The Black Jacks Page 23

  "A fine distinction," mused Caldero dryly, "and one that I am sure would have been wasted on them. But, even if I were to do this thing, there are many Comanche villages. Do you know which band took this woman?"

  McAllen brandished the broken shaft of an arrow from beneath his dusty black shell jacket and handed it to Caldero, who glanced at the fletch and the markings and nodded.

  "Quohadi," he said.

  "The Antelope band?" asked Houston.

  "Sí. They live on the Llano Estacado."

  "So will you help us or not?" pressed McAllen.

  "What will you do if I say no?"

  "I'll find her myself. No matter how long it takes—or how many of your Comanche friends I have to go through."

  Caldero looked long and hard at McAllen, and knew this grim and determined man meant every word he said.

  Houston leaned forward. "Caldero, you know me. I've always tried my best to keep peace with the Indians. Even the Comanches. That hasn't been easy, since they've always raided our farms and settlements."

  "As I said before, it is because you Tejanos are trespassers."

  "I'm running for president again," said Houston, "and once I've replaced Lamar I'll try my damnedest to stop this war. More killing won't solve anything. If you help us find this girl and get her back, a lot of lives will be saved. And that will bring us one step closer to peace."

  "You're taking the wrong tack with this man, General," decided McAllen. "He's not the least bit interested in peace."

  Caldero puffed vigorously on his cheroot. "I tell you what, Houston. If I help you, you must do something for me in return."

  "What might that be?"

  "You will state publicly that the Nueces River, in your opinion, forms the southern boundary of your so-called Republic of Texas."

  McAllen stood up in a hurry. "Let's get out of here, General."

  "Hold on, John Henry."

  McAllen was incredulous. "You're not even going to consider that—are you?"

  "Caldero," said Houston, "you know I could never do that."

  "I know that now. Just as I know now that you are a man of honor, whose word can be trusted."

  So it had been a test, mused McAllen as he sat back down. Had Houston agreed to Caldero's spurious condition the bandit leader would have known he was lying, and that would prove Sam Houston was the kind of man who would say anything a person wanted to hear. And that, in turn, would mark him as an unreliable, unscrupulous man, a man without integrity. Though a bandit, Caldero had a code of honor he tried to live by.

  Caldero took another drink. "I tell you what I will do," he said at last. "I will try to find out where this girl is." He pointed at McAllen. "But if I do locate her, you will have to go and get her. It will not be without risk. But then you don't care about that, do you?"

  "No, I don't."

  "You will have to give something of equal or greater value to the warrior who owns her, if he chooses to trade."

  "I realize that."

  Caldero nodded. "What is this woman's name, and what does she look like?"

  McAllen told him.

  "And where can I get word to you?"

  McAllen told him about the plantation at Grand Cane.

  "Go there," said Caldero. "Wait for word from me. It may take weeks. Months. I may never find her. She might be dead."

  "No. She's alive."

  "Wishful thinking? We shall see."

  Riding away from the adobe hut, stirrup to stirrup with Houston, and with Joshua and Dr. Tice coming along behind them, McAllen didn't say a word until they were deep in the brasada scrub and out of Antonio Caldero's sight.

  "I'm glad you came along, General," he said. "If you hadn't, Caldero would have been shooting at me instead of talking to me."

  "I'm not sure I've done you any favors, John Henry. This is a dangerous proposition. You'll probably lose your life before it's over with."

  McAllen didn't think he needed to explain to Houston that if he didn't find Emily his life wasn't worth holding on to anyway.

  "I want to know one thing," said Tice. "Why did Caldero agree to help? What does he have to gain?"

  Houston and McAllen glanced at each other.

  "Damned if I know, Artemus," said McAllen.

  "It's either ego or gratitude, I suppose," said Houston.

  "I don't follow," admitted Tice.

  "Either he's doing this just because he has the power to, and wants to show us he has that power, or he's grateful to me for what I tried to do for his men a few years ago."

  "He didn't sound grateful to me," said McAllen.

  "Regardless of what he said, I'll wager Caldero was bothered more than a little by the way his men were executed. They were treated like common outlaws. I doubt that Caldero sees himself or his followers in that light and would appreciate it if others didn't, either."

  "Why did you try to get those bandoleros a fair trial, General?" asked Tice. "All it accomplished was to foster hard feelings between you and the Rangers."

  "Because I knew even then that Antonio Caldero was a force to be reckoned with. I knew those men would die no matter what I did. But since I'd have to deal with Caldero sooner or later, I didn't think it would hurt to have a card up my sleeve."

  "I declare, General," said Tice, chuckling, "you could teach old Machiavelli a thing or two."

  Houston was thoughtfully silent for a while. Then he glanced at McAllen.

  "John Henry, the day may come when I have to send you and your Black Jacks down here to take care of Caldero and his bunch. I don't know if anyone else could do the job. Could you do it?"

  "I could try."

  "I mean, even if you felt as though you owed him for helping you in this matter?"

  McAllen thought it over. Then he nodded. "If you said it had to be done for Texas, I'd do it."

  Houston reached out and whacked McAllen on the back, raising a cloud of dust from the trail-grimed black shell jacket.

  "By the eternal, John Henry, I'm glad you're on our side."

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Jonah Singletary's entire existence revolved around the Austin City Gazette. He had absolutely no other interests. After dinner each day he usually returned to his office to work late into the night, sometimes not retiring to his drab room in a nearby boardinghouse until the early morning hours.

  Singletary was pleased with his work of recent weeks. Count de Saligny's guarded revelations had provided fodder for several editorials which, by establishing a conspiracy between Sam Houston and the British Crown to turn Texas into an economic vassal of Great Britain, had caused quite an uproar. In addition, Singletary had taken special delight in printed speculations of a most lurid nature into the relationship between Leah Pierce McAllen and the British officer Major Charles Stewart.

  When Stewart came calling that night, the editor was so busy putting the finishing touches to his editorial for the next day's edition that he did not hear the Englishman enter. The only sound in the cluttered office off the printing room was the furious scratching of Singletary's pen. The newspaperman nearly jumped out of his skin when he looked up to find Stewart standing in front of the desk, looking down at him with regal disdain.

  Singletary quickly recovered from the shock. Peeling the spectacles off his nose, he settled back in the chair—this put a little more space between him and Stewart, which was a good thing considering what the Englishman had done the last time they'd met—and donned a sardonic smile. "Well, well. To what do I owe this pleasure, sir?"

  "I am sorry to say you have failed to heed my warning."

  "We have a free press in this country. I refuse to be intimidated—especially by the likes of you."

  Stewart sat on the corner of the desk. "I want to know one thing, Singletary. Why do you take such wicked pleasure in ruining a lady's good name?"

  Singletary laughed. "I beg your pardon, Major. You, I believe, are the one actively engaged in ruining her good name, not I. Of course, the idea that Leah
McAllen has a good name to ruin is ludicrous."

  "That begs the question."

  "Because I despise such women," snapped Singletary. "They are weak and sinful creatures. And I despise men like you, Major, who tempt them into sin. Most of all, I despise men like Captain McAllen, who do not have the courage to deal with the situation."

  Stewart peered speculatively at the editor. "That is a lot of despising. I'll be damned, Singletary, if I don't understand you now. You were married once, weren't you?"

  "I was. To a woman just like Leah McAllen." Singletary gazed darkly at his bony hands, which rested, fingers splayed, on the desk in front of him. "I should have killed her. And the man she was with. But I didn't. I. . . couldn't."

  Stewart stood up. For an instant his back was turned, but when he swung back to face Singletary a pepperbox pistol was in his hand. Singletary presumed the pistol had been concealed in the folds of the Englishman's black cloak.

  "I told you not to write about her again, or even to let her name pass your lips. You have failed on both counts. Now you must face the consequences."

  Singletary shook his head. "You don't scare me. I've been threatened before."

  "My threats are not idle ones."

  "Who are you trying to fool? You don't give a damn about Leah McAllen. You—"

  Stewart triggered the pistol. All barrels fired as one. Singletary's face disappeared in a pink mist. The impact threw his body violently backward, overturning the chair. He was killed instantly.

  Leaving the office by the back way, Stewart kept as much as possible to the alleys in his return to the Bullock Hotel. The long black pilot-cloth coat helped him blend into the shadows. But it was after midnight, and the streets of Austin were empty. He wondered how long they would remain so; the report of the pepperbox pistol had been very loud, and surely someone would investigate. How long before Singletary's body was discovered?

  His first instinct was to make a run for it. But that, he decided, would be stupid. He'd left no evidence behind, and no one could connect him with Singletary's murder. Murder? No, make that execution. Singletary had deserved to die. He was a troublemaker. Besides, what could the authorities do, even if they did suspect him? He was a subject of the Crown.

  He made it to his room without being seen, left the cloak and pistol on the bed, and went out into the dark hallway and to the door of the room opposite his. He tried the knob before knocking, but the key had been turned from the inside, and he muttered a curse. He rapped his knuckles on the door, lightly but persistently, and kept it up until a sleepy-eyed Leah McAllen opened the door. Before she could protest he had pushed her aside and entered the room, shutting the door behind him.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, irritated. "I don't like to be awakened in the middle of the—"

  "Shut up." Stewart went to the window and peered through the curtains at the empty street below.

  "What's the matter with you, Charles?"

  He turned, smiling. "I've just done you a great favor. I've killed that spiteful worm Jonah Singletary."

  "This is no time for jokes—"

  "Oh, I'm in deadly earnest, darling."

  "Oh, my God," breathed Leah, seeing the look on his face and realizing it was true. She shrank away from him instinctively. "How could you have done such a thing?" she asked, her voice pitched high with rising panic. "And why, in heaven's name?"

  "How? It was very simple. The easiest killing I've ever done. As to why, he deserved to die. I've simply done what your husband didn't have the nerve to do."

  "You idiot. You big stupid idiot."

  Still smiling, Stewart backhanded her. The blow sent Leah to the floor, stunned, the taste of blood in her mouth.

  "Really, I'd expected a little more gratitude," he said mildly. "And since I did this for you, I think you could at least give me a kiss."

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to her feet, and his kiss was hard and bruising. She tried to fight him off, desperately tried to claw his face, but when she did he hit her again, harder this time than before, and she nearly passed out. She sagged, but he held her up.

  "It's time we played the final round of our little game," he murmured.

  She was too dazed to understand—until she found herself facedown on the bed and felt him tearing at her wrapper and nightgown. Then she began to struggle. His weight pinned her down, and he spoke softly in her ear.

  "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 innkeeper sent a boy to fetch the sheriff, who brought a deputy with him, just in case. The two lawmen went upstairs to Stewart's room and knocked on the door. The Englishman was clad in his immaculate dress uniform when he opened the door.

  "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 sunny summer morning.

  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.