The Black Jacks

by Jason Manning

  "Thank you, Gray Wolf," he said. "I do not wish to go on. I am glad you are leaving me here. The pain in my heart, knowing that because of me all my brothers may die, is far greater than the pain in my leg. I could not live with the shame."

  Having gathered around the travois, the other warriors heard these words and were profoundly moved. They gazed at Tall Horses with respect bordering on awe.

  Gray Wolf clasped the wounded warrior's hand. "The bravery of Tall Horses will be honored as long as a single Quohadi lives." He could say no more, and turned quickly away.

  One by one the other warriors bade farewell to Tall Horses. Then they rode on, leaving him in the shade of a post oak, by his side his weapons and a pouch containing pemmican to sustain him in the remaining days—or, more probably, hours—of his life.

  Studying the impassive faces of the warriors, Emily failed to discover the strong emotion most of them felt. All she could know was that these savages had abandoned one of their own, apparently because he was slowing them down. This was something white men would never do, she told herself.

  A few miles farther on, Gray Wolf glanced back. He had seen no evidence of pursuit, but instinct warned him that the Texans were closing fast. Somehow he just knew they were on the way. He saw black specks in the clear summer sky, recognized them as turkey vultures circling over the place where Tall Horses lay. Gray Wolf silently asked the Great Spirit, Our Sure Enough Father, to take Tall Horses now to the next life, before the whites found him, for surely the Texans would mutilate the young warrior after death, and scalping a Comanche prevented him from attaining immortality.

  The buzzards led McAllen and the Black Jacks straight to Tall Horses.

  Cedric Cole had a telescoping glass which he had taken off the body of a Florida gunrunner who had paid with his life for the sin of arming the Seminoles with rifles for use against the United States Army and volunteers. As they neared the creek, utilizing the terrain to good advantage, McAllen used the glass to locate the solitary Quohadi warrior beneath the post oak. He, Cole, Tice, and Yancey were concealed behind a screen of dusty shrubs at the top of a low rise, and McAllen was fairly certain the Indian was unaware of their presence. The others used the glass in turn, and McAllen did not speak until all had taken a look.

  "He's alone," said Yancey. "They left him behind."

  "Doesn't look like he's long for this world," remarked Cole. "I can finish him off from here, Captain," he added, calculating range and windage for a long rifle shot.

  "We could try to take him alive," suggested Tice. "Maybe I can keep him breathing until we can trade him for Emily. Or at least until he tells us how she fares. You speak a little Comanche, John Henry. Maybe you could talk to him."

  "I don't think he'd talk to me. Besides, the Comanches wouldn't make that kind of trade." McAllen shook his head. "No, it's too dangerous to try to take him alive in broad daylight, and we can't afford to wait until dark." He sighed. There was a bad taste in his mouth. "Go ahead, Cedric. Kill him. There's nothing else for it."

  Not wanting to watch, McAllen left the high ground. He flinched at the report of Cole's rifle, mounted up, and led the Black Jacks on to the creek. Cole's aim had been true; the Comanche lay sprawled lifeless beneath the tree.

  "Damn good shooting, Cedric," said Morris Riddle. "You want his scalp for a trophy, or can I have it?"

  Cole shook his head and Riddle drew his knife, but McAllen stopped him.

  "Leave him be."

  Perplexed, Riddle stared at him. "What's gotten into you, Cap'n? You didn't used to be squeamish."

  "I guess I got that way in San Antonio," snapped McAllen, "when I saw thirty Comanche chiefs gunned down for no good reason at the Council House."

  Frowning, Riddle sheathed the knife. It sounded to him like the captain was taking up for the redskins, and that was a disturbing thought. Too disturbing, in fact, so he let it pass without comment.

  That morning, Gray Wolf led his Quohadi warriors across the San Bernard River. From this point westward the Texas settlements were sparse. That was the good news. The bad news was that now the terrain became less advantageous for fugitives—more open prairie and fewer trees. And two days' ride to the west lay Bexar and the new settlement called Austin. Gray Wolf hoped to run the gauntlet between these two towns, which lay less than one hundred miles apart. Once beyond them he would breathe easier, for then they would be in the hills where few Texans had yet ventured. From that point on to the Llano Estacado, Gray Wolf felt confident that their progress would be unhampered.

  It was the war chief's hope that they might avoid the whites altogether, but he realized this was unrealistic, and that very afternoon his worst fears were realized when a pair of Texas horsemen spotted the Quohadis. These men hailed from Columbus, having joined Adam Zumwalt and his volunteer company in pursuit of the Comanche raiders following the Indian attack on Tucker Foley and Dr. Joel Ponton. They had thought the Comanche scare was over and had no idea there were more hostiles roaming so far to the east. Gray Wolf sent a handful of warriors after the duo. If the Texans escaped they would sound the alarm, and the Quohadis' chances of survival would be slim.

  But the Texans did escape. The Quohadi war ponies were worn out. For nearly a fortnight they had been on the move, and for the last two days the warriors had been separated from the herd of stolen horses and so were unable to switch mounts. Crestfallen, the warriors who had failed to catch the Texans returned to Gray Wolf. He did not need to explain the consequences of their failure. They knew all too well—he could see it in their eyes.

  Gray Wolf stopped for the night in a timbered ravine. The horses needed rest, and so did the warriors. A few miles back they had entered a creek and turned east rather than west, keeping to the water for a mile before emerging. Gray Wolf hoped this subterfuge would throw off the pursuit he had not yet seen but knew existed; the Texans would expect the Comanches to push ever westward. He told his brethren that they would hide in the ravine all night and through the following day. From now on they would travel only under cover of darkness. In this way they might be able to elude the Texans. There would be no fires, and no one was to venture out into the open.

  Their ponies hobbled, the weary warriors stretched out on the hard, stony ground. Tonight there was no elation, no boisterous declarations of their exploits as Emily had witnessed the night before. Gray Wolf provided her with food and water, and he did not tie her to a tree, either. She could sense his anxiety and was encouraged. The two Texans she had seen at a distance that morning had obviously escaped. By tomorrow this country would be crawling with search parties.

  Gray Wolf wasn't worried about the white girl trying to escape. He had no intention of sleeping; he was able to go many days without sleep and remain clear-headed. All night he kept watch, deep in thought. He realized now that he had led the Quohadis too far to the east, hoping to strike terror into Texan hearts. It was his responsibility to extricate his Quohadi brothers from this dilemma.

  It was nearly dark when McAllen and the Black Jacks reached the creek where Gray Wolf had turned east rather than west. Once it was clear that the Comanches had not crossed the stream but followed its course, McAllen assumed, as Gray Wolf had hoped he would, that the Indians had turned to the west. The lanterns were lit, despite the fact that by the sign it was obvious that the gap between hunter and hunted was being closed. They traveled a mile along the creek, with riders on either bank searching for the place where the Quohadis had quit the water. Joshua stayed in the creek, going on foot in advance of the others, holding a lantern aloft, kneeling now and then to reach into the water. Puzzled, Tice watched the half-breed for a while and then turned to McAllen, who rode alongside.

  "What is he doing, John Henry? I can't make head nor tails of it."

  "With shod ponies you could expect some marks on the stones in the creek bottom. But since Comanche ponies are unshod, he's looking for overturned stones."

  "Now how in heaven's name could he tell if a stone ha
d been turned over?"

  "In most cases, the top side will be smoothed by the water. The bottom will be rougher in texture."

  "Well, I'll be," said Tice.

  A few minutes later Joshua turned and shook his head; McAllen called a halt, dismounted, and spoke in hushed tones to the half-breed. Joshua answered with hand signals, some of which Tice could not figure out. Finally McAllen called the Black Jacks together.

  "Doesn't appear the Comanches came this way," he said. "We've been thrown off the track."

  Matt Washburn couldn't believe his ears. "They wouldn't have turned east, Cap'n."

  "Maybe they did, for a spell, just to throw us off."

  Muttered curses filled the deepening darkness.

  "Here's what we'll do," said McAllen. "Joshua and I, with Yancey, Brax, and Cedric, will go on ahead. We'll ride due north a ways and hope to cut their trail. The rest of you make camp here. We'll be back before first light and, with any luck, we'll be after them again by daybreak."

  In an hour's time they had crossed the Quohadi trail; the Indians were heading west again, having left the creek somewhere to the east of where they had entered it. A lantern was no longer needed; the full moon had risen early and they could see the sign clearly. It was fresh, and McAllen thought the Comanche horses were on their last legs. The Indians would have to stop soon. He decided to follow the trail a few miles before turning back toward the creek where the rest of the Black Jacks were camped.

  They had gone two miles when a shot rang out.

  Blossoms of fire—muzzle flash—came from a thicket to their right. Brax cried out when a bullet smashed his ankle; Cedric Cole's horse went down, shot dead, but Cole was nimble enough to jump clear. McAllen was out of the saddle with a Colt Paterson in either hand, blazing away as Yancey and Cole helped Brax to cover. Joshua ignored the hot lead buzzing around him to gather up the horses. One, Brax's mount, got away.

  "Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

  The shout came from the thicket, and McAllen saw a glimmer of white floating to and fro in the moon-silvered darkness. He stopped shooting, and a moment later the shapes of two men were distinguishable from the black background of the thicket; one of the men was carrying a flag of truce—white cloth tied to a ramrod.

  "Who the hell are you?" rasped McAllen.

  "Name's Daniel Strother," said one of the men. "This here's Tom Coplan. We thought you was them Injuns at first—until you started making smoke with those revolving pistols. Far as I know, them Comanch' don't have such weapons. Thank the Lord for small favors."

  "Where are you from?"

  "Columbus. Two of our neighbors spotted a war party not too far southeast from here. The Comanch' chased 'em, but they got away." Strother peered speculatively at McAllen's black shell jacket. "Are you John Henry McAllen, by any chance?"

  "I am, and you're a pack of fools, shooting at people before you even know who they are."

  Strother wore a sheepish expression. "I reckon we are that, and we've paid the price of our folly. One of our own is shot dead."

  "Good God," breathed McAllen, realizing that the fatal bullet must have come from one of his own Colts.

  "It ain't your fault," said Coplan. "Are any of your men hurt?"

  "One, but I think he'll live. The dead man, did he have kin?"

  "Wife and family," said Strother.

  McAllen's guts churned. "I suggest you men go home."

  Strother nodded. "We will. At least we know you and your Black Jacks are on the job, Captain. Those Injuns will get their comeuppance. Did you know that a big bunch was whipped at Plum Creek by Captains Caldwell and McCulloch?"

  "No, I hadn't heard." The news was small consolation for McAllen. He was thinking about a faceless widow woman and fatherless children.

  Strother and Coplan returned to the thicket. McAllen checked on Brax. He took a long look at the boy's ankle and then pulled Yancey aside.

  "You and Cedric take him back to camp so Artemus can tend to that leg."

  "There'll be no saving the foot," declared Yancey.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Maybe it's God's plan," replied Yancey flatly. "Brax let Mary and Emily down and he's got to pay for that."

  "What's gotten into you? We all make mistakes. When are you going to forgive him?"

  "It's myself I'll never forgive."

  McAllen saw them off—Cole, Yancey, and Brax, Torrance father and son riding double. Then he and Joshua resumed following the Comanche trail.

  Hardly more than a mile farther on they came to a wooded ravine. The ground was an open book to Joshua—it told the whole story. The Comanches had been here a short time ago. They had departed in haste. McAllen figured they had heard the shooting. He had been close to Emily! It made him sick to think just how close. But what was done was done. The chase would continue.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Roman knocked on the door, Leah McAllen flew out of Major Stewart's embrace like a bird escaping from its cage. "Just a moment!" she gasped, her tone frantic, and she was trying to rearrange her clothing as the door swung open and the old black man tottered in, bearing the Englishman's dinner on a tray. It all happened in the blink of an eye, and Leah was rattled by the knowledge that she had very nearly been caught in flagrante delicto. Her heart was racing, her cheeks hot, and she realized, belatedly and with dismay, that some of her lip rouge was smeared on Stewart's face. The major was smirking; he seemed to find it amusing that she was so flustered, and he took his own sweet time wiping the damning evidence from his impossibly handsome face.

  "I told you to wait a moment," Leah snapped at Roman, infuriated.

  Roman wore a seamless look of innocent surprise. "I's old and deaf, Miss Leah. Reckon I didn't hear right."

  "Old and deaf and perfectly useless," said Leah spitefully.

  The insult had no apparent effect on Roman. He pretended not to hear it, and put the tray on a table next to the bed where Stewart lay. "Here's your dinner, Major, suh. Bessie she say you gots to eat it all, or answer to her."

  "Thank you, Roman. I will eat every bit of it, I promise. I'm famished."

  "Yassuh. Will there be anything else?"

  "Get out," muttered Leah.

  "Yessum." Roman shuffled out of the room and closed the door very gently behind him.

  "Oh!" exclaimed Leah, furious. "That insufferable old man."

  Stewart was chuckling now.

  "How dare you!" she cried. "Are you laughing at me? Do you realize they are spying on us?"

  "Why do you care what they think?"

  "It's what they tell John Henry when he returns that matters, you reckless fool."

  "So suddenly you care what your husband thinks."

  Her green eyes shot daggers of emerald ice at him. "I doubt even he would tolerate this kind of thing under his own roof."

  "You're simply nursing me back to health. I find your kisses a miraculous curative." He reached out for her. "Come here and give me another."

  She danced out of his reach with a sultry and coquettish smile touching ruby lips parted slightly to reveal just a glimmer of white teeth.

  "No, I don't think I shall kiss you, sir, since you have laughed at me."

  Stewart shrugged. "Well, then, I suppose I'll just have my dinner instead."

  He took a cup of tea from the tray, but she struck it from his hand and threw herself on top of him and kissed him passionately—then bit his bottom lip so hard she drew blood. Stewart bucked her off with such a violent reaction that his leg wound gave him a shot of pain that robbed him of breath. Now Leah was the one laughing as he wiped blood from his mouth, and the sight of her, one of the most beautiful women he had even seen, lying there on the bed, made the anger in his eyes dwindle while the desire within him soared, and he crushed her body with his. This time her lips were pliant and willing. Leah closed her eyes and surrendered herself to him, her heart racing.

  Suddenly Stewart rolled off her and, sitting on the edge of the bed, took a napkin fr
om the tray and tucked it into the collar of his linen nightshirt. "I really am starving," he said, "and this smells delectable. Um, some of Bessie's famous stew. She really is quite a good cook, you know—"

  "Oh, you!" Indignant, Leah jumped off the bed and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Stewart tried not to laugh so loud that she would hear him from the hallway, but he couldn't help it.

  When Roman entered the kitchen, Bessie was kneading a mound of sourdough for biscuits. Flames licked at the blackened bottom of the Dutch oven hanging on an iron hook above the big fireplace, and it was warm in the room; perspiration beaded her moon-shaped face as she worked. She was humming an old spiritual tune "Roll Jordan Roll," but when she saw the scowl on Roman's face she stopped short.

  "Now what's got into you?" she wanted to know.

  "Dat woman, she's a devil chile," declared Roman, shaking his head.

  "You mean Miss Leah."

  "It jis' ain't right, the way she be carryin' on."

  "Hmph." Bessie planted a fist on each beefy hip and looked askance at Roman. "And jis' what you gwine do about it? I'll tell you. You ain't gwine do nuttin', you hear me?"

  "It jis' ain't right."

  "Who tole you ever'thing gwine be right in dis ole world?"

  "Marse John he deserve better."

  "Well, if he deserve better den he'll get better. Doan you think he know what kind of woman he married to? Sure he do. And he'll take care of things in his own way and in his own time. Now you jis' keep your mouth shut, ole man. Doan go stickin' your nose into business what ain't none of your concern." As she spoke, Roman was edging over to the Dutch oven, sniffing the air like an old hound dog, and Bessie added, "And keep your grimy fingers out my stew, else I'll knock you upside de head."

  Jeb appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Rider comin'. It ain't Marse John, though." With that he was gone.