The Black Jacks

"Don't make things difficult for yourself, my dear Leah. Remember, I've already killed one person tonight."

After that she didn't resist, crying softly as he had his way with her. He was rough, violent, and he hurt her, but what hurt Leah most of all was the realization that she was only getting what she deserved. She wished John Henry were here to save her. But then, why would he bother? She had been so cruel to him. Once he had loved her, of that she was certain. Now she was just as certain that he did no longer.

When he was finished, Stewart lay for a moment sprawled on top of her, and Leah lay very still. His touch, which she had once desired, made her sick to her stomach. Finally he got up and dressed and without another word left the room.

She spent the rest of the night in a chair, holding her torn gown about her, tears hot on her cheek. When the sun rose she got dressed and stumbled downstairs and found Mr. Bullock and told him that Major Charles Stewart had murdered Jonah Singletary. One look at her and Bullock had a hunch that wasn't all Stewart had done. Leah's face was bruised and swollen.

The i

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said coolly, glancing at the pistol in the deputy's grip. "How may I be of service?"

"You can come with us and not make trouble," suggested the sheriff.

"I think there must be some mistake."

The sheriff nodded. "I agree, and I'd say you're the one who made it."

"Allow me to get my cloak."

"Go ahead." The sheriff didn't think to question why a man would need a cloak on a warm and su

Stewart turned back into the room. The sheriff and his deputy remained in the hallway. They weren't worried about Stewart getting away. They were on the second floor and there was no way out except past them and down the hall. Besides, the sheriff was a little overawed. He had apprehended his share of horse thieves and common highwaymen, but he had never even come close to arresting an officer in Her Majesty's Army. And, too, though he would never admit it, he was afraid of Stewart. The man was a cold-blooded killer.

The pilot-cloth cloak lay on the bed. Stewart made as though to reach for it, silently calling himself a bloody fool for not reloading the pepperbox pistol that lay underneath it. Then he whirled and with two giant strides was at the window. Covering his face with both arms, he hurled himself through the window in an explosion of splintered wood and glass shards.

Dumbfounded, the deputy stared at the sheriff. Both men seemed rooted in place.

"Well, I'll be damned," said the deputy.

The sheriff muttered a curse and ran to the window.

Stewart had landed in the mire of Bullock's pig pen. His once spotless uniform was saturated with a vile smelly concoction of slop and mud and excrement. The pen's inhabitants took a dim view of his sudden arrival and were milling excitedly, uttering a harsh cacophony of grunts and squeals.

The deputy appeared at the sheriff's side and aimed his pistol out the shattered window at Stewart. The sheriff knocked the deputy's gun arm up and the pistol discharged. The bullet sizzled harmlessly—the sheriff hoped—across the rooftops of Austin.

"Don't be a damn fool," growled the sheriff. "You might hit one of Bullock's Berkshires by mistake. Then there'd be hell to pay."

The deputy had to wonder how killing one of the hotelkeeper's pigs could be worse than letting a murderer escape, but he was fairly new to Austin and kept his mouth shut.

Down below, Stewart got up and vaulted the picket fence reinforced with baling wire, which was designed to keep Bullock's infamous livestock contained. The fence proved to be even less of an obstacle for the fugitive Englishman than it had been for the more determined members of Bullock's small herd. Stewart had not been hurt in the fall—the muck in the pen had cushioned the impact quite nicely.

Turning up an alley that ran along the west side of the hotel, Stewart made for Pecan Street, hoping he would find there a horse he could steal. But as he dashed out of the alley he ran straight into a chair swung with enthusiasm by Bullock, who had anticipated Stewart's escape route and selected one of the chairs on the hotel porch as the most likely weapon. Out cold, Stewart collapsed.

When the sheriff and his deputy bolted out onto the porch they saw the hotelkeeper standing over the fugitive.

"When you and the circuit judge get to splitting up his money betwixt yourselves," drawled Bullock, biting a chew off a pigtail of Kentucky burley tobacco, "just remember this one owes me for his bill—not to mention that window."

The sheriff grimaced. He didn't much care for the implications of Bullock's comment, but he said nothing, having learned the lesson just now taught to Major Charles Stewart of the Royal Scots Fusiliers—that one did not mess with Mr. Bullock.

Chapter Thirty

When John Henry McAllen arrived in Columbus with Sam Houston, Artemus Tice, and the half-breed Joshua, they heard the news of Singletary's murder and the arrest of Major Stewart. Stewart had been in the Austin jail for nearly a week, but McAllen and his companions had intentionally avoided roads and settlements until Columbus, and as a result of this precaution had remained blissfully unaware of the incident. McAllen figured they might be the last ones in Texas to know; the news had spread like a prairie grass fire and was the chief topic of conversation from one end of the republic to the other.

Since leaving the Nueces Strip, they had tried their level best to remain undiscovered, thereby avoiding the need to explain what Sam Houston was doing in Antonio Caldero's neck of the woods. At the crossing of the Nueces they had only just managed to elude a patrol of Texas Rangers.

They rented a pair of rooms in the one and only hotel in Columbus—one for Houston, the other to be shared by McAllen and Tice. Joshua would sleep in the livery where they had boarded their horses, since the i

McAllen, Tice, and Houston met in the latter's room to discuss this new and vexing development.

"This is not good," said Houston, pacing the floor like a caged tiger, his brows deeply furrowed. "Not good at all. By the eternal, gentlemen, I could use a good stiff drink!" He noted the looks that McAllen and Tice exchanged, and smiled ruefully. "Don't worry. I don't intend to take up the old bad habits again, no matter what the provocation. My God! Why did they send a hotspur like Stewart? This may very well ruin everything, my friends."

"From what I've heard," said McAllen, "the quarrel between Stewart and Singletary was over my wife." He knew Houston and Tice had heard the same thing but didn't want to be the ones to broach the subject, so he did it for them.

"But Singletary had linked the major with you, General," said Tice. "So your enemies will be certain to drag your name into this."