"Barely a week before the date set for the council is upon us," fumed Lamar. "Maguara and Yellow Hand and Buffalo Hump all agreed to attend. And they had better, sir, or they shall suffer the consequences."

"Mr. President," said Singletary, "my readers would like to become acquainted with the terms you propose to offer the Comanche chieftains—assuming any of them show up."

Lamar looked askance at the editor of the City Gazette. Jonah Singletary was a sardonic, bitter misanthrope, whose caustic pen Lamar felt fortunate to have on his side in the political arena. Still, he did not entirely trust Singletary, because he could not fathom the man's motives. Singletary's only joy in life seemed to be slinging scarlet abuse in his editorials. So far he had spared Lamar and his backers. But why? The question nagged Lamar.

"I can oblige you there, Jonah," replied the president, his tone so friendly and familiar that one might have thought the two men were brothers rather than uneasy allies. "I intend to impress upon them that unless they surrender all their white captives and refrain from any further hostilities against the citizens of this republic, I shall unleash the military might of Texas upon them and chastise them unto death, and I shall not rest from this endeavor until the republic is rid of the heathen race."

"I see," said Singletary. He was inclined to query the president regarding what military might he was referring to. The republic's army barely existed. Lamar had wanted to build and garrison a string of frontier forts from the Red River to the Rio Grande, but he had neither the money nor the men to carry through with that scheme. All Lamar could really count on were the Texas Rangers. But Singletary exercised self-discipline. It would not do to alienate these men by administering to them, dreamers all, a cold dose of reality.

"The problem may be," he said, "that these heathens cannot comprehend how it came to pass that the land over which they have reigned supreme for generations now belongs to us by dint of a little scrape on the banks of the San Jacinto River."

Lamar eyed the editor suspiciously, and Singletary, apprehensive lest he had gone too far, changed the subject. Rising, he proferred a copy of the day's edition of the City Gazette to the president. "I thought, sir, that my remarks concerning certain gentlemen who are currently loitering in the general vicinity of Bullock's Hotel might amuse you."

Lamar snatched the paper from Singletary's grasp. "What? No doubt you refer to Captain McAllen and his associates." He read for a moment. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. " 'Our fair city is blessed with the continued presence of a hero who served so selflessly the noble cause of Texas independence. I refer, of course, to Captain J. H. McAllen of Brazoria, who, we venture to guess, may be scouting for signs of his beloved wife, who has been known to stray in this vicinity.' "

"My God, man," said Johnston, aghast. "I'm amazed you're still alive, Singletary. If you wrote about me in such a vein I would have killed you before the ink was dry."

Singletary merely smiled.

Lamar read on. " 'In company with the brave captain is Dr. Artemus Tice, that therapeutic vampire who has slain by his notorious malpractice more poor souls than the Yellow Jack carried away two years ago on Galveston Island. McAllen's other companion is unknown to us, but we feel confident in assuming that he is one of that stalwart band of Mississippi hooligans known as The Black Jacks.' "

"The other man's name is Torrance," said Johnston. "And he is a Black Jack. Yesterday he departed for San Antonio. There is one more. That half-breed that follows McAllen around like a dog. He even sleeps on the floor at the threshold of McAllen's hotel room."

"Why don't you just come straight out and say it, Singletary," drawled Wingate. "They're Houston's spies."

Lamar looked up from the City Gazette. The Texas Ranger was sprawled in the chair, a slim and dusty man who carried a Bowie knife and a Colt Paterson revolving pistol in his belt. His squinty eyes were like chips of gray glacier ice beneath the brim of his hat, which he wore indoors in violation of the etiquette of the day. Eli Wingate didn't give a tinker's damn about etiquette—or anything else except killing Indians. He was a grim, silent man who lived for that and that alone. Until his comment to the City Gazette's editor, he had been gazing at Lamar's books as though he were trying to figure out what they were good for.

Johnston leaned forward. "I still say you should officially outlaw the Black Jacks and every other group like them, Mr. President. In essence they are Sam Houston's private army, and as such present a threat to this republic."

"You mean this administration," remarked Singletary.

Lamar sighed and dropped the newspaper on his desk. "I would like nothing better. But now is not the time, General. A transparent ruse, and the people would see right through me. No, until they overstep their bounds I can do nothing of the kind."

He turned to a parchment map of Texas, made in 1838, framed on the wall behind his desk, in an alcove between the towering bookcases. "Cast your eyes upon this map, gentlemen, and you will see why the Comanches must be dealt with, and swiftly. We are on the edge of civilization here, and until the Comanches are vanquished, we will remain so. The republic will not expand. The savages create an obstacle to the expansion of Texas sovereignty. Beyond their realm lies Santa Fe—and California. Mexico is too weak to hold on to her northern provinces, and we must have them for Texas, before some other country seizes them."

"I have one more question, sir," said Singletary. "Will you be going to San Antonio to personally address the Comanche chieftains?"

"My secretary, John Morris, will deliver my message to them. Captain Wingate will accompany Mr. Morris with his Ranger company, to ensure the peace." Lamar turned to the papers on his desk. "Now, if you have nothing further to discuss with me, gentlemen, I must get back to the affairs of state."

Outside, on San Jacinto Street, Secretary Johnston bade Singletary and Wingate a brisk farewell and started off with long strides, bound for the War Department building.

"What I don't savvy," said Wingate, checking the street and then the sky and then the street again, like a man who expects trouble but just isn't sure from what quarter it will come, "is why McAllen hasn't called you out on account of what you've written about his wife."

Singletary smiled. "Perhaps because the pen is mightier than the sword, Captain. However, I am somewhat curious myself on that score. I think I shall go ask him."

Wingate peered at him, startled. "You'll stay clear of McAllen if you know what's good for you."

"Where is your sense of adventure, Captain? Come along with me, and we shall see what McAllen has to say for himself."

Wingate's eyes glittered like sunlight on cold steel. "Sure, why not? I'll come along."

"I knew you would. You don't care for him, do you?"

"McAllen? Not a bit. He's Houston's man. And Houston wants to make peace with the Injuns. Anybody who wants to do that is no friend of mine."

"Because the Comanches killed your brother and his entire family."

"All but his little girl. They took her captive. She'd have been better off had they killed her, too."

"Strikes me odd," remarked Singletary, as they began to walk, "that President Lamar would put an Indian killer like you in charge of a peace council?"