The Black Jacks

The Nueces River lay several days' hard traveling south of San Antonio de Bexar. The region subject to dispute between the republics of Texas and Mexico was arid, rocky land spotted with horse-crippling cholla and drought-stunted mesquite, and McAllen had to wonder why so many men were willing to fight and die for it. Only rattlesnakes seemed capable of prospering here.

"How do we find this fellow Caldero, General?" Tice asked Houston the day they crossed the Nueces.

"He will find us, Doctor, rest assured."

Tice bleakly surveyed the desolate horizons and flexed sun-hammered shoulders. "Seems to me that we could ride around down here until doomsday and never see another living soul."

"I would be very much surprised if Caldero doesn't know about us already," said Houston.

That night, while they sat around a campfire cooking a pair of sage hens Houston had bagged from the saddle earlier in the day, Joshua shot suddenly to his feet and whirled, crouching, pistol in one hand and Bowie knife in the other. An instant later one of the horses whickered a warning. That the half-breed had been aware of the intruders even before the horses were did not astonish Tice. He knew how unca

From all points of the compass men emerged from the night shadows and paused at the rim of firelight—dark, savage-looking men wearing sombreros and red sashes and chaquetas and leather chaps to protect their legs from the thorny underbrush of the brasada country. Each man carried a minimum of one rifle, a brace of pistols, and a knife.

Only Houston remained seated, apparently unrattled by the sudden visitation of seven well-armed, scowling ruffians. He spoke briefly to the men in Spanish. One of the Mexicans answered. Houston said something else and then looked up at McAllen.

"Relax, John Henry. These are Caldero's men, sent to do away with us. I told them who I was and that I wanted to speak with Caldero."

McAllen thought it unwise to take his eyes off the bandoleros, but he shot a slightly perturbed glance in Houston's direction. "And?"

"We're still alive, aren't we?"

As silently as they had come the Mexicans melted back into the darkness.

"Where are they going?" asked Tice.

"They'll be back at daybreak, Doctor. They won't go far, but they don't like Anglos well enough to share a night camp with us."

"That's wonderful," said Tice dryly. "I won't be getting much sleep tonight, knowing those fellows are lurking somewhere out there."

"Can we trust them?" McAllen asked Houston.

"I think so. We'd be dead now if they intended to kill us."

McAllen realized then why the general had insisted on coming along. Without Houston here we'd be getting our throats cut right about now. . . .

The next morning the Mexicans returned at first light. Now they numbered six, and McAllen surmised that one man had been sent ahead to notify Caldero. They rode due south until late in the afternoon, the Mexicans in advance of McAllen and his three companions—another manifestation of their resolve to engage in no fraternization whatsoever with Texans.

In the lengthening shadows of day's end they came at last to an adobe hut located near a dry wash. Several horses were tethered to the shaggy cedar poles of a ramshackle corral.

Three men sat at a trestle table in the striped shade of the adobe's pole-roofed porch, sharing a jug. One of them rose as McAllen and the others drew near. He was a slender youth, wearing concho-studded pants, an embroidered chaqueta without a shirt, and a banda

"You must be Sam Houston," he said. His English was good.

"And you must be Antonio Caldero."

Smiling, Caldero bowed with a melodramatic flourish. McAllen did not trust that wolfish smile at all.

"I hope you have a good reason for coming here, General," he said, "because I need a good reason for letting you and your companions live. My men, they do not comprehend. . . ."

Sam Houston dismounted. "I can assure you I didn't come down here for my health."

Caldero laughed. He relayed Houston's comment to his men, who also found it amusing. The ice was broken. McAllen felt a little better. Not a lot, but a little. He knew now how Daniel had felt in the den of lions, and thought he and his friends would need divine intervention, too, to get out of here alive if things went sour.

Chapter Twenty-eight

McAllen and Houston followed Antonio Caldero into the dirt-floored adobe hut. Whoever had lived here had abandoned the place long ago—in McAllen's opinion he should have known better than to try to carve an existence out of this desolate wasteland. Now Caldero used it as an occasional rendezvous point. According to Houston, Caldero by necessity led a nomadic life; it wasn't safe for him to stay in any one place for too long, especially north of the Rio Grande.

Several of Caldero's bandoleros came in, too, but he sent them right back out again. They protested—they didn't trust the Anglos and feared for their leader's life. But they obeyed. Caldero struck McAllen as a man who would administer harsh punishment to anyone who practiced disobedience. Besides, he seemed supremely confident in his own ability to handle any situation. No doubt he was a real hand with the pistols stuck buccaneer-fashion under the red sash that encircled his waist. Apparently the red sash had some significance, McAllen had noticed that all the Mexicans who rode with Caldero sported them.

The three of them—Houston, McAllen, and Caldero—sat on empty barrels at a rickety table, a jug of aguardiente between them. Houston declined a drink, explaining that he was practicing temperance in keeping with the promise he'd made to Margaret. McAllen didn't like the taste of the anise-based liquor, but he took a drink so as not to offend their host. Caldero indulged in a long swig from the jug. It might have been water for all the effect it seemed to have on him. Then he lit a cheroot by the flame of a tallow lamp. The windowless hut was dark and gloomy and McAllen heard something scuttling about in the back corner, but he couldn't tell what it was. Wreathed in acrid blue smoke, Caldero propped his booted feet on the table, his big-roweled Chihuahua spurs gouging the old gray wood.

"So tell me, Houston. Why have you come so far to see me?"

"To ask a favor."

"What makes you think I would do any Texan a favor, even you?"

"Don't you think you ought to find out what it is before you decide not to do it?"

Caldero shrugged indifferently. "I will listen, because at the moment I have nothing better to do."

"We've come to ask you to intercede on our behalf to free a young woman from the Comanches."

Caldero's piercing blue gaze swung to McAllen. "Your woman, no doubt, señor."

"She will be when I get her back."

"The Comanches took her during the big raid two months ago," said Houston. "I'm sure you've heard all about that."

"It made me very happy."