McAllen nodded. "Well," he said, and that was all. He turned away and followed Emily to the cabin. By the time he got there Emily had sought refuge in her room. McAllen settled down on the porch with Yancey. They shared a jug of corn liquor and McAllen fired up a Cuban cigar, and they waited for the Black Jacks to answer their captain's summons.
They arrived in twos and threes or alone, and it wasn't long before all of them were present and accounted for. Cedric Cole had left his ferry, and Will Parton his church. George Scayne had put his wife in charge of the store, and A. G. Deckard had done the same with his tavern. Dr. Tice was there, of course. The last to come were those who owned farms on the outskirts of town—they arrived on horseback or, in a couple of cases, in wagons. But within the hour they were congregated in front of Yancey's cabin, some standing, others sitting on their heels, all watching Captain McAllen with a grim and silent intensity. They knew what their captain had to say would be important. He would not have wasted their time if it weren't.
When he was sure all twenty-one of them were present, McAllen stood up and stepped to the edge of the porch.
"I guess by now you've all heard about the Council House fight. Well, it wasn't much of a scrape, really, as scrapes go. Thirty Comanche chiefs rode in to talk peace, and most of them never rode out again. There were two companies of Texas Rangers there, and when the shooting started they didn't waste any time—they got to work doing what they do best."
"How did the trouble get started, Captain?" asked Deckard, the one-armed tavern keeper.
"I'm not sure. I've heard a lot of different stories. And I don't guess it matters much now. What's done is done. There may never have been any real hope for peace with the Comanches. Maybe it was inevitable that we fight them to the bitter end. But the last thing we need right now is a war with them. And I believe that's what we've got now, gentlemen. A long and bloody war."
"United, the tribes of Israel were unbeatable," said Will Parton, the preacher. "Divided, they fell on hard times. You reckon all the different Comanche bands will join forces?"
"I do," replied McAllen. "If this doesn't persuade them to put their petty rivalries aside and fight together, then nothing will. I also assume they will strike before too much longer. They can't make war all through the summer. They've got to hunt the buffalo, so that there's food enough for their families come winter.
"I've called you all here to go over the plans we made a long time ago, in case of an Indian attack in force on the settlement. The most important thing is to get the women and children across the river on Cedric's ferry. The Comanches would have to go fifty miles north to find a place to ford the Brazos, so if our people can get to the east bank they should be safe enough. That means we must make sure we have warning in time to get this done. I also suggest caching some weapons and food across the river. If worse comes to worst, there may not be a Grand Cane to come back to when it's all over."
"That's a good idea," said one of the Black Jacks, and a murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"They'll come from the west or the north," surmised McAllen. "They always do. So keep your eyes open and your weapons close at hand. Our job will be to hold them up long enough for our people to get across the river."
The men nodded. They knew without asking that if it was humanly possible, McAllen would join them as soon as he got his own people at the Grand Cane plantation across the Brazos to safety.
That was all McAllen had to say. Most of the Black Jacks went back to their work. A few lingered awhile to talk things over. McAllen declined Yancey's invitation to stay for dinner. He was sorry to see nothing more of Emily, but he thought it the wiser course to take his leave. Reluctantly, he mounted up and rode back to the plantation.
Taking Jeb aside, he told his overseer that in all likelihood there would be a Comanche raid, and soon. This was all he had to say; Jeb knew what to do in that eventuality. There were several boats down at the landing, and the overseer was well aware that it was his responsibility to get all the slaves—and Mrs. McAllen—down to those boats and to the other side of the river. The captain and Joshua would be busy trying to hold off the Indians if there was an attack on the plantation.
McAllen found the big house empty, so he walked out back to the kitchen. Bessie and Roman were there, Bessie stirring up a delightfully aromatic stew in a big iron kettle suspended from one of the hooks in the fireplace. As usual the two were bickering. McAllen would have thought something wrong with them if they were getting along.
"I declare, Marse John," said an exasperated Bessie, "I doan know what I'm gwine do with dis ol' man. I found him out in dat garden dis mornin', jis' workin' away. He gwine work hisself to death. Doan he know he's older'n Moses?"
"You had better take things easy for a spell, Roman," advised McAllen, even though he knew it was a waste of breath.
"Then I be's good for nothin', Marse John. And dat won't do. Nossir, dat won't do."
"If something happened to you, who would Bessie nag?" asked McAllen. "Have either of you seen Leah?"
Bessie and Roman exchanged wary looks.
"She be's off with dat Englishman," said Bessie, disgusted. "Mark my words, Marse John." She waved the wooden ladle at McAllen. "Dat man ain't no gennelman. He be's nothing but trouble. You oughts to run him off dis place."
McAllen smiled. "No, I can't do that. The general wants him taken care of. So we must make him feel right at home."
"Oh, he be's making hisself right at home," said Bessie, caustically. "Doan you worry none 'bout dat."
"And don't you worry, Bessie. Everything is working out just fine." McAllen sat down at the rough-hewn table in the middle of the kitchen. "Now, how about some of that stew?" he asked cheerfully. "I'm starving."
Bessie stared at him. What in the world had gotten into the captain? It was bad enough that Miss Leah did the things she did in Austin and Galveston and all those other places, but now the shameless hussy was cutting eyes at another man right here under her husband's roof! And here was the captain acting like he didn't have a care in the world! Bessie shook her head. "Beats all I ever seen," she muttered as she ladled some stew into a big crockery bowl.
Chapter Fourteen
After the Council House fight, weeks passed with no sign of the Comanches, and some Texans began to think the Indians had been, in Lamar's words, chastised so severely that they had decided to leave the settlements alone.
Tucker Foley and Dr. Joel Ponton of Lavaca were the first to find out otherwise.
The two men were traveling together, having left Columbus bound for Gonzales. A large party of Comanche warriors jumped them, killing Foley and gravely wounding Ponton. They chased Ponton for several miles before giving up. The doctor reached his home and raised the alarm before passing out from loss of blood. Adam Zumwalt and thirty-six men set out to find the hostiles. That same day, the mail rider en route from Austin to Gonzales crossed the Indian trail at Plum Creek. He galloped hell for leather into Gonzales. "I ain't never seen the like," he gasped, wide-eyed. "Must be a thousand of them red devils. They left a trail a half mile wide. I swear, this ain't no ordinary raiding party. I'd swear it on a stack of Bibles, boys. How come ya'll lookin' at me thataway? No, dammit, I aint been drinin'!"