The Black Jacks

Now he had put his life in her hands, fully expecting her to throw it away.

Emily thought of home, of Uncle Yancey, and, most of all, of John Henry McAllen. John. He had asked her to call him John. And she thought of the flower which he had preserved and which he treated like some precious artifact.

She began to cry silent tears, because she could not cry out, could not save herself if it meant signing the Comanche's death warrant. Sinking to her knees, she covered her face with her hands and wept. But she wept quietly.

Gray Wolf sat on his heels beside her and watched her cry. His heart went out to her, even as he marveled at the fact that he was still alive. Why had the woman spared him? He was her enemy. The urge of war and revenge abandoned him in that moment and left him oddly empty and directionless. A white man had spared his infant son's life months ago, when the Rangers attacked the Comanche encampment outside of Bexar. Now a white woman had proved she would rather remain a prisoner, her fate uncertain, than be the instrument of his death. Gray Wolf was puzzled. He tried to sort through his jumbled thoughts.

Eventually the woman could cry no more. She lay down and went to sleep, curled up in a ball, and Gray Wolf removed the blanket from the back of his war pony and covered her with it. Suddenly he felt very protective toward this woman. He wanted no harm to come to her. He knew he ought to set her free, so that she might return to home and loved ones. Now was the time, before they got too far into the wild country. Until morning he debated with himself. But in the end, as the new day dawned in soft shades of gray and pink, he came to the realization that he did not want to let her go. He did not want to part with her.

Chapter Twenty-two

On the night that Emily let slip the chance to save herself, John Henry McAllen and his Black Jacks attacked the Quohadi war party which Gray Wolf had forsaken.

The day before, McAllen thought they had lost the trail of Emily's abductors. Hard rains had obliterated the sign made previously on hard ground. But they pressed on westward, and though they missed the place where the Quohadis had camped—and where Gray Wolf and his warriors had reunited with the group led by Red Eagle—they could not miss the tracks left by eighty warriors and a herd of more than one hundred stolen horses, especially when the sign was made on rain-soaked ground. The Indians he was following had joined an even larger group, and McAllen realized that would make rescuing Emily more difficult, but for the moment he was glad for it—the Comanches left a trail a blind man could follow.

McAllen entertained some hope of acquiring a few reinforcements himself. After all, by this time it had to be common knowledge up and down the frontier that another band of Comanches besides those whipped at Plum Creek were on the loose east of the Colorado River. And yet, with the exception of the men from Columbus who had fired on the Black Jacks by accident, McAllen hadn't seen another soul on the prowl for the hostiles. And where, pray tell, were the Texas Rangers? The men Mirabeau B. Lamar counted on to make the Texas frontier safe? Where had those vaunted Indian fighters been keeping themselves during the great raid?

But then McAllen decided it was probably just as well that there were no Rangers on the trail of the Comanches who had raided Grand Cane. Their first priority—their reason for being—was killing Indians, while his was rescuing Emily Torrance.

As usual, the Comanches sought the cover of trees in which to make their night camp, in this case the willows and cottonwoods which grew along a shallow, rocky creek, with open prairies to the north and south. They knew that San Antonio and Austin were but a long day's ride to the southwest and northwest, respectively, so they were on the constant alert for armed bands of Texans. The horse herd was driven down into the timber, and the herd guards were charged with keeping them there. No fires were permitted. Most of the stolen whiskey had been consumed long ago, and there would be no boisterous recounting of warpath exploits; the Quohadi warriors were bone-tired, and most of them just wanted to get home to the Llano Estacado.

Following their trail, and spotting the line of trees up ahead as the last shreds of daylight melted out of the western skyline, McAllen halted the Black Jacks and considered the situation. He did not need Joshua to tell him that they were but an hour or two behind the hostiles, and those trees yonder made a perfect site for the Comanche night camp. He sent Joshua ahead on foot to reco

The odds were about seven to one, but this in no way deterred McAllen and his men. Never in their history had the Black Jacks enjoyed numerical superiority going into battle. In a dozen major engagements against the Seminoles, in the Battle of San Jacinto, and on previous occasions when they had tested the mettle of Comanche war parties, the Black Jacks had always been outnumbered. Perhaps never so greatly, but these men were not the type to be discouraged by what they considered a minor point.

They waited for hours, sitting or lying in the tall prairie grass, reins tied to their wrists. A few took this time to get a bite to eat—cold, hard biscuits and jerky. Others tried to sleep. No words were spoken. No tobacco was smoked—they were about a quarter mile from the Comanches, and Indians had sharp noses. All weapons had long ago been loaded and primed.

McAllen waited until midnight, checking his key-winder more than was necessary, battling the demons of impatience. He had set for himself the goal of locating Emily as soon as they entered the Comanche camp. Nothing else mattered. Whether Yancey had the same intentions was not a factor. Yancey had changed, and McAllen could not be sure what was in his friend's mind. Possibly his desire to avenge Mary's death might blind him to his responsibilities. His behavior regarding his son Brax had raised serious doubts in McAllen's mind.

At midnight McAllen stood up. As one the Black Jacks also rose, watching their leader. McAllen gestured for them to fan out and then began to walk toward the trees, leading Escatawpa. The others followed suit. The only sounds to interrupt the stillness of the night were the rustle of the tall grass made by their passage, the cry of a distant nighthawk, the occasional whicker of a horse. Three hundred yards. In spite of the coolness of the night, McAllen found himself sweating. Two hundred yards. The Black Jacks' horses smelled the creek now, and their whickering was answered by a few ponies in the Comanche herd. Any second now, thought McAllen, and the alarm will be raised. One hundred yards. McAllen could see the milling shapes of the stolen horses in the silver-blue moonlight that filtered down through the trees.

Close enough. McAllen stopped and mounted the gray hunter, drawing one of the Colt Patersons from his belt. To left and right the Black Jacks climbed into their saddles. McAllen drew a deep breath and kicked Escatawpa into a gallop.

The Black Jacks thundered straight into the Comanche camp, yelling like banshees, their pistols and rifles spitting flame. Escatawpa carried McAllen across the creek and into the very center of the Indian encampment. All was noise and confusion. Muzzle flash sporadically illuminated the scene. Some of the Indians sought only to escape, leaping upon their ponies and scattering, or taking off on foot. Others turned to fight. The horse herd stampeded. The Black Jacks tore through the Comanches like a scythe through wheat. "Glory Hallelujah!" shouted Will Parton as he dealt death. "Glory Hallelujah!" McAllen emptied his Colt Paterson, jammed the pistol under his belt, and drew its fully loaded mate. Each time he fired, a Comanche went down, dead or dying.