The Black Jacks

Singletary pursed his lips. "Hmm. I see your point." He touched the brim of his hat. "I'll detain you no longer, Mr. President. Good day."

Lamar watched the City Gazette editor angle across the wide, dusty expanse of Congress, a lanky, narrow-shouldered man clad in austere black attire who walked with an ungainly, bent-kneed stride.

"A strange fellow," Lamar murmured to Wingate. "I have felt the sting of his acid wit a time or two, and I do not relish it on a regular, or public, basis. And yet I ca

"Maybe somebody will kill him," said Wingate. "He's been a burr under many a man's saddle."

Lamar gave the Ranger captain a curious look and walked on.

As he had hoped, Albert Sydney Johnston, general of the Army of Texas, was in his office in the dogtrot shanty of weathered clapboard which served as the republic's War Department. The burly, fair-haired soldier was hunched over a cluttered desk, perusing a document which Lamar immediately recognized, since he had pe

"I have here your authorization to conduct a campaign against the Comanche Indians," rasped Johnston. "I would find it humorous, sir, except that I have no sense of humor."

"So you ca

"With all due respect, just how the hell could I? I have a couple of hundred poorly equipped men scattered in outposts from one end of Texas to the other. My artillery consists of a few old rusting six-pounders. As for personal weapons, my men have nothing to compare with the Colt Patersons which the government saw fit to provide the Ranger companies."

"I quite understand," said Lamar smoothly. "Sadly, in these hard times, the money simply isn't there to meet all the army's needs."

Johnston sighed and sat back in his chair. A man of action, he disliked riding a desk, and he put Lamar in mind of a caged tiger. "Under the circumstances," he said, "a campaign such as you suggest is out of the question."

"But we can't very well let the savages go unpunished, now, can we?"

"I've had reports that militia companies bloodied the hostiles at Plum Creek. And, according to rumor, John Henry McAllen and the Black Jacks have been nipping at the heels of a war party all the way from the Brazos River to the Colorado. The Comanches didn't get away scot-free. My advice is to leave well enough alone."

"I can't do that," said Lamar bluntly. "Houston will say I am guilty twice over—once for inciting the Comanches to war with a policy that resulted in the Council House debacle, and again for being unable to protect the frontier."

"Then send the Rangers."

"Perhaps I will have to do just that." Lamar acted as though the thought hadn't occurred to him, and Johnston hated him for the charade. He knew perfectly well what Lamar was up to. From the first, the president had known the regular army was in no condition to conduct a campaign against the Comanches. His own policies had rendered Johnston's department virtually impotent. Now, though, he had an excuse for sending his hired killers out after the hostiles—the army had been unwilling to take on the job.

Johnston decided he ought not make it too easy for Lamar. Rising, he leaned forward and planted big fists on the desk. "Sir, I repeat. My advice is to leave it alone. The Comanches have had their fun. Some of us expected a raid after the Council House fight—though, admittedly, not one of this scope. We'll have no more trouble from the Indians until next spring. They've got to head west and hunt the buffalo and get ready for winter. Concentrate on your reelection and leave the Comanche problem for later."

"The political aspects are what move me to press the attack against the savages," replied Lamar. "The people will appreciate our vigor. And they know we must deal with the Comanche menace before we can realize our destiny and stake a claim to New Mexico and, yes, even California. No, General Johnston. There is no time to waste."

"Well, sir, you're the politician." Johnston didn't sound convinced by Lamar's line of reasoning.

Lamar turned promptly to Wingate. "I will need a good man to lead two or three Ranger companies, whatever can be spared from frontier defense, to strike deep into Comancheria, to attack the Indians wherever they are found, to destroy their villages—in short, to teach them a lesson they will never forget. I suspect you are the man I am looking for, Captain. Am I correct?"

Wingate's eyes were ablaze. This was what he had long dreamed of—carte blanche to carry out a campaign of extermination against the red devils who had murdered his kin and cost him his arm.

"Damn right," he replied.

Chapter Twenty-four

In the course of his daily perambulation through Austin, Jonah Singletary always tried to drop by the Bullock Hotel. Anyone who was anybody usually stayed at Bullock's while visiting the Texas capital, and a person could learn many useful tidbits of information if he lingered with eyes and ears open in the lobby or on the porch.

As he turned the corner off Congress Avenue and onto Pecan Street, the sight which greeted him caused Singletary to stop sharply and take a backward step. On the porch of the Bullock Hotel sat three people. Of the two he recognized, one was Saligny, the French chargé d'affaires. The other was Leah Pierce McAllen. It was ironic, mused Singletary, that Mrs. McAllen now sat in the very chair, located at the east end of the porch, where her husband had spent a few days a couple of months ago, prior to the Council House incident, when he was in Austin acting as Houston's spy. But she was not with her husband today; beside her sat a young gentleman in a perfectly tailored gray shooting coat. He was sipping a sangaree as he conversed with Saligny, while Mrs. McAllen pouted over a mint julep. She was obviously bored to death. No, more than that—she was miffed, thought Singletary, probably because Saligny and the young gentleman were engrossed in their earnest discussion and paying her not the least attention, even though she looked absolutely radiant in an emerald-green dress of satin-embellished tarlatan with matching parasol and a brimmed straw hat adorned with a green satin ribbon and a sprig of flowers. Ringlets of golden hair caressed her delicate neck.

Singletary wondered if he should pass over Bullock's today. He was fairly certain that Leah McAllen would be less than pleased to see him, after what he had written about her previous adventures in Austin with a couple of young Texas blades. But his curiosity got the better of him. What was she doing here? Who was the handsome young stranger, and what were he and the French chargé d'affaires discussing? Singletary decided to brazen it out, even though a little voice in his head issued a shrill warning of potential danger.

Singletary noticed that when Leah McAllen recognized him her delectable body went rigid. The City Gazette's editor approached the porch, touched the brim of his hat, and smiled at her—not too sardonically, he hoped.

"Good morning, Mrs. McAllen. Your beauty immeasurably enhances our fair city. To what does Austin owe the honor of your presence?"

"Mr. Singletary." She did not deign to answer his query; in fact, she was just barely civil in her greeting.