The Black Jacks

As usual, Joshua was by his side. A Comanche, fleet of foot, came up on McAllen from behind and leaped on the back of Escatawpa with a war club raised and a cry of savage triumph on his lips. But before he could strike, Joshua was leaping out of his saddle and dragging the Indian off the gray hunter. They hit the ground in a jumble. With one swipe of his Bowie knife, Joshua nearly decapitated the warrior. McAllen shot down another Quohadi who was closing in on the half-breed. Quid pro quo. It had always been so. McAllen had been fighting side by side and back to back with Joshua in more scrapes than he cared to remember. For both men it was second nature to look out for the other.

Guns and surprise worked in favor of the Black Jacks. Twenty Comanches fell in the first two minutes. The death of so many brothers discouraged the surviving Quohadis. The merciless fury of the Black Jacks discouraged them even further. The survivors broke and ran. Some were chased down and shot to death. But the Black Jacks did not stray too far afield. They were too experienced for that. They regrouped beneath the trees. Dying Comanches were finished off; no prisoners would be taken. McAllen put Joshua to work looking for some sign of Emily, and set about doing the same. But there was no sign of her to be found, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach McAllen wondered if she had even been here.

Matt Washburn was found lying dead in the creek, a lance jutting from his chest. Cedric Cole had taken an arrow in the arm. The shaft was broken and then pulled through. Then Cole's wound was cauterized with gunpowder set aflame. McAllen led his men a few miles up the creek before calling a halt for the night. He didn't think the Comanches were in any condition to launch a counterattack, but it wasn't wise to tarry too long at the scene of an Indian fight.

The men who rode with him were grim and silent. There was no elation, no crowing about the hurt they had put on the hostiles. The trail from Grand Cane had been a long one, and McAllen sensed that they were near the end of their rope. He sat down with his back to a tree trunk and reloaded his Colts and faced facts. That wasn't an easy thing to do. He was not the kind of man who easily admitted failure.

Yancey walked up and sat on his heels in front of him. In the darkness McAllen could barely make out his old friend's face, but then he didn't really need to; he knew what Yancey was going through because he was going through the same thing himself. For a while neither man spoke, for neither much cared to hear the truth spoken right out loud.

"We lost her," said Yancey finally, choking on the bitter words. "Somewhere along the line we lost her. I don't think she was with this bunch."

"We'll go back down the creek in the morning," said McAllen. "Joshua may find a footprint or something." He tried to inject some optimism into his voice, but the attempt was feeble.

"The Colorado's less than a day's ride," said Yancey, his tone of voice dull and lifeless. "After that. . ."

He didn't finish. They both knew what he meant. Yancey took a deep breath and abruptly stood. "You better take the boys back home, John Henry. They've got families and such to take care of. Crops or businesses to tend to. This is a losing proposition."

"Yancey, what about your boy?"

Yancey walked away without answering.

McAllen took a handkerchief from the pocket of his trail-grimed black shell jacket—the handkerchief enfolded the flower Emily had given him. Fresh determination intruded upon his misery. As long as there was a chance, he would not give up. Clearly he would not be able to find Emily this way. But there was another way. . . .

When dawn came, a grave was dug for Matt Washburn. McAllen sent Joshua to look again for some sign of Emily at the site of the Comanche encampment. When the half-breed returned, Will Parton was reading over Washburn's final resting place. The black jacket had been removed from the corpse—it would be given as a keepsake, along with his other belongings, to his widow. McAllen was sure Nell Washburn would cherish the jacket. She knew how proud her husband had been to wear it.

Joshua answered McAllen's querulous glance with a head shake. No sign. McAllen made up his mind in that instant, and when the amens were said he stepped forward.

"Boys, we're going back to Grand Cane."

The others did not speak. Not one of them would have suggested giving up the chase, but in their hearts they were relieved. They looked for Yancey, wondering how he would react. Only then were they aware of Yancey's absence.

"Where's Yancey, Captain?" asked Morris Riddle.

"Gone. He rode out before first light."

"After the Comanches? And you just let him go?"

"I did. It's what he wanted." Yancey hadn't said so, not in so many words, but McAllen knew.

The expression on their captain's face made it clear to the Black Jacks that the decision to let Yancey Torrance go on alone had not been an easy one for McAllen. They also realized that Yancey hadn't wanted any more of them to die for what he now believed to be a lost cause. Still, they were torn between loyalty to Yancey Torrance and the desire to respect the wishes of their friend and comrade.

"We're going home," repeated McAllen forcefully. He would carry the burden of the decision to leave Yancey on his own. To give his men a vote in this would be an abrogation of his responsibility as their chosen leader. They would follow his orders without question—they always had—and they could look Brax Torrance in the eye without flinching because the onus was on McAllen now.

"That's not to say," added McAllen, "that I've given up on getting Emily Torrance back. I haven't given up and I never will."

"What do you have in mind, Captain?" asked Riddle.

McAllen absently stroked the scar on his cheek with a thumb. "Caldero."

That was all he said. He headed for his horse without another word. No other words were needed. The Black Jacks knew who Caldero was. All of Texas knew Antonio Caldero, friend to the Comanche, implacable enemy of the republic.

Chapter Twenty-three

Failing to find Mirabeau Lamar at his San Jacinto Street residence, Jonah Singletary went in search of the president at Capitol Square. It was a fine summer day, su

With the legislature gone, Singletary's best source of information on the subject of the republic's governance was Lamar himself. The newspaperman found the president leaving Capitol Square, striding down Congress Avenue, a stocky and erect figure clad in a plum-colored coat and gold vest, his head, with its mop of unruly hair streaked with gray, uncovered. Trailing along behind the president were two men in homespun. Both carried rifles. One cradled his weapon in his arms. The other had his long gun by the barrel and slanted over his shoulder. Walking beside Lamar was Captain Eli Wingate of the Texas Rangers. This was the first time Singletary had seen the Ranger captain since the Council House incident. Wingate's empty sleeve was pi