The Black Jacks

Gray Wolf wasn't worried about the white girl trying to escape. He had no intention of sleeping; he was able to go many days without sleep and remain clear-headed. All night he kept watch, deep in thought. He realized now that he had led the Quohadis too far to the east, hoping to strike terror into Texan hearts. It was his responsibility to extricate his Quohadi brothers from this dilemma.

It was nearly dark when McAllen and the Black Jacks reached the creek where Gray Wolf had turned east rather than west. Once it was clear that the Comanches had not crossed the stream but followed its course, McAllen assumed, as Gray Wolf had hoped he would, that the Indians had turned to the west. The lanterns were lit, despite the fact that by the sign it was obvious that the gap between hunter and hunted was being closed. They traveled a mile along the creek, with riders on either bank searching for the place where the Quohadis had quit the water. Joshua stayed in the creek, going on foot in advance of the others, holding a lantern aloft, kneeling now and then to reach into the water. Puzzled, Tice watched the half-breed for a while and then turned to McAllen, who rode alongside.

"What is he doing, John Henry? I can't make head nor tails of it."

"With shod ponies you could expect some marks on the stones in the creek bottom. But since Comanche ponies are unshod, he's looking for overturned stones."

"Now how in heaven's name could he tell if a stone had been turned over?"

"In most cases, the top side will be smoothed by the water. The bottom will be rougher in texture."

"Well, I'll be," said Tice.

A few minutes later Joshua turned and shook his head; McAllen called a halt, dismounted, and spoke in hushed tones to the half-breed. Joshua answered with hand signals, some of which Tice could not figure out. Finally McAllen called the Black Jacks together.

"Doesn't appear the Comanches came this way," he said. "We've been thrown off the track."

Matt Washburn couldn't believe his ears. "They wouldn't have turned east, Cap'n."

"Maybe they did, for a spell, just to throw us off."

Muttered curses filled the deepening darkness.

"Here's what we'll do," said McAllen. "Joshua and I, with Yancey, Brax, and Cedric, will go on ahead. We'll ride due north a ways and hope to cut their trail. The rest of you make camp here. We'll be back before first light and, with any luck, we'll be after them again by daybreak."

In an hour's time they had crossed the Quohadi trail; the Indians were heading west again, having left the creek somewhere to the east of where they had entered it. A lantern was no longer needed; the full moon had risen early and they could see the sign clearly. It was fresh, and McAllen thought the Comanche horses were on their last legs. The Indians would have to stop soon. He decided to follow the trail a few miles before turning back toward the creek where the rest of the Black Jacks were camped.

They had gone two miles when a shot rang out.

Blossoms of fire—muzzle flash—came from a thicket to their right. Brax cried out when a bullet smashed his ankle; Cedric Cole's horse went down, shot dead, but Cole was nimble enough to jump clear. McAllen was out of the saddle with a Colt Paterson in either hand, blazing away as Yancey and Cole helped Brax to cover. Joshua ignored the hot lead buzzing around him to gather up the horses. One, Brax's mount, got away.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

The shout came from the thicket, and McAllen saw a glimmer of white floating to and fro in the moon-silvered darkness. He stopped shooting, and a moment later the shapes of two men were distinguishable from the black background of the thicket; one of the men was carrying a flag of truce—white cloth tied to a ramrod.

"Who the hell are you?" rasped McAllen.

"Name's Daniel Strother," said one of the men. "This here's Tom Coplan. We thought you was them Injuns at first—until you started making smoke with those revolving pistols. Far as I know, them Comanch' don't have such weapons. Thank the Lord for small favors."

"Where are you from?"

"Columbus. Two of our neighbors spotted a war party not too far southeast from here. The Comanch' chased 'em, but they got away." Strother peered speculatively at McAllen's black shell jacket. "Are you John Henry McAllen, by any chance?"

"I am, and you're a pack of fools, shooting at people before you even know who they are."

Strother wore a sheepish expression. "I reckon we are that, and we've paid the price of our folly. One of our own is shot dead."

"Good God," breathed McAllen, realizing that the fatal bullet must have come from one of his own Colts.

"It ain't your fault," said Coplan. "Are any of your men hurt?"

"One, but I think he'll live. The dead man, did he have kin?"

"Wife and family," said Strother.

McAllen's guts churned. "I suggest you men go home."

Strother nodded. "We will. At least we know you and your Black Jacks are on the job, Captain. Those Injuns will get their comeuppance. Did you know that a big bunch was whipped at Plum Creek by Captains Caldwell and McCulloch?"

"No, I hadn't heard." The news was small consolation for McAllen. He was thinking about a faceless widow woman and fatherless children.

Strother and Coplan returned to the thicket. McAllen checked on Brax. He took a long look at the boy's ankle and then pulled Yancey aside.

"You and Cedric take him back to camp so Artemus can tend to that leg."

"There'll be no saving the foot," declared Yancey.

"I'm sorry."

"Maybe it's God's plan," replied Yancey flatly. "Brax let Mary and Emily down and he's got to pay for that."

"What's gotten into you? We all make mistakes. When are you going to forgive him?"

"It's myself I'll never forgive."

McAllen saw them off—Cole, Yancey, and Brax, Torrance father and son riding double. Then he and Joshua resumed following the Comanche trail.

Hardly more than a mile farther on they came to a wooded ravine. The ground was an open book to Joshua—it told the whole story. The Comanches had been here a short time ago. They had departed in haste. McAllen figured they had heard the shooting. He had been close to Emily! It made him sick to think just how close. But what was done was done. The chase would continue.

Chapter Twenty

When Roman knocked on the door, Leah McAllen flew out of Major Stewart's embrace like a bird escaping from its cage. "Just a moment!" she gasped, her tone frantic, and she was trying to rearrange her clothing as the door swung open and the old black man tottered in, bearing the Englishman's di

"I told you to wait a moment," Leah snapped at Roman, infuriated.

Roman wore a seamless look of i