The Black Jacks

The Comanche who had struck the final blow leaped from his painted pony, intent on harvesting the fallen Englishman's scalp. Stewart was stu

Standing over Stewart, McAllen aimed his guns at an Indian bearing down upon him with tomahawk raised. The Colts' hammers fell on empty chambers. Even in the din of close combat the ominous sound echoed loudly in McAllen's ears. Then another gun spoke, and the tomahawk-wielding Comanche fell. Suddenly those warriors left alive were withdrawing, and McAllen saw three horsemen coming along the road, firing after the Indians. He recognized them as Matt Washburn, Morris Riddle, and Riddle's son Walter. Washburn and Riddle were Black Jacks whose farms were located northwest of the settlement. They were riding to the sound of the guns and McAllen was glad to see them, knowing he owed his life to their timely arrival.

"Cap'n," said Washburn, "you appear to be wounded."

Surprised, McAllen noticed for the first time that blood was dripping from the fingers of his left hand. His sleeve was soaked with blood. A tomahawk had gouged his arm. The pain hit him then, and he felt light-headed.

"It's nothing," he said.

He spotted Joshua coming toward him, leading his horse. The half-breed hadn't come through unscathed, either. He held an arm tight against his side where a Comanche knife had bitten deep. Seven Comanches lay on the road. All but one of them was dead. The seventh was swiftly dispatched by Morris Riddle—a single rifle shot to the head. Riddle was as dispassionate as he would have been in killing a rattlesnake that had crossed his path.

McAllen turned his attention to Stewart, even while he listened with an experienced ear to the sounds of the battle still raging in town. He ached to join his Black Jacks in their struggle against the Comanches, but he couldn't very well leave Stewart to bleed to death in the road.

"Morris," he said, "Sam Houston is on his way here to meet this man. We've got to do our best to keep him alive. You and Walter take him back to Yancey's place and see what you can do for him."

Riddle was obviously disappointed. McAllen's order would keep him out of the scrape. But the thought of protesting the order never occurred to him. He nodded. "Leave him to me, Captain."

McAllen retrieved Stewart's saber and turned to the gray hunter, who stood nearby. Escatawpa was trained to stick close to him no matter the circumstances. Back in the saddle, McAllen saw that Joshua was trying to remount and having some difficulty due to his injury.

"Go back to Yancey's cabin," said McAllen. "Wait for me there."

His features drawn taut with pain, Joshua got on the horse and just stared at McAllen, defiant and resolute. McAllen just shook his head. He knew that was one order Joshua would not obey. "Come on, Matt," he told Washburn, and the three of them rode into Grand Cane.

Yancey Torrance was the first Black Jack in town to witness McAllen's arrival. He saw the captain and Joshua and Matt Washburn galloping hell for leather up the street as he peered through a gun slot in the stout wooden shutters covering the windows of Scayne's store. Yancey let loose with a whoop and a holler and unbarred the door, ru

The fight had quickly deteriorated into numerous individual life-and-death struggles from one end of the settlement to the other. While some of the Comanches concentrated their efforts on coming to grips with the elusive and hard-to-kill Black Jacks, others broke into empty buildings looking for plunder. Several houses were already burning, having been looted by the quick-working Comanches. The Comancheros—Mexican traders who engaged in commerce with the Comanches—took almost anything of value in exchange for the whiskey, tobacco, blankets, and, lately, even firearms for their Indian customers.

Matt Washburn shot at one warrior coming out of a house with his arms full of plunder. Washburn's bullet would have drilled the Indian's heart but for the big, leatherbound family Bible that got in the way. The Indian couldn't believe he was still alive. Dropping everything except the Bible, which he clutched to his chest, the Comanche turned and ran. Washburn would later say he had converted that Indian—only not in the way he had originally intended.

Gray Wolf's thoughts turned to the Comancheros that day, too, though he did not engage in any looting. It occurred to him that if his people were going to have any chance at all against the Texans they were going to have to forsake their traditional weapons and become proficient in the use of the white man's rifle. Quohadi warriors would need to stop trading for "fire water" and flashy gewgaws with which to decorate themselves and their squaws, and acquire guns and black powder from the Comancheros. Many of the traders were reluctant to give their Indian customers weapons which might be turned upon their own people, but there were enough who, for the sake of profit, cast scruples aside.

The advantage of the rifle and pistol over the lance or bow and arrow offset the Black Jacks' disadvantage in numbers and allowed them to turn the Comanche tide. The warriors filtered through the buildings and out into the countryside, having had enough of the fight. Those who lingered too long for loot were being eradicated one by one.

Down by the river, Emily was having difficulty with Mary Torrance. Minutes after Brax left them to their own devices they came within sight of the ferry, which was already loaded with people and on its way across the Brazos.

"We're too late," said Mary.

"Mr. Cole will come back over," replied Emily. "Let's hurry, Aunt Mary."

But Mary balked. "No. No, I must get home. I don't want to cross the river. I want to go home."

"We mustn't go back. It isn't safe."

"Let loose of me. I won't go across the river. I won't!"

Emily was perplexed. Mary seemed to be in a state of shock. Her expression was blank, her eyes staring and out of focus, like those of a blind person. Emily tried to lead her, but Mary broke away and started to run south along the river. Calling after her, Emily hesitated, glancing back at the ferry, at salvation—and then took off in pursuit of her aunt. She could see Mary up ahead, stumbling through the trees, and then, to her horror, she spotted three Comanches on horseback galloping down the slope to cut Mary off. One of them uttered a savage shriek which froze the blood in Emily's veins. Mary saw them then and screamed. She whirled and threw herself into the river, but the Comanches were already upon her. One leaped from his pony and pounced on her in the shallows, hurling her up onto the riverbank.

Emily threw herself to the ground behind an old log. Miraculously, the Comanches had not seen her. The log rested on its stump at one end, and there was a space between it and the ground through which she peeked to watch in terror as the Comanche who had plucked Mary from the river now crouched over her with a knife in hand. Mary's babbling screams tore at Emily's heart. She thought at first that the Indian was stabbing Mary, but then realized he was using the knife to cut away her dress. Still mounted, the other two warriors laughed at the sight of Mary's pale, trembling nakedness. The warrior on foot did not appear amused. He kicked Mary brutally and screamed at her. Apparently he did not like what he saw.