The Black Jacks

"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 ru

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 stu

"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."