his grasp, and kicked his war pony into motion, following his two companions. Emily stumbled along behind. Several times she lost her footing and fell, but the warrior did not stop, did not even look back, and she realized that if she fell and didn't or couldn't get up he would be quite content to drag her along by the neck until she was dead from strangulation.

  Emily considered falling on purpose and letting him kill her. But her instinct for survival asserted itself. She had to live because Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen would rescue her. Yes, they would save her. She had to believe in that. She had to have faith.

  The five-mile walk seemed to her an unending ordeal, but at last it did end, at a large island of trees around a sweetwater spring. The three Quohadi warriors were overjoyed to find about fifteen of their brethren hiding in the woods. Within the next hour, as the last light of day faded from the purpling sky, other warriors arrived, so that soon the total number had swollen to about seventy. A herd of stolen horses, with a few mules mixed in, were brought in and then pushed on at a rapid pace to the west-northwest. During this time Emily sat, exhausted, on the ground at the base of a tree to which she was bound. The bubbling spring nearby tormented her; she had been all day without a drink of water. But she did not cry out or struggle against her bonds. She didn't want to attract any attention to herself. The warriors were busy relating their exploits to one another and for a while she thought they had forgotten all about her.

  As the Comanches congregated at the rendezvous, several more captives were brought in—a woman with an infant child, and a boy of about ten with a girl of five or six, obviously brother and sister. Emily did not know any of them. They were not from Grand Cane. She took comfort from the knowledge that none of her friends or neighbors had suffered the same fate as she.

  As the nig
ht deepened a growing restlessness pervaded the Quohadi camp. Emily surmised that there was some discussion among them as to whether they should stay here throughout the night or move on. There did not seem to be a genuine leader among them.

  Across the way, the mother sat with her child. The baby was squalling, and though the woman tried to nurse it she could not comfort or quiet the child. She asked her captor for a little flour and water with which to make a gruel that the child could digest. The Indian yelled at her, snatched the baby from her grasp, and, before she could stop him, threw the infant high in the air and let it fall to the ground. Sobbing, the mother hugged the limp and lifeless form, rocking back and forth on her knees. Emily could only look on in horror.

  As night fell, some of the Comanches made up their minds to move on. A mule was brought for the woman whose baby had been murdered. The woman's captor took the tiny corpse from her, tied a string around her neck, and secured the other end of the string to the horn of the saddle strapped to the mule. He ordered the woman to get into the saddle, but she refused, even when threatened with a lance. Finally, growing weary of the game, the Quohadi impaled her on the lance. He mounted his war pony and rode on with thirty other warriors in the process of leaving the bosque. The white boy and girl were taken. The woman left behind took a long time to die, and her pitiful, whimpering cries of pain were almost more than Emily could bear.

  A short time later her captor approached and cut her loose from the tree. Her hands remained tied. A fire had been built in a clearing to throw back the night, and many of the Comanches who remained were getting drunk on jugs of whiskey stolen from the cabins of settlers. Emily was dragged into the circle of firelight, and it took only a moment for her to realize that her captor hoped to interest one of the others in a trade. He wanted whiskey and horses in exchange for her.

  One prospective buyer, swaying from the effects of too much firewater, rose from his place by the fire and came up to Emily. Though terrified, she stood her ground. He yanked on her hair and checked her teeth as though she were a horse, which elicited gales of laughter from his comrades. Then he began to fondle her breasts. Emily closed her eyes and willed herself not to scream. Her captor, deciding the other Indian had sampled the merchandise long enough, finally intervened, pushing him away. Some of the men shouted at him derisively, ridiculing him for trying to barter away a woman that he would not let them see. Stung by the rebuke of his peers, the warrior grabbed the bodice of Emily's soiled and tattered dress and with one vicious pull exposed her to the view of the others. They roared their approval. Shamed beyond measure, Emily nonetheless stood defiantly in place and began to sing softly, her eyes closed, her face lifted to heaven.

  "Swing low, sweet chariot,

  Coming for to carry me home. . . ."

  Belatedly she realized the warriors had fallen silent. Opening her eyes, she saw that they were staring at her in slack-jawed amazement. She couldn't fathom why. Perhaps it had something to do with the song. Her voice tremulous, she continued.

  A curt voice interrupted her, and she noticed a warrior emerging from the night shadows under the trees, leading a painted pony on which rode a wounded Comanche, slumped forward.

  Gray Wolf took one look at the scene and knew what had transpired. The sight of the liquor jugs infuriated him. Dropping the horsehair reins of the pony he had been leading, he waded into the warriors sitting around the fire like, Emily thought, Jesus in the temple of the moneylenders. He snatched up the jugs and smashed them into the fire, and only stopped when it occurred to him that the ninety-proof brave-maker was causing the flames to leap higher.

  "Put out that fire!" he snapped. "Throw away the white man's poison. I did not know Quohadi warriors could be such fools."

  "We thought you were dead, Gray Wolf," said Running Dog. "Red Eagle led the others west. We decided to wait a little longer. . . ."

  Gray Wolf stared at the bodies of the white woman and her infant child and trembled with rage. "Who did this thing?"

  Running Dog told him that the murderer was one of the warriors who had gone with Red Eagle.

  Gray Wolf nodded curtly. He had found his friend Tall Horses severely wounded, without a pony and unable to walk, not far from the Texas settlement. This had slowed him down, yet he had never once contemplated leaving Tall Horses behind.

  He turned his attention to the white woman who had been singing. He had marveled at her song as he came through the trees into the clearing and now, as he gazed at her, was impressed by her courage. Confiscating a blanket from one of the Quohadis, he covered her nakedness and glanced coldly at her captor.

  "I will give you five horses for her."

  The captor readily accepted this offer. He would have taken much less—especially from Gray Wolf.

  Gray Wolf addressed the other Quohadis. "The Texans will be here soon. We must go, quickly. This is not the time or place to stand and fight."

  "Red Eagle says you led us into a trap," said one, of stouter heart than his brothers.

  Gray Wolf's smile was bitter. "If you wanted to follow Red Eagle, why did you not go with him? The Texans fought well. What did you expect of them? We did not surprise them. If you don't want to listen to me, stay here and die. I am going."

  In a very short time they were on their way. Tall

  Horses now transported in a travois which had been swiftly constructed from sapling poles and blankets. Emily was mounted on a mule. She took the tattered remains of her dress, not wanting Yancey to find it for fear of what the discovery might do to him. Again riding his war pony, Gray Wolf led her mule by means of a horsehair rope. Instinctively, she knew she was better off in Gray Wolf's keeping. She would not try to escape. Escape was futile anyway, and if she made an attempt she risked antagonizing her new captor. No, she would invest all her hopes in Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen. She clung fiercely to her dream of a future with the man she loved, and refused to let reality insinuate itself, because reality would destroy the dream if she let it. And that dream was all she had left to make life worth living.

  A few hours after the last of the Comanches quit the woods which stood at the site of the spring, Joshua led McAllen and the Black Jacks right to the spot. They had picked up the trail of the three warriors who had abducted Emily, and not once had the young half-breed been diverted from it.

  A few of the men had brought storm lanterns along—these, in case the night became overcast, robbing them of the moonlight by which they followed the Comanche sign. In the gloom of the woods the lanterns were lit as soon as it was confirmed that the enemy did not lurk in ambush, and the lantern light revealed the bodies of the woman and her child. Joshua examined the ashes of the fire and found a bed of embers still glowing. Shards of crockery—the smashed liquor jugs—littered the ground. "How long ago?" asked McAllen. He had already made a good guess, and Joshua merely confirmed it by holding up two fingers, then extending a third. Two hours, maybe three. Tice saw the agony etched on McAllen's face.

  "No use second-guessing yourself, John Henry," said the physician. "Who would have thought they'd linger here so long?"

  "We should have set out sooner," said McAllen. "There's no justifying it."

  "We had to bury the dead and pay our last respects. We needed to make arrangements for our families while we were gone. We had to prepare ourselves for a pursuit that could go on for days, or weeks."

  "That's just it, Artemus. We would have caught them right here. If I hadn't made a mistake it would all be over now." He turned to Yancey, who stood nearby. "I'm truly sorry."

  Yancey shook his head. "Don't be apologizin', John Henry. They'll have to slow down sooner or later. They've cut down a few saplings. Means they made a travois. So they've got at least one wounded they don't want to abandon to our tender mercies. I warrant we'll catch up right soon."

  The mother and child were buried in a common grave. Cedric Cole said he thought he recognized the woman as the wife of a farmer who lived up near Brazoria. Will Parton read fr
om his Bible. He was brief, like the others, he ached to catch up with the heathen savages who made war on innocents. After the "amens" he gazed at the dark, grim faces of the men gathered around the mound of newly turned earth.

  "It's there, gentlemen," he said, patting the Bible. "Right there in Exodus, Chapter Twenty-one. 'Then it is life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound and lash for lash.' It also says in Romans, 12:19, 'Do not avenge yourselves, but leave room for divine retribution; for it is written, vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord.' But this here's the frontier, boys, and to my way of thinking the New Testament doesn't apply out here. Not yet. So it's the Old Testament for me, especially with these Comanches, because God helps those who help themselves."

  "Let's go," said McAllen.

  As one, the Black Jacks turned to their horses.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Come daybreak, Gray Wolf had bitterly accepted the fact that his friend Tall Horses would have to be left behind. For agonizing hours he had wrestled with the decision, seeking in vain some alternative, knowing that the consequence would surely be death for the young warrior. Finally, when the Quohadis paused at a creek to water their tired horses, Gray Wolf went to Tall Horses, who lay in the travois, conscious and clearly in great pain. The bullet remained in his leg, lodged against the bone, and even the slightest movement of the travois caused him discomfort. Gray Wolf had decided to come straight out and tell Tall Horses the truth, but when the time came to do so, he hesitated. Tall Horses could read his fate on the war chief's grim features and smiled wanly.