The Black Jacks

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 u

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. Stu

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."

Chapter Eight

Just before the shooting started, John Henry McAllen wandered away from the press of onlookers which had flocked to the vicinity of the Council House. The Comanches were inside now, and McAllen felt marginally better about the whole business. Maybe there was, after all, a chance that things would go off without a hitch. Thanks to Artemus Tice, violence had been averted. McAllen didn't even want to think about what might have happened had the belligerent drunkard gotten off a shot.

He walked to the old well at the northwest corner of the Plaza de Armes, about thirty yards from the Council House. A boy was cranking the windlass to elevate the bucket, but he wasn't paying much attention to the task. Standing on the rim of the well, he was peering bright-eyed at the crowd which McAllen had just quit.

"Take care, son," said McAllen. "I'd hate to see you fall in."

The lad was freckle-faced and towheaded, and he flashed an easy grin. "This is the first time Ma didn't have to tell me twice to go fetch some water. I aint never seen no real live Comanches before. Wow!"

McAllen smiled. "New to these parts, are you?"

The boy nodded. "We come from Robertson County, up Te

"Not by choice." The bucket, water sloshing over its rim, had arrived, and McAllen used an old wooden ladle hanging from a peg on the windlass post to get a drink. Like everyone else, he wondered what was happening at this moment in the Council House. It all depended on Mirabeau Lamer. McAllen was convinced the Comanches were sincere in their desire for peace. They had taken grave risks coming here, and some had brought their families with them. That in itself was a guarantee they didn't mean to start any trouble.

"Are you an honest-to-God Injun?" the boy asked Joshua.

Joshua ignored the boy. He was gazing across the plaza at the crowd.

"He's half Seminole, son," said McAllen. "But he can't answer you. Pirates cut out his tongue when he was just a boy, younger than you."

"Pirates! Mister, you are pullin' my leg?"

The first gunshot was muffled by the thick stone walls of the Council House, but the sound was unmistakable for someone like McAllen, who had heard so many shots fired in anger. A fierce flurry of gunfire followed. With much shouting, the crowd in the plaza seemed to surge en masse toward the Council House. Then, abruptly, it began to scatter. McAllen leaped to the rim of the well, and from this vantage point could see some of the Comanches boiling out of the doors of the old building. Texas Rangers were blazing away with their Colt Patersons, and the Indians responded with knife, war club, or bow and arrow. A few managed to reach their ponies. Some of these broke through the Rangers and galloped away up the Calle de Flores, the route by which they had entered San Antonio. Confused, or seeking the path of least resistance, some rode in other directions. But the majority of Indians, hemmed in by the Rangers and those civilians who had not turned tail at the outbreak of violence, stood their ground in front of the Council House.

McAllen heard the crack of a stray bullet passing too close for comfort, and he wrapped an arm around the waist of the freckle-faced boy and jumped off the well.

"Joshua, go get the horses and meet me at the hotel." As usual in moments of crisis, McAllen was calm and clear-headed; his voice was firm and unexcited.

The half-breed youth hesitated. In such dangerous circumstances he was not inclined to leave McAllen's side, for fear that some mishap might befall the man to whom he was devoted. But he could not disobey McAllen, either, and before McAllen could tell him twice, he was gone, loping in the direction of the livery on the Calle Dolorosa, where their horses were boarded.

McAllen's first instinct was to plunge into the affray and find Tice and Yancey Torrance. But the boy under his arm was his foremost concern at the moment, so he turned away, ru