The Black Jacks

Filled with shame and fury, Emily could lie still no longer. Beside her lay a limb several feet in length and thicker than Uncle Yancey's arm. She picked it up, shot to her feet, and charged the three Comanches, yelling at the top of her lungs.

"Leave her alone, you dirty savages!"

Startled, the Comanche ponies shied away. Emily launched herself at the warrior standing over Mary, and though he threw up an arm to block the blow, she swung the limb with such desperate force that the impact knocked him off his feet and into the shallows. Emily pressed her advantage home, trying to bash his skull in, but he kicked her in the belly, knocking the wind out of her, and she fell backward over Mary. It was as she lay on the ground trying to breathe that she realized Mary wasn't trembling anymore, wasn't moving at all, and her lifeless eyes were staring straight through Emily, with the terror of her last moment frozen in them for all eternity.

Then the Comanche she had attacked was on Emily, hitting her in the face with his fist, straddling her, and she tried to fight back but to no avail, thinking at first that he was going to rape her. But he raised his knife overhead and she knew suddenly that he intended to plunge the blade through her heart, and she actually felt relieved. . . .

One of the other warriors, dismounted now, grabbed the hand that held the knife and spoke curtly in his guttural tongue. The first warrior got off Emily, spat in her face, and turned angrily away. As the second Comanche lifted her roughly to her feet, Emily began fighting all over again, but the Indian hit her with his fist and her world turned black so that she was blissfully unaware of the way he threw her bellydown across his pony's withers, remounted, and rode away from the river with his companions following.

Chapter Seventeen

Yancey Torrance assumed that Mary and Emily had crossed the river on the ferry with the rest of Grand Cane's women and children, and after the fight was finished he went about helping the other Black Jacks who were trying to contain the fires which the Comanches had started. A few of the men combed the town making sure all the Indians left behind were dead. Now and then a shot rang out. McAllen didn't intervene. No one expected him to. A Comanche prisoner was at the very least a pain in the neck, and dangerous besides.

Even when Brax showed up, Yancey wasn't worried. His son swore he had seen the womenfolk to the ferry and then come to town to help his father. He'd run into a couple of Comanches on the way and killed them both. He was proud of himself. Yancey was perturbed. He'd wanted Brax to remain out of harm's way, but he realized that, had the roles been reversed, he would have done the same.

It was only when the families began to filter back into town and he saw no sign of Mary and Emily, and some of the people who had been on the ferry swore they hadn't seen them, that Yancey experienced a twinge of anxiety. Thinking they might have gone straight home and that in the confusion some of the others on the ferry had not noticed them, he headed down the road to his cabin. McAllen rode along beside him, Joshua in his wake. Arriving at the cabin, they found Morris Riddle and his son doing what they could for Major Stewart.

"He's lost a lot of blood," said the elder Riddle. "Dr. Tice needs to take a look at him."

McAllen nodded. "He'll be along directly. We've got some wounded in town."

"Anybody kilt?"

"Yes. Nathan Ainsworth and George Sellers. Have a feeling Jellicoe Fuller might be dead, too."

"Damn them Comanches," growled Riddle. "Damn their red hides to hell."

"My wife and Emily," said Yancey. "Have you seen them?"

Riddle said he hadn't. Yancey decided to check the ferry. He got up behind McAllen, and Escatawpa carried them to the river crossing. Cedric Cole told them he had not seen the women. They had never arrived at the ferry.

"Dear God in heaven," gasped Yancey. He suddenly had trouble catching his breath. Every bit of color drained from his face.

"We'll check along the river between here and your place," said McAllen. "Maybe they got cut off and found a place to hide."

"Please, Lord, let it be so."

A few minutes later they found Mary Torrance.

McAllen tried to stop Yancey from getting too close, but Yancey was strong as a bull, and he would not be restrained. With a sobbing groan, Yancey fell to his knees beside his wife's body. That was the only sound he made. Gently, he tried to arrange Mary's torn dress more modestly. McAllen stood nearby, watching his friend, his own heart in anguish. He was vaguely aware of Joshua checking the ground for sign. The half-breed's wound was severe, but McAllen knew he wouldn't quit until all his strength was gone.

After a while Joshua came up to him and McAllen asked softly, "How many were there?"

Joshua held up three fingers.

"And Emily? Was she here?"

Impassive, Joshua nodded yes.

McAllen had a copper taste in his mouth as he said, "They took her, didn't they?"

Again Joshua nodded.

Yancey overheard. He got slowly, wearily to his feet. "Let's get after them," he said flatly, and started to walk past McAllen, heading for the horses.

McAllen clutched his arm. "Not yet, Yancey. If we go on our own we'll just end up getting killed, and that won't help Emily. We've got to take the whole company. First we'll bury the dead, and then we'll get organized."

"The longer we wait, the less chance we'll have of getting her back."

McAllen motioned in Joshua's direction. "Have you ever known him to lose a trail?"

Yancey shook his head. "I keep seeing that captive woman in my mind. You know, the one in San Antonio. I can't bear to think of Emily like that. . . ." His voice faded and he struggled to maintain his composure.

McAllen put his hand on Yancey's shoulder. "We'll get her back."

Yancey heaved a deep sigh. He took Mary in his arms and carried her back to the cabin. McAllen and Joshua followed, leading their horses.

Brax was at the cabin when they returned. His grief at the sight of his dead mother was the only thing that saved him from his father's wrath. "If you'd done what I told you," railed Yancey, shaking a fist in his son's face, "your mother might still be alive." He went no further. There was no need to say more. Brax completely broke down, crushed by the burden of his guilt.

Yancey took Mary's body into the bedroom, where he washed her and dressed her in her best clothes. Then he exchanged the clothes he wore, the ones that reeked of powder smoke and were stained with Comanche blood, for his Sunday-go-to-meeting garb. Leaving Mary laid out on the bed, looking for all the world as though she were only sleeping, he started for town. "I'm going to see about a coffin," he told McAllen and Tice, who had just arrived.

Tice stood in the bedroom doorway, looking in on Mary. He did not approach the bed, sensing without having to be told that Yancey did not want anyone to get near his wife.

"I didn't see a mark on her," McAllen told him.

"Probably died of pure fright," said Tice sadly. "I think she had a weak heart." He turned to McAllen. "Shuck that shirt, John Henry, and let Morris bandage your arm while I see what I can do for our English friend."

"My arm can wait," said McAllen. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, he was afraid that if he sat down he might not be able to summon the strength to get back on his feet. "There are a great many things to do before we can start after those Indians."