The Black Jacks

Chapter Nineteen

Come daybreak, Gray Wolf had bitterly accepted the fact that his friend Tall Horses would have to be left behind. For agonizing hours he had wrestled with the decision, seeking in vain some alternative, knowing that the consequence would surely be death for the young warrior. Finally, when the Quohadis paused at a creek to water their tired horses, Gray Wolf went to Tall Horses, who lay in the travois, conscious and clearly in great pain. The bullet remained in his leg, lodged against the bone, and even the slightest movement of the travois caused him discomfort. Gray Wolf had decided to come straight out and tell Tall Horses the truth, but when the time came to do so, he hesitated. Tall Horses could read his fate on the war chief's grim features and smiled wanly.

"Thank you, Gray Wolf," he said. "I do not wish to go on. I am glad you are leaving me here. The pain in my heart, knowing that because of me all my brothers may die, is far greater than the pain in my leg. I could not live with the shame."

Having gathered around the travois, the other warriors heard these words and were profoundly moved. They gazed at Tall Horses with respect bordering on awe.

Gray Wolf clasped the wounded warrior's hand. "The bravery of Tall Horses will be honored as long as a single Quohadi lives." He could say no more, and turned quickly away.

One by one the other warriors bade farewell to Tall Horses. Then they rode on, leaving him in the shade of a post oak, by his side his weapons and a pouch containing pemmican to sustain him in the remaining days—or, more probably, hours—of his life.

Studying the impassive faces of the warriors, Emily failed to discover the strong emotion most of them felt. All she could know was that these savages had abandoned one of their own, apparently because he was slowing them down. This was something white men would never do, she told herself.

A few miles farther on, Gray Wolf glanced back. He had seen no evidence of pursuit, but instinct warned him that the Texans were closing fast. Somehow he just knew they were on the way. He saw black specks in the clear summer sky, recognized them as turkey vultures circling over the place where Tall Horses lay. Gray Wolf silently asked the Great Spirit, Our Sure Enough Father, to take Tall Horses now to the next life, before the whites found him, for surely the Texans would mutilate the young warrior after death, and scalping a Comanche prevented him from attaining immortality.

The buzzards led McAllen and the Black Jacks straight to Tall Horses.

Cedric Cole had a telescoping glass which he had taken off the body of a Florida gunru

"He's alone," said Yancey. "They left him behind."

"Doesn't look like he's long for this world," remarked Cole. "I can finish him off from here, Captain," he added, calculating range and windage for a long rifle shot.

"We could try to take him alive," suggested Tice. "Maybe I can keep him breathing until we can trade him for Emily. Or at least until he tells us how she fares. You speak a little Comanche, John Henry. Maybe you could talk to him."

"I don't think he'd talk to me. Besides, the Comanches wouldn't make that kind of trade." McAllen shook his head. "No, it's too dangerous to try to take him alive in broad daylight, and we can't afford to wait until dark." He sighed. There was a bad taste in his mouth. "Go ahead, Cedric. Kill him. There's nothing else for it."

Not wanting to watch, McAllen left the high ground. He flinched at the report of Cole's rifle, mounted up, and led the Black Jacks on to the creek. Cole's aim had been true; the Comanche lay sprawled lifeless beneath the tree.

"Damn good shooting, Cedric," said Morris Riddle. "You want his scalp for a trophy, or can I have it?"

Cole shook his head and Riddle drew his knife, but McAllen stopped him.

"Leave him be."

Perplexed, Riddle stared at him. "What's gotten into you, Cap'n? You didn't used to be squeamish."

"I guess I got that way in San Antonio," snapped McAllen, "when I saw thirty Comanche chiefs gu

Frowning, Riddle sheathed the knife. It sounded to him like the captain was taking up for the redskins, and that was a disturbing thought. Too disturbing, in fact, so he let it pass without comment.

That morning, Gray Wolf led his Quohadi warriors across the San Bernard River. From this point westward the Texas settlements were sparse. That was the good news. The bad news was that now the terrain became less advantageous for fugitives—more open prairie and fewer trees. And two days' ride to the west lay Bexar and the new settlement called Austin. Gray Wolf hoped to run the gauntlet between these two towns, which lay less than one hundred miles apart. Once beyond them he would breathe easier, for then they would be in the hills where few Texans had yet ventured. From that point on to the Llano Estacado, Gray Wolf felt confident that their progress would be unhampered.

It was the war chief's hope that they might avoid the whites altogether, but he realized this was unrealistic, and that very afternoon his worst fears were realized when a pair of Texas horsemen spotted the Quohadis. These men hailed from Columbus, having joined Adam Zumwalt and his volunteer company in pursuit of the Comanche raiders following the Indian attack on Tucker Foley and Dr. Joel Ponton. They had thought the Comanche scare was over and had no idea there were more hostiles roaming so far to the east. Gray Wolf sent a handful of warriors after the duo. If the Texans escaped they would sound the alarm, and the Quohadis' chances of survival would be slim.

But the Texans did escape. The Quohadi war ponies were worn out. For nearly a fortnight they had been on the move, and for the last two days the warriors had been separated from the herd of stolen horses and so were unable to switch mounts. Crestfallen, the warriors who had failed to catch the Texans returned to Gray Wolf. He did not need to explain the consequences of their failure. They knew all too well—he could see it in their eyes.

Gray Wolf stopped for the night in a timbered ravine. The horses needed rest, and so did the warriors. A few miles back they had entered a creek and turned east rather than west, keeping to the water for a mile before emerging. Gray Wolf hoped this subterfuge would throw off the pursuit he had not yet seen but knew existed; the Texans would expect the Comanches to push ever westward. He told his brethren that they would hide in the ravine all night and through the following day. From now on they would travel only under cover of darkness. In this way they might be able to elude the Texans. There would be no fires, and no one was to venture out into the open.

Their ponies hobbled, the weary warriors stretched out on the hard, stony ground. Tonight there was no elation, no boisterous declarations of their exploits as Emily had witnessed the night before. Gray Wolf provided her with food and water, and he did not tie her to a tree, either. She could sense his anxiety and was encouraged. The two Texans she had seen at a distance that morning had obviously escaped. By tomorrow this country would be crawling with search parties.