The Black Jacks (19 page)

"Where is Charles—I mean, Major Stewart?" she asked, alarmed.

"In town. Yancey's place. He took an arrow in the leg, and Dr. Tice thinks he has a concussion. Don't worry. He'll live."

Leah's hand flew to her mouth. Belatedly, she realized she ought to demonstrate some concern for her husband. "Are you badly hurt?"

"I've been hurt worse," he said, giving her a strange look. "But thanks for asking."

She saw that he had taken the black shell jacket from the wardrobe, the one the women of Warren County, Mississippi, had made. The one he had worn in the Seminole campaign and the war for Texas independence. She had seen him in it a few times, the first occasion being the Galveston victory ball her parents had put on, the night she had first met John Henry McAllen. Since then he and his men had donned the black jackets a couple of times, when they were setting out after Comanche raiders.

"You're going after them?"

"I am," he said. "They took Emily Torrance. Killed Mary Torrance. We found her down by the river."

"Oh, my heavens!" gasped Leah. "The poor girl." She did not know Emily Torrance personally, but the thought of anyone being made prisoner by those hideous savages . . . It was simply too horrible to contemplate.

"I'm sure you'll be able to look after Major Stewart," said McAllen dryly. The black jacket donned, he left the room.

He told Jeb to hitch up a wagon so that he could bring Stewart back to the plantation. Leah went down to the veranda to see him off, but while McAllen bid Bessie and Roman affectionate farewells, he was very perfunctory in his parting with her. Leah knew something was terribly wrong. Perhaps she had gone too far with Major Stewart. She had done so because she didn't have any respect for her husband. How could she? He knew about her flirtations, her infidelities, and still he did nothing. She didn't love him, either—at least she didn't think she did. Now, though, she was afraid. Afraid he might have reached the end of his rope. Might divorce her. How humiliating that would be! Oddly enough, she felt jealous of Emily Torrance. Her husband was riding into the jaws of death to rescue that girl. It was so romantic. Like something out of a Sir Walter Scott novel.

As she watched McAllen ride away, with Jeb driving the wagon alongside, Leah realized for the first time that Joshua was nowhere to be seen. It was odd to see her husband without that mute half-breed around. Maybe Joshua had been killed.
Well, I won't waste any tears if that is the case,
she decided.

Then she had a thought so awful she actually felt guilty just for thinking it.

Maybe she would never see John Henry again. What if he was killed on the trail of those red devils? Being a widow was a noble thing, and far better than divorce! But she would have to wear mourning black for a respectable period of time. Oh, well. A small sacrifice, really. She gazed out across the fields of young sugarcane, her eyes sparkling with newfound interest. She'd never before been the least bit interested in the plantation before. But if John Henry
didn't
return, this would all belong to her. Leah cut a wicked glance at Bessie and Roman, who stood at the top of the veranda steps watching McAllen ride away. They looked so sad and worried. Well, they would most certainly have something to worry about when she became the mistress of Grand Cane, mused Leah, and without John Henry to protect them. Oh, yes, there would be some changes made. . . .

Will Parton read over four fresh graves in the Grand Cane cemetery late on the afternoon of the Comanche attack. To some, the haste with which the dead were laid to rest was a bit unseemly—normally, the deceased would lay in an open coffin at least overnight, while family and friends gathered to have their last look and pay their respects. Though Nathan Ainsworth, the carpenter, had died in valiant defense of the settlement, some went right to work making the coffins, while others dug the graves in the shade of the oak grove west of town. On a rise, the cemetery was well situated, overlooking the town and the river beyond.

Along with Ainsworth and Mary Torrance, farmers George Sellers and Jellicoe Fuller were also buried that afternoon. Fuller's charred remains had been found in his burned-out cabin. He had given a good account of himself, for several Comanche dead were discovered, as well. The Indian corpses were hauled away and left unburied for the wolves and the turkey vultures. There would be no Christian burial for the heathens.

McAllen and the others took some comfort in the knowledge that all the women and children, save for Mary and Emily Torrance, had been spared thanks to the plan for their evacuation, which had succeeded as a consequence of the brave sacrifice of men like Fuller, Ainsworth, and Sellers. Still, the Black Jacks grieved, for those three had been friends and comrades-in-arms for many years. A longing for vengeance burned like red-hot coals in the warlike souls of the survivors.

Following the conclusion of the service, the Black Jacks congregated at Deckard's tavern. When all were present and accounted for, McAllen rose to speak. The others knew what was coming. The black jacket their captain wore said it all.

"I intend to set out after the Indians in one hour's time," said McAllen. "We have a full moon, and with any luck the night will be clear. Which means we might be able to steal a march on the enemy."

"We're with you, Captain," said Matt Washburn.

The others loudly concurred.

"We can't all go," said McAllen. "The wounded must remain behind. Their task will be to look after things here. I don't think the Comanches are coming back, but we can't leave our town and our families unprotected."

George Scayne grimaced. His arm, broken by a Comanche war club and set by Dr. Tice, rested in a sling. "Hellfire, Captain," he groused, with a smile.

"You and Joshua are wounded."

McAllen smiled back at him. "That's true. But we need Joshua. He's the best tracker in Texas. And as for me, well, I'm pulling rank. So that's it, boys. If you haven't already done so, gather up all the cartridges you can find, pick out a good horse, and we'll ride. But travel light. The Comanches will probably make a run for home. We've got to move fast."

As the others departed, Brax approached his father. Yancey was nursing a jug of corn liquor, compliments of A. G. Deckard, and sat tilted back in a caneback chair near the old stove, gazing moodily at the floor.

"I want to come along," said Brax.

McAllen heard him. "You'd better stay," he replied. He didn't think Yancey wanted the boy along after what had happened, and feared there might be more trouble between them. It was just best to keep the two separated for a while. "Billy Fuller asked me if he could ride with us, too. Wants to avenge his father's death. But I told him like I'm telling you."

"Billy Fuller's only fourteen. I'm nearly eighteen. I'm the best shot in the county. I kilt two Comanches today."

"Let him come along, John Henry," said Yancey. "He's got a lot to make up for."

Though it was against his better judgment, McAllen gave in.

Within the hour fifteen men had returned to Deckard's place. All of them, except Brax, wore the black jacket. Long blue shadows of day's end spread across the street as they rode out of Grand Cane, their loved ones waving good-bye and holding in their hearts fervent wishes for their safe return.

All John Henry McAllen could think about was finding Emily and bringing her home safe and sound.

Chapter Eighteen

The Quohadi Comanche who had captured Emily Torrance rode north parallel to the river road from the place at the river where they had discovered their prey. The fighting was still going on in Grand Cane, but they knew it was going badly for their cause, and they did not want to risk losing their prize. It was for that reason, when they turned west upon seeing the McAllen plantation, they assumed it would be well defended, when in fact it was deserted.

Gray Wolf had arranged for a rendezvous point due west of the settlement. Since he was unfamiliar with this country he had told his warriors to ride until sunset, and then begin to look for one another. That was one reason why Gray Wolf was the most respected war chief of the Antelope band—he planned for every eventuality. If a raid went poorly, it was the common Comanche tactic to split up into groups of two or three warriors and reunite later at some prearranged place. In this way pursuit was made more problematic for the enemy.

The three Comanches made quick time, keeping whenever possible to low, wooded terrain. A few miles from the Brazos, Emily regained consciousness. Draped belly-down over a galloping pony made breathing a hardship, and she was not inclined to long endure the discomfort. In a panic to escape, she gave no thought to the odds of success. When her captor crossed the rocky bed of a small branch and slowed his horse to ascend the opposite bank, Emily made her move. She slipped off the pony, tearing free of the warrior's clutches. Stumbling down the slope, she ran along the creek, swift as a hunted deer. With a shout the warriors gave chase. Emily slipped on a water-slick stone and fell. Before she could get up again the Comanches were on her. The warrior from whom she had escaped—at least for a moment—jumped off his galloping horse and bore her down into the shallows. She picked up a rock and hit him on the head with it, but it was only a glancing blow, just enough to infuriate him, and he struck her in the face with a fist, just like before, and once again Emily blacked out.

She came to a few minutes later to find her wrists tied together with strips of rawhide. Her left eye where he had hit her was swelling shut. The warrior put the loop of a horsehair rope around her neck and pulled it so tight she could scarcely breathe. He said something to her, and his tone of voice was angry. Then he remounted, the other end of the rope firmly in his grasp, and kicked his war pony into motion, following his two companions. Emily stumbled along behind. Several times she lost her footing and fell, but the warrior did not stop, did not even look back, and she realized that if she fell and didn't or couldn't get up he would be quite content to drag her along by the neck until she was dead from strangulation.

Emily considered falling on purpose and letting him kill her. But her instinct for survival asserted itself. She had to live because Uncle Yancey and Captain McAllen would rescue her. Yes, they would save her. She had to believe in that. She had to have faith.

The five-mile walk seemed to her an unending ordeal, but at last it did end, at a large island of trees around a sweetwater spring. The three Quohadi warriors were overjoyed to find about fifteen of their brethren hiding in the woods. Within the next hour, as the last light of day faded from the purpling sky, other warriors arrived, so that soon the total number had swollen to about seventy. A herd of stolen horses, with a few mules mixed in, were brought in and then pushed on at a rapid pace to the west-northwest. During this time Emily sat, exhausted, on the ground at the base of a tree to which she was bound. The bubbling spring nearby tormented her; she had been all day without a drink of water. But she did not cry out or struggle against her bonds. She didn't want to attract any attention to herself. The warriors were busy relating their exploits to one another and for a while she thought they had forgotten all about her.

As the Comanches congregated at the rendezvous, several more captives were brought in—a woman with an infant child, and a boy of about ten with a girl of five or six, obviously brother and sister. Emily did not know any of them. They were not from Grand Cane. She took comfort from the knowledge that none of her friends or neighbors had suffered the same fate as she.

As the night deepened a growing restlessness pervaded the Quohadi camp. Emily surmised that there was some discussion among them as to whether they should stay here throughout the night or move on. There did not seem to be a genuine leader among them.

Across the way, the mother sat with her child. The baby was squalling, and though the woman tried to nurse it she could not comfort or quiet the child. She asked her captor for a little flour and water with which to make a gruel that the child could digest. The Indian yelled at her, snatched the baby from her grasp, and, before she could stop him, threw the infant high in the air and let it fall to the ground. Sobbing, the mother hugged the limp and lifeless form, rocking back and forth on her knees. Emily could only look on in horror.

As night fell, some of the Comanches made up their minds to move on. A mule was brought for the woman whose baby had been murdered. The woman's captor took the tiny corpse from her, tied a string around her neck, and secured the other end of the string to the horn of the saddle strapped to the mule. He ordered the woman to get into the saddle, but she refused, even when threatened with a lance. Finally, growing weary of the game, the Quohadi impaled her on the lance. He mounted his war pony and rode on with thirty other warriors in the process of leaving the bosque. The white boy and girl were taken. The woman left behind took a long time to die, and her pitiful, whimpering cries of pain were almost more than Emily could bear.

A short time later her captor approached and cut her loose from the tree. Her hands remained tied. A fire had been built in a clearing to throw back the night, and many of the Comanches who remained were getting drunk on jugs of whiskey stolen from the cabins of settlers. Emily was dragged into the circle of firelight, and it took only a moment for her to realize that her captor hoped to interest one of the others in a trade. He wanted whiskey and horses in exchange for her.

One prospective buyer, swaying from the effects of too much firewater, rose from his place by the fire and came up to Emily. Though terrified, she stood her ground. He yanked on her hair and checked her teeth as though she were a horse, which elicited gales of laughter from his comrades. Then he began to fondle her breasts. Emily closed her eyes and willed herself not to scream. Her captor, deciding the other Indian had sampled the merchandise long enough, finally intervened, pushing him away. Some of the men shouted at him derisively, ridiculing him for trying to barter away a woman that he would not let them see. Stung by the rebuke of his peers, the warrior grabbed the bodice of Emily's soiled and tattered dress and with one vicious pull exposed her to the view of the others. They roared their approval. Shamed beyond measure, Emily nonetheless stood defiantly in place and began to sing softly, her eyes closed, her face lifted to heaven.