The Black Jacks

"You and Joshua are wounded."

McAllen smiled back at him. "That's true. But we need Joshua. He's the best tracker in Texas. And as for me, well, I'm pulling rank. So that's it, boys. If you haven't already done so, gather up all the cartridges you can find, pick out a good horse, and we'll ride. But travel light. The Comanches will probably make a run for home. We've got to move fast."

As the others departed, Brax approached his father. Yancey was nursing a jug of corn liquor, compliments of A. G. Deckard, and sat tilted back in a caneback chair near the old stove, gazing moodily at the floor.

"I want to come along," said Brax.

McAllen heard him. "You'd better stay," he replied. He didn't think Yancey wanted the boy along after what had happened, and feared there might be more trouble between them. It was just best to keep the two separated for a while. "Billy Fuller asked me if he could ride with us, too. Wants to avenge his father's death. But I told him like I'm telling you."

"Billy Fuller's only fourteen. I'm nearly eighteen. I'm the best shot in the county. I kilt two Comanches today."

"Let him come along, John Henry," said Yancey. "He's got a lot to make up for."

Though it was against his better judgment, McAllen gave in.

Within the hour fifteen men had returned to Deckard's place. All of them, except Brax, wore the black jacket. Long blue shadows of day's end spread across the street as they rode out of Grand Cane, their loved ones waving good-bye and holding in their hearts fervent wishes for their safe return.

All John Henry McAllen could think about was finding Emily and bringing her home safe and sound.

Chapter Eighteen

The Quohadi Comanche who had captured Emily Torrance rode north parallel to the river road from the place at the river where they had discovered their prey. The fighting was still going on in Grand Cane, but they knew it was going badly for their cause, and they did not want to risk losing their prize. It was for that reason, when they turned west upon seeing the McAllen plantation, they assumed it would be well defended, when in fact it was deserted.

Gray Wolf had arranged for a rendezvous point due west of the settlement. Since he was unfamiliar with this country he had told his warriors to ride until sunset, and then begin to look for one another. That was one reason why Gray Wolf was the most respected war chief of the Antelope band—he pla

The three Comanches made quick time, keeping whenever possible to low, wooded terrain. A few miles from the Brazos, Emily regained consciousness. Draped belly-down over a galloping pony made breathing a hardship, and she was not inclined to long endure the discomfort. In a panic to escape, she gave no thought to the odds of success. When her captor crossed the rocky bed of a small branch and slowed his horse to ascend the opposite bank, Emily made her move. She slipped off the pony, tearing free of the warrior's clutches. Stumbling down the slope, she ran along the creek, swift as a hunted deer. With a shout the warriors gave chase. Emily slipped on a water-slick stone and fell. Before she could get up again the Comanches were on her. The warrior from whom she had escaped—at least for a moment—jumped off his galloping horse and bore her down into the shallows. She picked up a rock and hit him on the head with it, but it was only a glancing blow, just enough to infuriate him, and he struck her in the face with a fist, just like before, and once again Emily blacked out.

She came to a few minutes later to find her wrists tied together with strips of rawhide. Her left eye where he had hit her was swelling shut. The warrior put the loop of a horsehair rope around her neck and pulled it so tight she could scarcely breathe. He said something to her, and his tone of voice was angry. Then he remounted, the other end of the rope firmly in his grasp, and kicked his war pony into motion, following his two companions. Emily stumbled along behind. Several times she lost her footing and fell, but the warrior did not stop, did not even look back, and she realized that if she fell and didn't or couldn't get up he would be quite content to drag her along by the neck until she was dead from strangulation.

Emily considered falling on purpose and letting him kill her. But her instinct for survival asserted itself. She had to live because Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen would rescue her. Yes, they would save her. She had to believe in that. She had to have faith.

The five-mile walk seemed to her an unending ordeal, but at last it did end, at a large island of trees around a sweetwater spring. The three Quohadi warriors were overjoyed to find about fifteen of their brethren hiding in the woods. Within the next hour, as the last light of day faded from the purpling sky, other warriors arrived, so that soon the total number had swollen to about seventy. A herd of stolen horses, with a few mules mixed in, were brought in and then pushed on at a rapid pace to the west-northwest. During this time Emily sat, exhausted, on the ground at the base of a tree to which she was bound. The bubbling spring nearby tormented her; she had been all day without a drink of water. But she did not cry out or struggle against her bonds. She didn't want to attract any attention to herself. The warriors were busy relating their exploits to one another and for a while she thought they had forgotten all about her.

As the Comanches congregated at the rendezvous, several more captives were brought in—a woman with an infant child, and a boy of about ten with a girl of five or six, obviously brother and sister. Emily did not know any of them. They were not from Grand Cane. She took comfort from the knowledge that none of her friends or neighbors had suffered the same fate as she.

As the night deepened a growing restlessness pervaded the Quohadi camp. Emily surmised that there was some discussion among them as to whether they should stay here throughout the night or move on. There did not seem to be a genuine leader among them.

Across the way, the mother sat with her child. The baby was squalling, and though the woman tried to nurse it she could not comfort or quiet the child. She asked her captor for a little flour and water with which to make a gruel that the child could digest. The Indian yelled at her, snatched the baby from her grasp, and, before she could stop him, threw the infant high in the air and let it fall to the ground. Sobbing, the mother hugged the limp and lifeless form, rocking back and forth on her knees. Emily could only look on in horror.

As night fell, some of the Comanches made up their minds to move on. A mule was brought for the woman whose baby had been murdered. The woman's captor took the tiny corpse from her, tied a string around her neck, and secured the other end of the string to the horn of the saddle strapped to the mule. He ordered the woman to get into the saddle, but she refused, even when threatened with a lance. Finally, growing weary of the game, the Quohadi impaled her on the lance. He mounted his war pony and rode on with thirty other warriors in the process of leaving the bosque. The white boy and girl were taken. The woman left behind took a long time to die, and her pitiful, whimpering cries of pain were almost more than Emily could bear.

A short time later her captor approached and cut her loose from the tree. Her hands remained tied. A fire had been built in a clearing to throw back the night, and many of the Comanches who remained were getting drunk on jugs of whiskey stolen from the cabins of settlers. Emily was dragged into the circle of firelight, and it took only a moment for her to realize that her captor hoped to interest one of the others in a trade. He wanted whiskey and horses in exchange for her.