The Black Jacks

"When the convention of March 1836 was in session, who was it that rose in opposition to the Declaration of Independence? Who was it that advised those who called upon him for advice on the course they should take not to participate in the noble struggle for liberty upon which we had embarked? In his travels during those fateful days, this man called at a house located on Old River, and the fellow who lived there asked him what would happen if the members of the convention were so rash as to declare independence from Mexico. And who do you think it was that replied, 'If they do, and were I General Santa A

This drew a loud response from both within and without the assembly. Shouts of anger battled with exclamations of enthusiastic approval. Sam Houston stood as unmoved as a rock in the eye of this storm until the speaker of the house could quiet the solons and the citizens with a vigorous hammering of his gavel.

Houston continued. "The man who ca

"Your reference is to Major Charles Stewart, I presume," sneered another member of the assembly, a Lamar man. "He will be put in a high place soon enough—a gallows. That is, however, as high as he shall ever go, in this life or the next."

Laughter rippled through the room. Houston's smile was cold.

"Actually, I was referring to the Count de Saligny."

A heavy silence descended upon the gathering. Houston drew a folded sheet of vellum from beneath his leopardskin vest.

"I have here a letter bearing the signature of Mirabeau Lamar. In this letter are the details of a transaction which, had it been foisted upon the people of Texas, would have been known as the Franco-Texie

The Lamar partisan who had broached the subject of Charles Stewart now shot to his feet and aimed an accusing finger at Houston. "That's a dirty lie! Such a transaction was never even contemplated by the president. That letter is a manufactured piece of evidence, and the signature upon it is a forgery."

Another legislator spoke up. "We are all well aware that the French charge d'affaires reported his room broken into and valuable documents stolen. Apparently Mr. Houston has added common thievery to his catalog of crimes."

"I was hundreds of miles away when the event to which you refer occurred," replied Houston. "And you can't have it both ways, gentlemen. Did this letter exist, or not?" He strode to the desk of the house speaker and presented the paper. "I do not expect you will ever have evidence of this nature to prove any supposed collusion between myself and the British. I have nothing else to say, and will leave it to the people of Texas to judge."

He turned and strode from the building, swinging his walking stick, a grim smile on his lips. In the stu

As he stepped outside into the hot summer sunlight, the crowd of spectators flocked around him. A handful scowled darkly, but most of the people were shouting congratulations, jostling one another to get close to their hero. Houston kept moving through the press.

"Houston! You're a damned dirty liar and a coward besides!"

The crowd parted in frantic haste, and directly in his path Sam Houston found a man he did not know standing with feet planted wide apart, a pistol in his hand, and the look of murder on his face. Unarmed, Houston's first instinct was to duck for cover. But there was no cover, and if he dodged into the milling crowd an i

"Hand him over to the sheriff, boys," said Houston. He stepped closer to the half-conscious gunman, whose arms were pinioned by the general's partisans. "When you see Burnet, tell him that the next time he wants me killed to try the job himself."

The crowd cheered. The gunman was hustled away none too gently. Sam Houston walked on, realizing that once again he had cheated death. Some had said he was a man of destiny. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps the Lord God Almighty did have special plans for him. But for now Houston had only one plan—to hurry home to Margaret, to hold his wife in his arms, and to count his blessings.

Praise God for Margaret Lea Houston! In his hour of darkest despair, when it had seemed as though there was no hope for him, or for Texas, and when he had very nearly resorted to strong spirits to drown his misery, she had given him strength, had talked him through his crisis of confidence. She had more courage and more faith in him than he had in himself.

Another of those blessings. . . .

One of those blessings was John Henry McAllen, whose friendship and loyalty had prompted him to take steps in a bold initiative which had resulted in Sam Houston's possession of the Lamar letter. That saved my hide, and saved Texas, too, mused Houston. He could only hope that McAllen found that young woman, Emily Torrance. A good man deserved a good woman.

But only time would tell. . . .

Time was taking a heavy toll on McAllen. Having personally delivered Lamar's incriminating letter into Sam Houston's hands—he could not trust anyone else with the delivery of such an important document—he had returned to Grand Cane to await word from Antonio Caldero.

Not a day went by that he did not wonder what kind of fool he was for relying on a bandit like Caldero. Maybe Caldero felt as though he owed Houston and had said he would help without really intending to make much of an effort to locate Emily. And if Caldero did make a genuine effort, how long would he pursue the endeavor? Here was a man dedicated to one thing—the cause of keeping Texas out of the Nueces Strip—and who had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Rangers for years. How much time and effort would he expend in search of a Texas girl kidnapped by the Comanches?