The Black Jacks

She scoffed at that. "Shopping? Austin is no place for that sort of thing. One must go to Galveston to find a selection of merchandise worth making such a trip for."

"I'm afraid I'm not going to Galveston."

"Fiddle."

"We would at least be safe from the prying eyes of Grand Cane's domestics. I will introduce you to Count de Saligny. Perhaps there will be a dance while we are there. . . ."

He kissed the back of her neck and she shuddered involuntarily.

"You must think me a shameless hussy," she said, feigning indignation.

"Not at all. My mother's first husband paid her no attention, and she had to seek affection elsewhere. Is the woman to blame for such a sad state of affairs? I think not. A woman needs to be loved, and shame on the man who fails to satisfy his wife in that respect. It is he who has broken the vows of marriage."

She turned to face him. "I never thought of it in quite that way."

"I'm sure you'll see the logic," he replied, and tried his best to sound sincere, even as he marveled at what a simpleminded girl she was.

Leah began to make plans in her mind for the trip to Austin. With luck she would be back home before her husband returned from his foray against the Indians. Assuming he did return. And even if he heard rumors about her and the major in Austin, well, that didn't matter, since John Henry didn't seem to care too much what she did while she was away from Grand Cane.

Chapter Twenty-one

Yancey Torrance had been right about the prospects of saving his son's foot. It was Dr. Tice's prognosis that an amputation would have to be performed, and soon. He did not want to operate on the open prairie unless he had to. A. G. Deckard was dispatched to locate a wagon at the nearest farm or settlement. Brax would be transported back to the location where Deckard found the conveyance, and there Tice would do what he had to do to save Brax's life. In the meantime, he prevented Brax from bleeding to death by using a gun barrel heated red-hot in a fire to close the artery which the bullet had severed before smashing the bones in the boy's ankle. Brax was given a strip of leather cut from a saddle's cinch strap to bite down on while the cauterization was performed. He passed out during the process. McAllen noticed that Yancey looked on with a face that might have been etched from stone.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to stay with your son," said McAllen.

"I'll be going after the Comanches."

"Brax will need you, Yancey."

"He'll have to make do on his own."

"You know I'll do everything in my power to bring Emily home."

"No," snapped Yancey. "I'm going on, and that's my final word on it." With that he walked away into the darkness to be alone with his personal demons.

McAllen stared after him, incredulous. He was shocked by the transformation Mary's death had wrought in his friend. There was precious little left of the old Yancey.

Joshua had been sent to fetch the rest of the Black Jacks from their camp by the creek, and before long the men had arrived. McAllen told them what had happened and how close they had been to catching the Comanche raiders. He suggested they get a few hours' sleep. It was his intention to be back in the saddle by first light.

McAllen sensed that some of the men were of the opinion that they should press on after the hostiles, though none among them stepped forward to challenge his decision to tarry here. But he knew that there would be no catching the Indians tonight. Besides, men and horses all needed rest. In the past couple of hours he had reconciled himself to the fact that this would be a long pursuit.

A little while later Deckard returned driving an old spring wagon. Even with only one arm he handled the pair of mules in the traces with skill. There was, he a

Tice did not want to wait until dawn to get under way. Brax, still unconscious, was loaded into the wagon, and McAllen told Deckard to go along.

"I sure do hate to miss out on giving them Comanche devils what for," said Deckard unhappily. "But you're the captain."

As the wagon creaked and rattled off into the night, McAllen stretched his aching body out on the hard ground and tried to steal a couple hours' sleep. It was no use. He stared at the star-strewn sky, partially obscured by moon-silvered clouds scudding low and fast out of the south, and thought about Emily. He couldn't think about anything else. With each passing day the chances of rescuing her would dwindle. If the Comanches managed to get west of the Colorado into the wild country, odds were he would never see her again. That thought pushed him right to the brink of panic.

The handkerchief was in his coat pocket. He took it out and gazed for quite a long time at the flower she had given him. A token of . . . what? Was she in love with him? Or was it merely infatuation? He had to know. His whole future seemed to depend on it. What a fool he had been, that day down by the Brazos, asking her to be patient. In time, things will be different. But they might have run out of time now. Of all people, Emily probably knew better than to hitch her hopes and dreams to a tomorrow that might never come. The death of her folks had no doubt taught her the folly of that. And now, mused McAllen bitterly, I have learned the lesson. I pray to God I have not learned it too late.

The new day's dawning brought the promise of rain. Beneath an ominous sky, McAllen and Joshua and a dozen Black Jacks headed west on the Comanche trail.

Emily's hopes soared when she heard the gunfire as she lay, curled up on the hard ground in the wooded ravine, trying to sleep. She thought at first that Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen had come at last to rescue her, as she had always known they would. Then she realized that the sound was coming from too far away. There was no attack being launched on the Comanche camp. Worse, the Indians were alerted to the danger and in a matter of minutes were mounted and racing westward through the night with their white captive in tow. Tears of frustration scalded Emily's eyes when she thought about how close she had been to freedom.

It began to rain that morning. Sometimes the rain came down in wind-driven sheets, sometimes diminishing to a gentle mist, but it never stopped entirely. Emily was cold and miserable all day long, with the soaked blanket clinging to and irritating her flesh. The Quohadis seemed encouraged by the rain, and she surmised that it was their hope that the downpour would at least partially obscure their trail.

That evening they found the rest of the Quohadis, the ones who had not waited at the rendezvous near Grand Cane. The herd, which numbered at least a hundred stolen horses, along with a handful of mules, grazed out in the open, supervised by a couple of herd guards. The rest of the Indians had built some cook fires in a strip of timber. As the day darkened into night it was still drizzling. Exhausted, Emily sank into the mud at the base of a tree, heedless of the shower of water shaken out of rain-heavy branches overhead by the occasionally gusting wind. Reunited, the Comanches numbered more than eighty warriors, and Emily was hard-pressed to keep her hopes intact.