The Black Jacks (17 page)

"No time to fetch the others," said Tice. He meant those Black Jacks who, like Yancey Torrance, lived on the outskirts of Grand Cane. "They'll come to the sound of gunfire if they're able."

"Let us smite the wicked," said the preacher solemnly, "and we will fear not death, for the Lord God is with us."

Tice started walking down the street toward the south end of Grand Cane, and the other Black Jacks followed, fanning out on both sides.

Yancey Torrance and his son Brax were in the smitty when they heard an eruption of gunfire from Grand Cane. Yancey knew immediately what had happened. He dropped his mallet and snatched up a pair of rifles that had been within quick and easy reach ever since John Henry McAllen's speech about the likelihood of Comanche attack. One of the long guns he tossed to his son.

"Brax, you make certain Emily and your ma get to the ferry."

"But Pa! Let me go with you. I'm the best shot in Brazoria County. Everybody says so. You've said as much yourself. I can fight Indians, so why don't you ever let me—"

"Stop your whining and do what I tell you," snapped Yancey.

Fuming, Brax ran to the nearby cabin. It was Saturday, which meant his mother was at home rather than the little one-room schoolhouse on the other side of town. Mary Torrance stood in the doorway, wiping dough-encrusted hands on her apron. She could hear the shooting. Concern furrowed her brows as she watched her husband leave the smitty at a dead run, turning down the road into Grand Cane without a backward look.

"Is it Comanches, Brax?" she asked.

"Reckon so."

"Dear God in heaven," she murmured.

Emily appeared in the doorway behind her. "What's the matter, Aunt Mary?"

"Pa says I'm to get the two of you to the ferry," said Brax.

"Oh, I must take a few things with me," said Mary. She appeared to be in something of a daze as she turned to go back inside.

"There's no time for that," said Emily, taking Mary by the hand. "We'll come back home when it's all over."

Mary gave her a funny look. "There may not be a home to come back to."

Brax took his mother's other hand and tugged hard. "Come along, Ma. We've got to hurry."

He led them down into the trees by the river and turned south. Mingled with war whoops, the gunfire from the vicinity of Grand Cane was becoming more intense. Brax endured it as long as he could; finally he stopped and turned to the women.

"The ferry's right up ahead. You all can make it from here, can't you?"

"I should have at least brought the family Bible," said Mary.

"Where are you going, Brax?" asked Emily.

"I'm going to help Pa." Brax turned away. "Take Ma to the ferry, Em," he shouted over his shoulder as he loped up through the woods in the direction of town.

Major Charles Stewart was standing at the top of the veranda steps when McAllen came running up the slope of the bluff to the main house, Jeb and Joshua in his wake. The Englishman had been enjoying a glass of sangaree when he saw a plume of smoke about three or four miles south along the course of the Brazos. It was a fine clear morning and one could see quite a long way from the vantage point of McAllen's house atop the bluff. A few minutes later, Stewart thought he heard, very faintly, the crackle of what sounded like gunfire, carried on the northerly breeze. This had brought him to the top of the steps, much to the chagrin of Leah McAllen, who had been doing her level best to charm the dashing young major with her small talk and sultry glances. Now Leah sat at the table in a huff, pouting beautifully, resentful of whatever it was that had stolen Stewart's attention.

"I say," said Stewart, as McAllen arrived, "I could swear I heard the sound of firearms."

"I think it's coming from town." McAllen was in his shirtsleeves, having been down at the mill.

"You know," said Stewart, pleased, "once you've heard that sound you can't really ever mistake it for anything else."

McAllen turned to Joshua. "Horses," he said, and the half-breed was beating it around the house for the stables. "Jeb, you know what to do."

"Yessuh." Jeb saw Bessie in the doorway. "Go fetch Roman. We gots to get down to the landing."

"Lawdy, lawdy," said Bessie, and hurried back inside. McAllen and Stewart followed her.

"Miss Leah," said Jeb.

Leah was still at the table. "Oh, fiddle. I shall stay right here. I shan't go traipsing off to the river to climb into one of those filthy old boats. I've got a brand-new dress on." She wore a snow-white crinoline with a daringly low-cut bodice and a scarlet ribbon accentuating her slender waist.

"Miss Leah, if I have to I'll carry you down there."

"You'll do no such thing. If you lay one filthy black hand on me, you will regret it for the rest of your life."

McAllen had emerged from the house, a pair of five-shot .36-caliber Colt Patersons under his belt.

"Damn it, Leah," he growled. "You get moving. Now. Or I'll help Jeb hog-tie you."

Leah was shocked. To be spoken to in such a way was an outrage! She tried to manufacture a few tears. Her husband did not look amused, so she dispensed with tears and stood up and raised her chin to a defiant angle.

"Very well, then," she said, with a nice blend of haughtiness and wounded dignity. "I'll go, though I think it's silly running like rabbits from a few dirty savages. I warn you, John Henry, if anything happens to my furniture or my clothes, I'll . . . I'll . . . well, I don't know what I will do."

Stewart emerged from the house, buckling on his saber.

"Where do you think you're going?" McAllen asked him.

"With you, of course. I've had some experience fighting aborigines, you know."

McAllen scanned Stewart's resplendent uniform. "You make a splendid target, Major."

"Charles, please don't go," said Leah. She glanced crossly at her husband. "Really, John Henry, you can't let our guest come to harm."

Joshua arrived with Escatawpa and his own horse—for several days now McAllen had taken the precaution of keeping the horses saddled to save time in the event of a sudden raid. Now, impatient to be off, he got aboard the gray hunter. Stewart had followed him to the gate in the hedge of Cherokee rose.

"If you're coming, Major, you can ride Joshua's horse."

"Thank you." Stewart took the reins from the half-breed and swung gracefully into the saddle.

"You mustn't go," exclaimed Leah, who had pursued the Englishman off the veranda. "You simply mustn't."

Stewart smiled. "Oh, but I must, Mrs. McAllen. I wouldn't miss it for the world." He was bored, though he decided it would be tactless to say so. The conquest of the beautiful Leah Pierce McAllen had entertained him for a day or two, but it had soon become evident that she was his for the asking. He would sample her charms when it suited him. For now he was in desperate need of some other kind of excitement, and this Comanche raid, if indeed that was what this turned out to be, would fit the bill nicely.

McAllen didn't waste time waiting for his wife to demonstrate the same concern for his welfare that she had for Major Stewart's. He turned Escatawpa and started down the lane at a gallop. Stewart followed. Joshua was already sprinting for the stable again; by the time McAllen and the Englishman had reached the river road, the half-breed was in hot pursuit, riding a third horse bareback. Leah stood at the gate until the riders were out of sight.

"Don't worry, Miss Leah," said Jeb, standing nearby. "Cap'n McAllen's gotten into plenty of Injun scrapes and come out without a scratch."

She peered suspiciously at him, detecting a trace of sarcasm in his voice. But Jeb's features betrayed nothing.

Chapter Sixteen

When Gray Wolf and his Quohadi warriors made a bend in the road and came to the outskirts of Grand Cane they were greeted by thirteen men strung out across the street. Surprised, Gray Wolf checked his pony, but Red Eagle uttered a shrill war cry and urged his own pony forward. Most of the warriors followed him—straight into a murderous volley. Men and horses fell before the withering fire of the Black Jacks. Miraculously, Red Eagle was untouched, but seven Quohadis died in that instant. The Comanche charge came to an abrupt and bleeding halt. When the powder smoke cleared, Tice and his colleagues had scattered, seeking cover on both sides of the street. They began firing from the cover of corners and doorways and shuttered windows.

Gray Wolf tried to restore order among the Quohadis. Oblivious to the bullets burning the air around him, he sent Running Dog, Tall Horses, and twenty other warriors in a flanking movement around the settlement, then led the rest in a charge down the street. Running the gauntlet of Black Jack gunfire, the Comanches answered with a swarm of arrows. Some veered off into the passageways between buildings, trying to flush their prey out into the open.

Yancey Torrance, running up the road into town, saw the Comanches coming straight at him. He stopped, fired a hasty shot at Gray Wolf, whose warbonnet singled him out as a chief. Yancey cursed a blue streak when he realized he'd missed his mark—then lunged under a wagon that stood, luckily for him, near at hand in front of Scayne's general store. A dozen arrows pursued him. Yancey rolled out from under the wagon on the other side, only to discover that a Comanche had circled the wagon—the warrior struck with his long red lance, and Yancey only just managed to deflect it by using his rifle like a club. With a bloodcurdling shriek the Comanche leaped off his pony. Yancey caught him in midair. His mighty arms bulging with iron thews honed by years of black-smithing, Yancey hurled the Indian clear over the wagon. Dazed, the Comanche got up, stumbled, and then fell beneath the unshod hooves of Quohadi mounts. One of the horses also fell, throwing its rider.

Yancey took advantage of the confusion to crash through the door into the general store. A Comanche on horseback followed him in. Yancey hefted the nearest weapon, a tree ax, whirled, and drove it with all his might into the Quohadi. The ax head completely severed one of the warrior's arms and bit deeply into his side, crushing his rib cage. Yancey felt a spray of hot blood and then the Comanche's war club struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder. It was enough to send Yancey to the floor. The Comanche toppled from his pony, dying, and Yancey got up, shut the door, and dropped the bar. He knew Scayne had several brand-new rifles in the store, and he began to load them all.

Coming up on Grand Cane from the south, McAllen checked the gray hunter at the riverside cabin of Yancey Torrance. While Major Stewart and Joshua waited outside, McAllen checked the interior. Since there was no one home he could only assume that Yancey was in the thick of the fighting, and that Mary and Emily were on Cedric Cole's ferry headed for the east bank of the Brazos.

The three men continued along the river road and, as they neared the outskirts of the settlement, ran into the Comanches led by Running Dog.

Though outnumbered seven to one, McAllen gave no thought to running. Dismounting, he drew one of the Colt revolvers from his belt and began firing. He held on to Escatawpa's bridle, using the gray hunter as a shield, knowing a Comanche warrior, sure to be a horse lover, would hesitate to kill such a splendid prize.

The Comanches were on them in an instant. Major Stewart remained in the saddle, charging into the midst of the Indians with his saber held at tierce point. The saber's blade flashed in the morning sunlight as he deflected a lance and then slew the Indian who was trying to impale him with it. Another warrior came at him from the other side. Stewart ducked under the war club, which missed by scant inches smashing his skull, and as his horse carried him on by, he used the saber to cut the Quohadi open below the sternum. Pulling a pepperbox pistol from under his shell jacket, he fired point-blank at another warrior. He appeared to be having a grand old time, entirely in his element—until an arrow embedded itself in his thigh. Snarling at the pain, Stewart tried to pull the arrow out, but the barbed head was hooked behind bone, and he had to settle for snapping the shaft in two. Comanches swarmed about him, yelling like banshees, and though he tried to keep them at bay with the saber, one of the Indians struck home with his war club, and Stewart fell from his horse, his blood, as scarlet as the uniform he wore so proudly, staining the pale Texas dust.

The Comanche who had struck the final blow leaped from his painted pony, intent on harvesting the fallen Englishman's scalp. Stewart was stunned by the war club's impact, even though it had been a glancing blow. He was unable for the moment to defend himself. But McAllen recognized his plight and rushed forward, blazing Colt Patersons in both hands now. The would-be scalper fell, riddled with bullets. Another warrior somersaulted off his horse, shot through the heart. A third prepared to drive his lance through McAllen's back. But Joshua arrived, driving his horse into the Quohadi's pony. Men and horses fell in a thrashing tangle.

Standing over Stewart, McAllen aimed his guns at an Indian bearing down upon him with tomahawk raised. The Colts' hammers fell on empty chambers. Even in the din of close combat the ominous sound echoed loudly in McAllen's ears. Then another gun spoke, and the tomahawk-wielding Comanche fell. Suddenly those warriors left alive were withdrawing, and McAllen saw three horsemen coming along the road, firing after the Indians. He recognized them as Matt Washburn, Morris Riddle, and Riddle's son Walter. Washburn and Riddle were Black Jacks whose farms were located northwest of the settlement. They were riding to the sound of the guns and McAllen was glad to see them, knowing he owed his life to their timely arrival.

"Cap'n," said Washburn, "you appear to be wounded."

Surprised, McAllen noticed for the first time that blood was dripping from the fingers of his left hand. His sleeve was soaked with blood. A tomahawk had gouged his arm. The pain hit him then, and he felt light-headed.

"It's nothing," he said.

He spotted Joshua coming toward him, leading his horse. The half-breed hadn't come through unscathed, either. He held an arm tight against his side where a Comanche knife had bitten deep. Seven Comanches lay on the road. All but one of them was dead. The seventh was swiftly dispatched by Morris Riddle—a single rifle shot to the head. Riddle was as dispassionate as he would have been in killing a rattlesnake that had crossed his path.