The Black Jacks Page 19

  When dawn came, a grave was dug for Matt Washburn. McAllen sent Joshua to look again for some sign of Emily at the site of the Comanche encampment. When the half-breed returned, Will Parton was reading over Washburn's final resting place. The black jacket had been removed from the corpse—it would be given as a keepsake, along with his other belongings, to his widow. McAllen was sure Nell Washburn would cherish the jacket. She knew how proud her husband had been to wear it.

  Joshua answered McAllen's querulous glance with a head shake. No sign. McAllen made up his mind in that instant, and when the amens were said he stepped forward.

  "Boys, we're going back to Grand Cane."

  The others did not speak. Not one of them would have suggested giving up the chase, but in their hearts they were relieved. They looked for Yancey, wondering how he would react. Only then were they aware of Yancey's absence.

  "Where's Yancey, Captain?" asked Morris Riddle.

  "Gone. He rode out before first light."

  "After the Comanches? And you just let him go?"

  "I did. It's what he wanted." Yancey hadn't said so, not in so many words, but McAllen knew.

  The expression on their captain's face made it clear to the Black Jacks that the decision to let Yancey Torrance go on alone had not been an easy one for McAllen. They also realized that Yancey hadn't wanted any more of them to die for what he now believed to be a lost cause. Still, they were torn between loyalty to Yancey Torrance and the desire to respect the wishes of their friend and comrade.

  "We're going home," repeated McAllen forcefully. He would carry the burden of the decision to leave Yancey on his own. To give his men a vote in this would be an abrogation of his responsibility as their chosen leader. They would follow his orders without question—they always had—and they could look Brax Torrance in the eye without flinching because the onus was on McAllen now.

  "That's not to say," added McAllen, "that I've given up on getting Emily Torrance back. I haven't given up and I never will."

  "What do you have in mind, Captain?" asked Riddle.

  McAllen absently stroked the scar on his cheek with a thumb. "Caldero."

  That was all he said. He headed for his horse without another word. No other words were needed. The Black Jacks knew who Caldero was. All of Texas knew Antonio Caldero, friend to the Comanche, implacable enemy of the republic.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Failing to find Mirabeau Lamar at his San Jacinto Street residence, Jonah Singletary went in search of the president at Capitol Square. It was a fine summer day, sunny but not too hot. In another month Austin would become as unpleasantly warm as Dante's Inferno, but even then Singletary would not fail to take his daily stroll. When the legislature was in session he usually included Capitol Square in his itinerary, in the hopes of learning what new scheme the representatives of the people had in store for their constituents. Today, though, the legislature was not in session; it had been adjourned at news of the Comanche raid, so that the solons could go home and attend to the protection of their property and loved ones. The Comanche scare was over, as far as Singletary was concerned, and yet the streets of the Texas capital were oddly empty. Expectations of an Indian attack on Austin had run high; apparently there was still some concern in that regard among the inhabitants.

  With the legislature gone, Singletary's best source of information on the subject of the republic's governance was Lamar himself. The newspaperman found the president leaving Capitol Square, striding down Congress Avenue, a stocky and erect figure clad in a plum-colored coat and gold vest, his head, with its mop of unruly hair streaked with gray, uncovered. Trailing along behind the president were two men in homespun. Both carried rifles. One cradled his weapon in his arms. The other had his long gun by the barrel and slanted over his shoulder. Walking beside Lamar was Captain Eli Wingate of the Texas Rangers. This was the first time Singletary had seen the Ranger captain since the Council House incident. Wingate's empty sleeve was pinned to his belt. He looked more grim and gaunt than usual.

  "Ah, Singletary," said Lamar, as the City Gazette's editor approached. "How are you today?"

  "Never better, Mr. President, thank you. Hello, Captain. It is a pleasure to see you fully recuperated." Singletary glanced past Lamar at the pair of riflemen. "And who are these gents?"

  Lamar grimaced. "My bodyguards. General Johnston insisted I have them until the Comanche threat is passed."

  "Regular army? It's only fitting that the general assigned an entire company to your protection, sir."

  Lamar smirked. "Amusing, Singletary. Very amusing."

  "It's just that this is the largest contingent of the Texas Regular Army I have ever seen assembled in one place."

  "That's because I had put my faith—and the republic's funds—in the Ranger companies." Lamar glanced with displeasure at Wingate. "I had depended on the Rangers for the protection of the frontier. And yet, to my knowledge, not a single Ranger managed to engage the Comanches."

  Wingate grimaced. "My men have bottomed out their horses patrolling between here and San Antonio. We figured the hostiles would show up sooner or later. They obviously split into small groups after the Plum Creek fight and slipped through. Besides, we have three companies down on the Nueces Strip. They couldn't be summoned in time, and it would have been unwise to do that anyway, on account of the Mexicans might've taken advantage of the situation and launched a raid of their own. And then there's Caldero and his bunch. Colonel Karnes and his men were responsible for the protection of San Antonio. That leaves two companies strung out north of here all the way to the Cross Timbers, in case the Comanches turned due north. We need more men. That's the long and short of it. I've always said so and I guess I'll always have to."

  "More men means more money," said Lamar.

  "You could always levee a new tax, Mr. President," said Singletary wryly.

  "This is hardly the appropriate time for such a measure, and you know it."

  Singletary nodded, sympathetic. "Yes, I see your point, sir. Why give Sam Houston any more political ammunition?"

  At the mention of his nemesis, Lamar's features darkened into a scowl. "So you've heard that Houston intends to challenge me for the presidency."

  "And I was hoping for a comment from you on that subject. One suitable for publication."

  Lamar gave the request a moment's careful consideration. "I trust the citizens of this great and glorious republic will elect the candidate who has demonstrated by his deeds that he has their best interests at heart."

  "Meaning you, of course, Mr. President."

  "I would hope that the people will have better sense than to elect a drunkard and an Indian lover," said Wingate.

  "I've heard Houston has foresworn strong spirits," remarked Singletary.

  "Big Drunk couldn't swear off liquor any more than a dog could swear off biting fleas," retorted the Ranger captain.

  "Mind if I quote you?"

  Wingate shrugged supreme indifference. Lamar said, "Of course you may print that, Singletary. Just make sure you give the captain the credit."

  Singletary nodded. He understood completely. In the great tradition of American politics, Lamar would let his lieutenants hurl the truly vile slanders and innuendos.

  "I'm told David Burnet has already been to attack Houston's integrity," he said. "In the Telegraph, over the signature of 'Publius.' "

  "Has he?" Lamar could not disguise the fact that he was pleased. "And what has he said?"

  "The usual things. He's charged Houston with committing just about every category of vice degrading to humanity."

  "Well, well." Lamar chuckled. "There's little love lost between those two."

  Singletary knew well the truth of that statement. David Burnet had left his clerking job in New York City forty years ago to seek adventure with Miranda in Venezuela. Later he had roamed the far western frontier, living with the Indians. It was said that he never went anywhere without a Bible in one coat pocket and a loaded pistol i
n the other. During the Texas Revolution, Burnet had been elected provisional president of the new republic. He and Sam Houston had not gotten along. Burnet kept insisting that Houston turn and fight the Mexican Army, and when Houston just as consistently refused, Burnet accused him of cowardice. After the guns had fallen silent at San Jacinto, Burnet appeared at the battlefield and confiscated a stallion, formerly the property of a high-ranking officer in Santa Anna's army, which had been presented to Houston by his admiring men. It was said that the soldiers would have gladly drowned Burnet in the chocolate-brown waters of the San Jacinto had Houston given the signal, but Houston exercised extraordinary—some would say uncharacteristic—restraint in this instance.

  Matters got worse. Burnet negotiated a treaty with the captured Santa Anna in which the self-styled Napoleon of the West promised to persuade the Mexican assembly to recognize the independence of Texas in exchange for his release. Members of Burnet's own cabinet were incensed and refused to sign on; Santa Anna's words, they declared, were as worthless as a three-legged mule. Burnet stubbornly went ahead and put Santa Anna aboard the Texas man-o'-war Invincible, bound for Mexico. Unfortunately for Santa Anna—and Burnet—Thomas Jefferson Green and over two hundred North Carolina volunteers arrived in Velasco at that moment. Green boarded the Invincible, shackled Santa Anna, and dragged him unceremoniously back onto Texas soil. Burnet lost the trust of the Texas Army and the Texas people as a result of this incident. He blamed Houston and accused the hero of San Jacinto of conspiring against him. The army was ready to throw Burnet out, but Houston kept them in line. Though he had been shoddily treated by Burnet, Houston refused to countenance mutiny.

  During Houston's term as the republic's first elected president, Burnet had constantly heckled him and ridiculed his policies, particularly in regards to making peace with the Indians. Now Burnet was Lamar's vice president. He spent most of his time in Galveston. Singletary was certain he would become Lamar's chief hatchet man in the upcoming campaign. Already he was sharpening his claws on Houston's hide with those articles in the Houston Telegraph and Texas Register, under the pseudonym of Publius.

  "If memory serves," said Singletary, "Burnet once challenged Houston to a duel. It will be interesting to see what happens this time around."

  "They are both quick-tempered men," observed Lamar, nodding.

  "Houston would be a fool to allow himself to be baited into an affair of honor. Live or die, he would lose. After the Goodrich-Laurens business, dueling is greatly out of favor here."

  Lamar smiled. "I'm sure you will do your part, sir, to make sure Mr. Houston loses. Now, if you will excuse me . . ." He and Wingate and the two bodyguards proceeded down Congress Avenue. Singletary, though, wasn't so easily dispensed with. He fell in step alongside the president.

  "You seem to be afraid of me," said the newspaperman.

  That stopped Lamar in his tracks. "What makes you think so?"

  "The City Gazette has consistently supported your policies, Mr. President."

  "Yes, yes. That's true."

  "You might say I have dipped my poison pen in the blood of your enemies."

  "Quite so," conceded Lamar. "But why? I do not perceive your motives, sir. If you have convictions, political or otherwise, they are concealed from me, and everyone else. If you do not know why a man is doing something for you today, then how can you be sure he won't turn on you tomorrow?"

  Singletary pursed his lips. "Hmm. I see your point." He touched the brim of his hat. "I'll detain you no longer, Mr. President. Good day."

  Lamar watched the City Gazette editor angle across the wide, dusty expanse of Congress, a lanky, narrow-shouldered man clad in austere black attire who walked with an ungainly, bent-kneed stride.

  "A strange fellow," Lamar murmured to Wingate. "I have felt the sting of his acid wit a time or two, and I do not relish it on a regular, or public, basis. And yet I cannot help but feel that Singletary, in some form or fashion, will in the end do me harm."

  "Maybe somebody will kill him," said Wingate. "He's been a burr under many a man's saddle."

  Lamar gave the Ranger captain a curious look and walked on.

  As he had hoped, Albert Sydney Johnston, general of the Army of Texas, was in his office in the dogtrot shanty of weathered clapboard which served as the republic's War Department. The burly, fair-haired soldier was hunched over a cluttered desk, perusing a document which Lamar immediately recognized, since he had penned it only yesterday. Johnston fastened his cold blue eyes on Lamar.

  "I have here your authorization to conduct a campaign against the Comanche Indians," rasped Johnston. "I would find it humorous, sir, except that I have no sense of humor."

  "So you cannot do it, is that what you're saying, General?"

  "With all due respect, just how the hell could I? I have a couple of hundred poorly equipped men scattered in outposts from one end of Texas to the other. My artillery consists of a few old rusting six-pounders. As for personal weapons, my men have nothing to compare with the Colt Patersons which the government saw fit to provide the Ranger companies."

  "I quite understand," said Lamar smoothly. "Sadly, in these hard times, the money simply isn't there to meet all the army's needs."

  Johnston sighed and sat back in his chair. A man of action, he disliked riding a desk, and he put Lamar in mind of a caged tiger. "Under the circumstances," he said, "a campaign such as you suggest is out of the question."

  "But we can't very well let the savages go unpunished, now, can we?"

  "I've had reports that militia companies bloodied the hostiles at Plum Creek. And, according to rumor, John Henry McAllen and the Black Jacks have been nipping at the heels of a war party all the way from the Brazos River to the Colorado. The Comanches didn't get away scot-free. My advice is to leave well enough alone."

  "I can't do that," said Lamar bluntly. "Houston will say I am guilty twice over—once for inciting the Comanches to war with a policy that resulted in the Council House debacle, and again for being unable to protect the frontier."

  "Then send the Rangers."

  "Perhaps I will have to do just that." Lamar acted as though the thought hadn't occurred to him, and Johnston hated him for the charade. He knew perfectly well what Lamar was up to. From the first, the president had known the regular army was in no condition to conduct a campaign against the Comanches. His own policies had rendered Johnston's department virtually impotent. Now, though, he had an excuse for sending his hired killers out after the hostiles—the army had been unwilling to take on the job.

  Johnston decided he ought not make it too easy for Lamar. Rising, he leaned forward and planted big fists on the desk. "Sir, I repeat. My advice is to leave it alone. The Comanches have had their fun. Some of us expected a raid after the Council House fight—though, admittedly, not one of this scope. We'll have no more trouble from the Indians until next spring. They've got to head west and hunt the buffalo and get ready for winter. Concentrate on your reelection and leave the Comanche problem for later."

  "The political aspects are what move me to press the attack against the savages," replied Lamar. "The people will appreciate our vigor. And they know we must deal with the Comanche menace before we can realize our destiny and stake a claim to New Mexico and, yes, even California. No, General Johnston. There is no time to waste."

  "Well, sir, you're the politician." Johnston didn't sound convinced by Lamar's line of reasoning.

  Lamar turned promptly to Wingate. "I will need a good man to lead two or three Ranger companies, whatever can be spared from frontier defense, to strike deep into Comancheria, to attack the Indians wherever they are found, to destroy their villages—in short, to teach them a lesson they will never forget. I suspect you are the man I am looking for, Captain. Am I correct?"

  Wingate's eyes were ablaze. This was what he had long dreamed of—carte blanche to carry out a campaign of extermination against the red devils who had murdered his kin and cost him his arm.

  "Damn rig
ht," he replied.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  In the course of his daily perambulation through Austin, Jonah Singletary always tried to drop by the Bullock Hotel. Anyone who was anybody usually stayed at Bullock's while visiting the Texas capital, and a person could learn many useful tidbits of information if he lingered with eyes and ears open in the lobby or on the porch.

  As he turned the corner off Congress Avenue and onto Pecan Street, the sight which greeted him caused Singletary to stop sharply and take a backward step. On the porch of the Bullock Hotel sat three people. Of the two he recognized, one was Saligny, the French chargé d'affaires. The other was Leah Pierce McAllen. It was ironic, mused Singletary, that Mrs. McAllen now sat in the very chair, located at the east end of the porch, where her husband had spent a few days a couple of months ago, prior to the Council House incident, when he was in Austin acting as Houston's spy. But she was not with her husband today; beside her sat a young gentleman in a perfectly tailored gray shooting coat. He was sipping a sangaree as he conversed with Saligny, while Mrs. McAllen pouted over a mint julep. She was obviously bored to death. No, more than that—she was miffed, thought Singletary, probably because Saligny and the young gentleman were engrossed in their earnest discussion and paying her not the least attention, even though she looked absolutely radiant in an emerald-green dress of satin-embellished tarlatan with matching parasol and a brimmed straw hat adorned with a green satin ribbon and a sprig of flowers. Ringlets of golden hair caressed her delicate neck.

  Singletary wondered if he should pass over Bullock's today. He was fairly certain that Leah McAllen would be less than pleased to see him, after what he had written about her previous adventures in Austin with a couple of young Texas blades. But his curiosity got the better of him. What was she doing here? Who was the handsome young stranger, and what were he and the French chargé d'affaires discussing? Singletary decided to brazen it out, even though a little voice in his head issued a shrill warning of potential danger.