The Black Jacks by Jason Manning

bands would show up by the morrow. When asked if the white captives had been brought along, the runners said that all whites in Comanche possession would be delivered. Encouraged, Morris made arrangements for the Comanche entry into San Antonio in the morning. Since the presence of hundreds of Indians on the outskirts of town was making the local populace very anxious, only thirty chiefs would be permitted to enter the town.
    That evening, San Antonio was unusually subdued. The cantinas, where on any other night one could find a lively fandango in progress, were virtually empty. Steely-eyed Rangers patrolled the dark streets in pairs.
    A premonition of disaster prevented John Henry McAllen from sleeping well. He was up before dawn. Even so, by the time he and Tice and Yancey and Joshua had reached the Plaza de Armes, a substantial crowd had already gathered. The vast majority were men who, if they had families, had locked them safely in their houses. All of them were armed. More than ever, McAllen was struck by the unreasonable nature of the task Sam Houston had set for him. How could he prevent an eruption of violence if it was in the cards?
    Yancey's thoughts were traveling the same path. "Maybe we should have brought everybody," he told McAllen, meaning the whole company of Black Jacks. "What do you want we should do, John Henry?"
    "Split up. Mingle with the crowd. Keep your eyes open. If you see trouble starting, try to nip it in the bud. If there is any shooting, though, get out of the way."
    Less than an hour later the Comanches arrived. It was odd, mused McAllen, to see these fierce warriors on their painted ponies filing down the street in all their untamed glory, flanked by Texas Rangers. By the time this procession reached the Council House, a long low stone building fronted by an arched gallery, McAllen had worked his way near the front of the ominously silent crowd of armed men. He spotted John Morris in his black broadcloth standing with Eli Wingate, the town sheriff, and Indian agent Robert Owen, in the shade of the Council House gallery.
    As the Comanche delegation dismounted, McAllen heard a muttered curse to his left and promptly pushed through the crowd in that direction. A man, his face stamped with hate, was muttering about "red devils" and how to "cure" them, and McAllen didn't like the way he was gripping his old flintlock rifle. McAllen slipped a hand under his frock coat and took hold of the Colt Paterson stuck in his belt. Behind him, Joshua gripped the handle of his Bowie knife, but did not draw the blade from its sheath.
    But before they could close in on the troublemaker, Tice appeared. The physician deftly caught the man's ankle with the staghorn handle of his walking cane and pulled hard. The man fell flat on his back. Alarmed, the crowd surged away in all directions. McAllen pressed against the current and into the opening. A smiling Tice was kneeling on the fallen man's chest. "My diagnosis is that you've had too much forty-rod for breakfast," he said amiably. McAllen looked around to see Colonel Karnes steering his horse through the press of onlookers, followed by one of his Rangers. Karnes looked at the fallen man, Tice, and McAllen. Reading the situation in a glance, he nodded curtly. "Haul that man off to jail," he told the Ranger, then reined his horse back toward the Council House. The Ranger dismounted and hustled the stunned, belligerent drunk through the crowd by his collar.
    "Karnes isn't a bad sort," Tice remarked, as he joined McAllen. "For a Texas Ranger. At least he seems serious about preventing bloodshed."
    "Some things no man can prevent. Look there."
    Tice saw that among the Comanches was a single white woman. She was thin as a rail, dirty-faced and haggard. Her clothes were soiled and tattered. She was barefoot and walked with her head bowed, so that her long, tangled yellow hair concealed her features.
    "She's been through hell," murmured Tice. "Wonder who she is."
    McAllen