Comanche Moon

COMANCHE MOON

By Larry McMurtry

Book I

Captain Inish Scull liked to boast that he had never been thwarted in pursuit--as he liked to put it--of a felonious foe, whether Spanish, savage, or white.

"Nor do I expect to have to make an exception in the present instance," he told his twelve rangers. "If you've got any sacking with you, tie it around your horses' heads. I've known cold sleet like this to freeze a horse's eyelids, and that's not good. These horses will need smooth use of their eyelids tomorrow, when the sun comes out and we run these thieving Comanches to ground." Captain Scull was a short man, but forceful. Some of the men called him Old Nails, due to his habit of casually picking his teeth with a horseshoe nail--sometimes, if his ire rose suddenly, he would actually spit the nail at whoever he was talking to.

"This'll be good," Augustus said, to his friend Woodrow Call. The cold was intense and the sleet constant, cutting their faces as they drove on north. All the rangers' beards were iced hard; some complained that they were without sensation, either in hands or feet or both. But, on the llano, it wasn't yet full dark; in the night it would undoubtedly get colder, with what consequences for men and morale no one could say. A normal commander would have made camp and ordered up a roaring campfire, but Inish Scull was not a normal commander. "I'm a Texas Ranger and by God I range," he said often. "I despise a red thief like the devil despises virtue. If I have to range night and day to check their thieving iniquity, then I'll range night and day." "Bible and sword," he usually added. "Bible and sword." At the moment no red thieves were in sight; nothing was in sight except the sleet that sliced across the formless plain. Woodrow Call, Augustus McCrae, and the troop of cold, tired, dejected rangers were uncomfortably aware, though, that they were only a few yards from the western edge of the Palo Duro Canyon. It was Call's belief that Kicking Wolf, the Comanche horse thief they were pursuing, had most likely slipped down into the canyon on some old trail. Inish Scull might be pursuing Indians that were below and behind him, in which case the rangers might ride all night into the freezing sleet for nothing.

"What'll be good, Gus?" Woodrow Call inquired of his friend Augustus. The two rode close together as they had through their years as rangers.

Augustus McCrae didn't fear the cold night ahead, but he did dread it, as any man with a liking for normal comforts would. The cold wind had been searing their faces for two days, singing down at them from the northern prairies. Gus would have liked a little rest, but he knew Captain Scull too well to expect to get any while their felonious foe was still ahead of them.

"What'll be good?" Call asked again. Gus McCrae was always making puzzling comments and then forgetting to provide any explanation.

"Kicking Wolf's never been caught, and the Captain's never been run off from," Gus said.

"That's going to change, for one of them. Who would you bet on, Woodrow, if we were to wager--Old Nails, or Kicking Wolf?" "I wouldn't bet against the Captain, even if I thought he was wrong," Call said. "He's the Captain." "I know, but the man's got no sense about weather," Augustus remarked. "Look at him.

His damn beard's nothing but a sheet of brown ice, but the fool keeps spitting tobacco juice right into this wind." Woodrow Call made no response to the remark. Gus was over-talkative, and always had been. Unless in violent combat, he was rarely silent for more than two minutes at a stretch, besides which, he felt free to criticize everything from the Captain's way with tobacco to Call's haircuts.

It was true, though, that Captain Scull was in the habit of spitting his tobacco juice directly in front of him, regardless of wind speed or direction, the result being that his garments were often stained with tobacco juice to an extent that shocked most ladies and even offended some men. In fact, the wife of Governor e. m. Pease had recently caused something of a scandal by turning Captain Scull back at her door, just before a banquet, on account of his poor appearance.

"Inish, you'll drip on my lace tablecloth.

Go clean yourself up," Mrs. Pease told the Captain--it was considered a bold thing to say to the man who was generally regarded as the most competent Texas Ranger ever to take the field.

"Ma'am, I'm a poor ruffian, I fear I'm a stranger to lacy gear," Inish Scull had replied, an untruth certainly, for it was well known that he had left a life of wealth and ease in Boston to ranger on the Western frontier. It was even said that he was a graduate of Harvard College; Woodrow Call, for one, believed it, for the Captain was very particular in his speech and invariably read books around the campfire, on the nights when he was disposed to allow a campfire. His wife, Inez, a Birmingham belle, was so beautiful at forty that no man in the troop, or, for that matter, in Austin, could resist stealing glances at her.

It was now full dusk. Call could barely see Augustus, and Augustus was only a yard or two away. He could not see Captain Scull at all, though he had been attempting to follow directly behind him. Fortunately, though, he could hear Captain Scull's great warhorse, Hector, an animal that stood a full eighteen hands high and weighed more than any two of the other horses in the troop. Hector was just ahead, crunching steadily through the sleet. In the winter Hector's coat grew so long and shaggy that the Indians called him the Buffalo Horse, both because of his shagginess and because of his great strength.

So far as Call knew, Hector was the most powerful animal in Texas, a match in strength for bull, bear, or buffalo. Weather meant nothing to him: often on freezing mornings they would see Captain Scull rubbing his hands together in front of Hector's nose, warming them on his hot breath. Hector was slow and heavy, of course--many a horse could run off and leave him.

Even mules could outrun him--but then, sooner or later, the mule or the pony would tire and Hector would keep coming, his big feet crunching grass, or splashing through mud, or churning up clouds of snow. On some long pursuits the men would change mounts two or three times, but Hector was the Captain's only horse.

Twice he had been hit by arrows and once shot in the flank by Ahumado, a felonious foe more hated by Captain Scull than either Kicking Wolf or Buffalo Hump.

Ahumado, known as the Black Vaquero, was a master of ambush; he had shot down at the Captain from a tiny pocket of a cave, in a sheer cliff in Mexico. Though Ahumado had hit the Captain in the shoulder, causing him to bleed profusely, Captain Scull had insisted that Hector be looked at first. Once recovered, Inish Scull's ire was such that he had tried to persuade Governor Pease to redcl war on Mexico; or, failing that, to let him drag a brace of cannon over a thousand miles of desert to blast Ahumado out of his stronghold in the Yellow Cliffs.

"Cannons--y want to take cannons across half of Mexico?" the astonished governor asked. "After one bandit? Why, that would be a damnable expense. The legislature would never stand for it, sir." "Then I resign, and damn the goddamn legislature!" Inish Scull had said. "I won't be denied my vengeance on the black villain who shot my horse!" The Governor stood firm, however. After a week of heavy tippling, the Captain-- to everyone's relief--had quietly resumed his command. It was the opinion of everyone in Texas that the whole frontier would have been lost had Captain Inish Scull chosen to stay resigned.

Now Call could just see, as the sleet thinned a little, the white clouds of Hector's breath.

"Crowd close now," he said, turning to the weary rangers. "Gus and me will keep up with Hector, but you'll have to keep up with us. Don't veer to the right, whatever you do. The canyon's to the right, and the drop is sheer." "Sheer--t means straight down to doom," Augustus said to the men. He remembered the first time he and Woodrow had skirted the Palo Duro, after foolishly signing up for an ill-planned expedition whose aim had been to capture Santa Fe and annex Nuevo Mexico. That time the whole troop, more than one hundred men, had to scramble over the edge of the canyon to escape a blazing ring of grass, set afire by Buffalo Hump's Comanches. Many of the men and most of the horses had fallen to their deaths.

But, on that occasion at least, they had made their scramble in daylight and had run for the cliffso over firm prairie. Now it was dusk on a winter's night, with no cover, poor visibility, and ground so slick that it was hard even to travel at a steady clip. A slip on the edge of the canyon would send a man straight into space.

"You didn't loan me that sacking--don't you have any?" Augustus asked.

"I have mine--where's yours?" Call asked.

"I don't know if mine will stretch for two horses." Augustus did not reply. In fact, he had been in a whore's tent near Fort Belknap when the news came that Kicking Wolf had run off twenty horses from a ranch near Albany.

Gus had barely had time to pull his pants on before the rangers were in the saddle and on the move.

It had been a warmish day, and he was sweaty from his exertions with the whore--the notion that four days later he would be in a sleet storm at dusk on the Palo Duro, a storm so bad that his horse's eyelids were in danger of freezing, had never crossed his mind. Most pursuits of Comanche or Kiowa lasted a day or two at most-- usually the Indians would stop to feast on stolen horseflesh, laying themselves open to attack.

Kicking Wolf, of course, had always been superior when it came to making off with Texas horses. On the errant Santa Fe expedition, when Call and Augustus had been green rangers, not yet twenty years old, Kicking Wolf had stolen a sizable number of horses from them, just before the Comanches set the grass fire that had trapped the whole troop and forced them into the very canyon they were skirting now.

"I plumb forgot my sacking," Gus admitted--he didn't mention the whore.

"You can have my sacking," Call said. "I don't intend to ride a blind horse, sleet or no sleet." Horses were apt to slip or step in holes even when they could see where they were going.

To be riding a blind horse over slippery footing on the edge of a canyon seemed to him to be asking for worse trouble than frozen eyelids.

While Augustus was adjusting Call's piece of rough sacking over his horse's eyes, Long Bill Coleman came trotting up beside them. Long Bill had been with them on the Santa Fe expedition, after which, due to the rigors he had endured on their march as captives across the Jornada del Muerto, he had given up rangering in favor of carpentry, a change of profession that only lasted a few months, thanks to Bill Coleman's inability to drive a nail straight or saw a plank evenly.

After six months of bent nails and crookedly sawn planks, Long Bill gave up on town trades forever and rejoined the ranger troop.

"It's night, ain't we stopping, Gus?" Long Bill asked.

"Do we look like we're stopped?" Gus replied, a little testily. Long Bill had the boresome habit of asking questions to which the answers were obvious.

"If we were stopping there'd be a campfire," Gus added, growing more and more annoyed with Long Bill for his thoughtless habits. "Do you see a campfire, sir?" "No, and don't you be sirring me, you dern yapper," Long Bill said. "All I was asking is how long it will be before we have a chance to get warm." "Shush," Call said. "You two can argue some other time. I hear something." He drew rein, as did Gus. The rangers behind crowded close. Soon they all heard what Call heard: a wild, echoing war cry from somewhere in the dark, sleety canyon below. The war cry was repeated, and then repeated again. There was one voice at first, but then other voices joined in--Call, who liked to be precise in such matters, thought he counted at least seven voices echoing up from the canyon. He could not be sure, though--the canyon ran with echoes, and the gusts of north wind snatched the war cries, muffling some and bringing others closer.

"They're mocking us," Call said. "They know we can't chase 'em down a cliff in the dark--not in this weather. They're mocking us, boys." "It's nothing but extremes around this damn Palo Duro Canyon," Long Bill remarked. "Last time we was here we nearly got cooked, and this time we're half froze." "I guess your mouth ain't froze, you're still asking them dumb questions," Gus observed.

"I wonder if the Captain heard that?" Call said. "The Captain's a little deaf." "Not that deaf, he ain't," Gus said. "When he wants to hear something, he hears it. When he don't want to hear it, you might as well save your breath." "What'd you ever say to the Captain that he didn't want to hear?" Call asked, dismounting.

He intended to make careful approach to the canyon edge and see if he could spot any campfires down below them. If there was evidence of a sizable camp of Comanches, perhaps Captain Scull could be persuaded to make camp and wait for a chance to attack.

"I asked him for a five-dollar advance on my wages, one time," Augustus said. "He could have said no, but he didn't say anything. He just acted as if I wasn't there." "You shouldn't have asked in the first place," Call said. "Wages are supposed to last till payday." "I had expenses," Gus said, knowing well that it was pointless to discuss financial problems with his frugal friend. Woodrow Call rarely even spent up his wages in the course of a month, whereas Gus never failed to spend his to the last penny, or perhaps even a few dollars beyond the last penny. Something always tempted him: if it wasn't just a pretty whore it might be a new six-shooter, a fine vest, or even just a better grade of whiskey, which, in most of the places he bought whiskey, just meant a liquor mild enough that it wouldn't immediately take the hide off a skunk.

Before they could discuss the matter further, they heard sleet crunching just ahead, and suddenly the great horse Hector, his shaggy coat steaming, loomed over them. Captain Inish Scull hadn't stopped, but at least he had turned.

"Why are we halted, Mr. Call?" he asked. "I didn't request a halt." "No sir, but we heard a passel of whooping, down in the canyon," Call said. "I thought I'd look and see if I could spot the Comanche camp." "Of course there's a camp, Mr. Call, but they're the wrong Comanches," Captain Scull said. "That's Buffalo Hump down there--we're after Kicking Wolf, if you'll remember.

He's our horse thief." As usual, Captain Scull spoke with complete assurance. They had only been on the edge of the Palo Duro a few minutes, and it was too dark to see much, even if the sleet would have let them. Buffalo Hump and Kicking Wolf, though rivals, often raided together: how did the Captain know that one was camped in the canyon and the other ranging somewhere ahead?

They had a gifted scout, to be sure, a Kickapoo named Famous Shoes, but Famous Shoes had been gone for two days and had made no report.

"That's Buffalo Hump's main camp down there, Mr. Call," Inish Scull said.

"We're no match for him--we're only thirteen men, and anyway it's Kicking Wolf I want. I expect to overtake him on the Canadian River about sunup day after tomorrow, if there is a sunup day after tomorrow." "Why, sir, there's always sunup," Long Bill Coleman said--he was a little jolted by the Captain's remark, and the reason he was jolted was that his large wife, Pearl--the one town trade he hadn't abandoned--was convinced on religious grounds that the world would end in the near future.

Pearl's view was that the Almighty would soon pour hot lava over the world, as a response to human wickedness. Now they were beside the Palo Duro Canyon, a big, mysterious hole in the ground--what if it suddenly filled up with hot lava and overflowed onto the world? Cold as he was, the prospect of the world ending in a flood of hot lava did not appeal to Long Bill at all. The fact that Captain Scull had questioned whether there would be a sunup had the effect of making him nervous. He had never met a man as learned as Captain Scull--if the Captain had some reason to doubt the likelihood of future sunrises, then there might be something to Pearl's apprehension, after all.

"Oh, I'm confident the sun will do its duty, and the planets as well," Captain Scull said.

"The sun will be there, where it should be. Whether we will see it is another matter, Mr. Coleman." Gus McCrae found the remark curious.

If the sun was where it should be, of course they would see it.

"Captain, if the sun's there, why wouldn't we see it?" he asked.

"Well, it could be cloudy weather--I expect it will be," Captain Scull said. "That's one reason we might not see sunup. Another reason is that we all might be dead. Beware the pale horse, the Bible says." Inish Scull let that remark soak in--it amused him to say such things to his untutored and uncomprehending men. Then he turned his horse.

"Don't be peeking into canyons unless I tell you to, Mr. Call," he said. "It's icy footing, and too dark for accurate observation anyway." Call was irked by the Captain's tone. Of course he knew it was icy footing. But he said nothing--"then Inish Scull had turned his great horse and gone clomping away, into the night. There was no one to say anything to, except Augustus and Long Bill. After one more glance into the darkening canyon, he got back on his horse and followed his captain north.

"Gun In The Water is with them," Blue Duck said. "Gun In The Water and the other one --Silver Hair McCrae." Buffalo Hump sat on a deerskin near his campfire. He was under an overhanging rock, which held the heat of the campfire while protecting him from the driving sleet. He was splitting the leg bone of a buffalo. When splitting a bone he was particular and careful--he did not want to lose any of the buttery marrow. Most men were impatient, young men especially. When they attempted the old tasks, they took little care.

Blue Duck, his son, rarely split a bone, and when he did, he lost half the marrow.

Buffalo Hump had fathered the boy on a Mexican captive named Rosa, a beautiful but troublesome woman who persisted in trying to escape. Buffalo Hump caught her three times and beat her, then his wives beat her even more harshly, but Rosa was stubborn and kept escaping.

The winter after the boy was born she escaped again, taking the young baby with her. Buffalo Hump was gone on a raid at the time--when he got back he went after Rosa himself, but a great wind came, blowing snow over the prairie in clouds so thick that even the buffalo turned their backs to it. When he finally found Rosa, under a cutbank on the Washita, she was frozen, but the boy, Blue Duck, was alive, still pulling on her cold teat.

It was a good sign, Buffalo Hump thought then, that the boy was strong enough to survive such cold; but the boy grew up to be even more troublesome than his mother. Blue Duck stole, killed, and fought bravely, but all without judgment. He had no interest in the old weapons; he coveted only the white man's guns. His temper was terrible--he had no friends. He would kill a Comanche or a friendly Kiowa as quickly as he would kill a Texan. The elders of the tribe finally came and talked to Buffalo Hump about the boy.

They reminded him that the boy was half Mexican.

They thought maybe the Mexicans had put a witch inside Blue Duck when his mother died.

After all, the boy had suckled a dead woman's teat; death might have come into him then. The old men wanted to kill Blue Duck, or else expel him from the tribe.

"I will kill him, when he needs to be killed," Buffalo Hump told them. He didn't like Blue Duck much, but he didn't kill him, or send him away. He delayed, hoping the boy would change with age. Two of his wives were barren and his only other son had been killed years before on the Brazos, by the white ranger Call, whom the Comanche called "Gun In The Water." Blue Duck had no good in him, that he could see, but he had no other living son and did not want to kill him if he could avoid it. Perhaps Blue Duck did have evil in him, an evil that prompted his sudden killings; but the evil might be there for a purpose. Blue Duck might be so bad that he would be the leader who drove back the whites, who were squirming like maggots up the rivers and onto the comancher@ia. Buffalo Hump was undecided. He knew he might have to kill Blue Duck to keep harmony in the tribe.

But, for the moment, he waited.

He did not look up at his tall son until he had split the heavy bone expertly, exposing the rich marrow, which he sucked until the last drop was gone. As Buffalo Hump grew older, his appetites had changed. When they took buffalo now, he only ate the liver and, sometimes, the hump. But he insisted on first pick of the bones, so he could find the marrow. He knocked down prairie chickens whenever he could, and had developed a taste for possums, ground squirrels, prairie dogs, and armadillo.

When one of his wives wanted to please him they would catch him a plump prairie hen or perhaps a young possum. The elders of the tribe thought it odd that their great chief no longer hungered for horsemeat or buffalo. Buffalo Hump didn't care what the elders thought, not in this instance. He had heard much prophecy, from many elders, and little of it had come true; worse, the only prophecies that had come true were the bad ones. The whites were more numerous than ever, and better armed. Even a simple raid on a small farm--j a couple and their children--cd seldom be accomplished without a warrior or two falling to the white man's guns. Even the Mexicans in poor villages were better armed now. Once, the mere appearance of a single Comanche warrior could cause such panic in the villages of Mexico that the men could ride in and take captives almost at will; but now even the smallest, poorest villages were apt to put up stiff resistance.

Also, now, the Texans came with bluecoat soldiers, andwith agents who talked to the elders of the People about the advantages of reservation life. Some of the chiefs and elders, tired of running and fighting, had begun to listen to these agents of the Texans. So far the Comanches were still a free people, but Buffalo Hump knew, and the elders knew as well, that they could not simply scare the whites away by tortures and killings, or by taking a few captives now and then. There were too many Texans--too many. The very thought of them made him weary and sad.

Finally, when he had finished with his marrow bone, he tossed it aside and looked up at Blue Duck. The boy was tall and strong, but also rude, impatient, disrespectful.

"If you saw Gun In The Water, why didn't you kill him for me?" he asked his son.

"You should have brought me his hair." Blue Duck was annoyed--he had brought his father a report on the Texans and had not expected criticism.

"He was with Big Horse Scull," he said.

"He had twelve men with him." He stopped, uncertain. Surely his father did not expect him to kill twelve men, on a day when the sleet was so bad a horse could not run without slipping.

Buffalo Hump merely looked at Blue Duck. He was gaunt now; his great hump was a weight he had grown tired of carrying. Once it had scarcely slowed him, but now he had to manage carefully if he was to avoid embarrassment.

"You can kill him. I give him to you," he said to Blue Duck. "Do you think you can kill him tomorrow?" "I told you he was with Big Horse," Blue Duck said. The old man annoyed him.

He knew that his father had been the greatest Comanche leader ever to ride the plains--f the age of ten, Blue Duck had been allowed to ride with him on raids and had seen how terrible his anger was against the Mexicans and the whites. No one in the tribe could throw a lance as far and as accurately as Buffalo Hump--and only Kicking Wolf was as quick and deadly with the bow. Though nowadays his father raided less, he was still a man to be feared. But he was older; he no longer had the strength of the bear, and the ugly hump, though it might scare the Texans, was just an ugly mound of gristle on the old man's back. It had white hairs sticking out of it. Soon his father would just be an old chief, worn out, no longer able to raid; the young warriors would soon cease to follow him. He would just be an old man, sitting on his deer hides sucking at greasy bones.

"If you can't kill Gun In The Water, kill the other one--kill McCrae," Buffalo Hump suggested. "Or if you are too lazy to kill a strong fighting man, then kill the Buffalo Horse." "Kill the Buffalo Horse?" Blue Duck asked. He knew he was being insulted, but he tried to hold his temper. Buffalo Hump had his lance at his side, and he was still quick with it.

The ranger they called "Big Horse"-- Scull, the great captain--rode the Buffalo Horse. Why ask him to kill the horse--why not ask him to kill Scull?

"I will kill Scull," Blue Duck said.

"Later we can kill the Buffalo Horse--he is so big it will take all winter to eat him." Buffalo Hump regretted that his son was boastful. Blue Duck thought he could kill anybody. He hadn't learned that some men were harder to kill than even the great grizzly bears.

Once the great bears had lived in the Palo Duro, and along the broken ledge that the whites called the caprock. In his youth, Buffalo Hump had killed three of the great bears. It had not been easy. One of his legs bore a scar from the claws of the last of these bears--when he went into battle he wore a necklace made from that bear's teeth and claws.

Now there were none of the great bears in the Palo Duro or along the caprock. They had all gone north, to the high mountains, to escape the guns of the Texans. Now his boastful son stood before him, a boy with none of the wisdom of the great bears. Blue Duck thought he could kill Scull, but Buffalo Hump knew better.

Big Horse Scull was a short man, but a great fighter--even without a weapon he would win against Blue Duck. He would tear open Blue Duck's throat with his teeth, if he had to.

Scull might suffer injuries, but he would win.

"You can't kill Big Horse," Buffalo Hump told the boy, bluntly. Blue Duck was tall and strong, but he was awkward. He had not yet learned how to run smoothly. He was too lazy to learn to use the old weapons--he could not throw a lance accurately, or hit an animal with an arrow. He wore a great knife that he had taken off a dead soldier, but he did not know how to fight with a knife. Without his gun he was helpless, and he was too foolish even to realize that he might lose his gun, or that it might misfire. Buffalo Hump liked weapons that he had made himself, and could depend on. He chose the wood for his own arrows; he scraped and honed the shafts and set the points himself. He chose the wood for his bow and saw that the bowstrings were of tough sinew. Every night, before turning to his women, he looked at his weapons, felt them, tested them; he made sure his lance head was securely set. If he had to fight in the night, he wanted to be ready. He did not want to jump into a fight and discover that he had mislaid his weapons or that they were not in good working order.

All Blue Duck knew of weapons was how to push bullets into a pistol or a rifle. He was a boy, too ill prepared to give battle to a warrior as fierce as Big Horse Scull. Unless he was lucky he would not even be able to kill Gun In The Water, who had been too quick for his other, better son, in the encounter on the Brazos years before.

"I did not give you Big Horse, I gave you Gun In The Water," Buffalo Hump said. "Go take him if you can." "There are only twelve Texans, and Big Horse," Blue Duck said. "We have many warriors. We could kill them all." "Why have they come?" Buffalo Hump asked.

"I have done no raiding. I have been killing buffalo." "They are chasing Kicking Wolf," Blue Duck said. "He stole many horses." Buffalo Hump was annoyed--Kicking Wolf had gone raiding without even asking him if he cared to go, too. Besides, he did not feel well. In bitter weather an ache made his bones hurt--the ache seemed to start in his hump. It made his bones throb as if someone were pounding them with a club.

The cold and sleet were of little moment--he had lived with plains weather all his life. But in recent years the ache in his bones had come, forcing him to pay more attention to the cold weather. He had to be sure, now, that his lodges were warm.

"Why are you talking to me about killing these Texans?" he asked Blue Duck. "If it is Kicking Wolf who has brought them, let him kill them." Blue Duck was disgusted with the old man's attitude. The whites were only a few miles away. With only half the warriors in their camp they could kill the whites easily. Maybe they could even capture Gun In The Water and torture him. It was easy to cripple a man when the footing was so bad. His father would at last have his vengeance and they could all boast that they had finished Big Horse Scull, a ranger who had been killing Comanches almost as long as Buffalo Hump, his father, had been killing whites.

Yet Buffalo Hump just sat there, tilted sideways a little from the weight of the ugly hump, sucking marrow from buffalo bones. Blue Duck knew his father didn't like Kicking Wolf. The two had quarrelled often: over women, over horses, over the best routes into Mexico, over what villages to raid, over captives. Why let Kicking Wolf have the glory of killing Big Horse and his rangers?

It was on Blue Duck's tongue to call the old man a coward, to tell him it was time he stayed with the old men, time he let the young warriors decide when to fight and who to attack.

But, just as Blue Duck was about to speak, Buffalo Hump looked up at him. The older man had been fiddling with the knife he used to split the buffalo leg bone--suddenly his eyes were as cold as the snake's. Blue Duck could never avoid a moment of fear, when his father's eyes became the eyes of a snake. He choked off his insult--he knew that if he spoke, he might, in an instant, find himself fighting Buffalo Hump. He had seen it happen before, with other warriors. Someone would say one ^w too many, would fail to see the snake in his father's eyes, and the next moment Buffalo Hump would be pulling his long bloody knife from between the other warrior's ribs.

Blue Duck waited. He knew that it was not a day to fight his father.

"Why are you standing there?" Buffalo Hump asked. "I want to think. I gave you Gun In The Water. If you want to fight in the sleet, go fight." "Can I take some warriors?" Blue Duck asked. "Maybe we could take him and bring him back alive." "No," Buffalo Hump said. "Kill him if you are able, but I won't give you the warriors." Angered, Blue Duck turned. He thought the old man was trying to provoke him--perh his father was seeking a fight. But Buffalo Hump was not even looking at him, and had just put his knife back in its sheath.

"Wait," Buffalo Hump said, as Blue Duck was about to walk away. "You may see Kicking Wolf while you are travelling." "I may," Blue Duck said.

"He owes me six horses," Buffalo Hump said. "If he has stolen a lot of horses from the Texans, it is time he gave me my six. Tell him to bring them soon." "He won't bring them--he is too greedy for horses," Blue Duck said.

Buffalo Hump didn't answer. A gust of wind blew shards of sleet into the little warm place under the rock. Buffalo Hump knocked the sleet off his blanket and looked into the fire.

By morning Augustus McCrae was so tired that he had lost the ability to tell up from down. The dawn was sleet gray, the plain sleet gray as well. There was not a feature to stop the eye on the long plain: no tree, ridge, rise, hill, dip, animal, or bird.

Augustus could see nothing at all, and he was well known to have the best vision in the troop. The plain was so wide it seemed you could see to the rim of forever, and yet, in all that distance, there was nothing.

Augustus, like the other rangers, had been in the saddle thirty-six hours. Before the chase started he had been up all night, whoring and drinking; now he was so tired he thought he might be losing his mind. There were those among his comrades who thought that it was excessive whoring and drinking that had caused Gus's hair to turn white, almost overnight; but his own view was that too many long patrols had fatigued his hair so that it had lost its color.

Now, when he looked up, the horizon seemed to roll. It was as if the plain was turning over, like a plate. Augustus's stomach, which had little in it, began to turn, too. For a moment, he had the sensation that the sky was below him, the earth above. He needed to see something definite--an antelope, a tree, anything--ffrid himself of the queasy sensation he got when the land seemed to tip. It grew so bad, the rolling, that at one point he felt his own horse was above him, its feet attached to the sky.

The more Gus thought about it, the angrier he became at Captain Scull.

"If he don't stop for breakfast I'm just going to dismount right here and die," Gus said. "I'm so tired I'm confusing up with down." "I guess he'll stop when he hits the Canadian," Call said. "I doubt it's much further." "No, and I doubt the North Pole is much further, either," Gus said. "Why has he brought us here? There's nothing here." Call was weary, too. All the men were weary.

Some slept in their saddles, despite the cold.

Under the circumstances, Call just wanted to concentrate on seeing that no one fell behind, or straggled off and got lost. Though the plain looked entirely flat, it wasn't. There were dips so shallow they didn't look like dips, and rises so gradual they didn't seem to be rises. A ranger might ride off a little distance from the troop, to answer a call of nature, only to find, once the call was answered, that he had traversed a dip or crossed a rise and become completely lost. The troop would have vanished, in only a few minutes. A man lost on the llano would wander until he starved-- or until the Comanches got him.

Call wanted to devote what energies he had to seeing that no one got lost. It was vexing to have to turn his attention from that important task to answer Gus's questions--particularly since they were questions that Gus himself ought to know the answer to.

"He brought us here to catch Kicking Wolf and get those horses back," Call said. "Did you think he was leading us all this way just to exercise our horses?" Ahead they could see Inish Scull, his coat white with sleet, moving at the same steady pace he had maintained the whole way. Hector's shaggy coat steamed from melting sleet. It crossed Call's mind to wonder just how far Hector could travel without rest. Would it be one hundred miles, or two hundred? The Captain was well ahead of the troop. Seen from a distance he seemed very small, in relation to his huge mount. Seen up close, though, that changed.

No one thought of Inish Scull as small when his eyes were boring into them, as he delivered commands or criticisms. Then all anyone remembered was that he was a captain in the Texas Rangers--size didn't enter into it.

Augustus's head was still swimming. The horizon still rocked, but talking to Woodrow helped a little. Woodrow Call was too hardheaded to grow confused about up and down; he was never likely to get sky and land mixed up.

"He's not going to catch Kicking Wolf," Gus said. "I expect the reason he's rarely run off from is because he's careful who he chases.

If you ask me, he usually just chases the ones he knows he can catch." Call had been thinking the same thing, though he had no intention of saying it in front of the men.

He didn't like to be doubting his captain, but it did seem to him that Captain Scull had met his match in the game of chase and pursuit. Kicking Wolf had had nearly a day's start, and the shifting weather made tracking difficult. Inish Scull didn't like to turn his troop, any more than he liked to turn his own head when spitting tobacco juice. He seemed to think he could keep an enemy ahead of him by sheer force of will, until he wore him down. But Kicking Wolf had lured the Captain onto the llano, which was his place. He wasn't subject to anybody's will--not even Buffalo Hump's, if reports were true.

Then Augustus spotted something moving in the sky, the first sign he had seen that there was life anywhere around.

"Look, Woodrow--I think that's a goose," Gus said, pointing at the dark in the gray sky. "If it comes in range I mean to try and shoot it. A fat goose would make a fine breakfast." "Geese fly in flocks," Call reminded him. "Why would one goose be flying around out here?" "Well, maybe it got lost," Gus suggested.

"No, birds don't get lost," Call said.

"A bird dumb enough to fly over this place could well get lost," Gus said. "This place is so empty an elephant could get lost in it." The bird, when it came in sight, proved to be a great blue heron. It flew right over the troop; several of the men looked up at it and felt some relief. All of them were oppressed by the gray emptiness they were travelling in. The sight of a living thing, even a bird, stirred their hopes a little.

"I see something else," Gus said, pointing to the west. He saw a moving spot, very faint, but moving in their direction, he felt sure.

Call looked and could see nothing, which vexed him. Time and again he had to accept the fact that Augustus McCrae had him beaten, when it came to vision. Gus's sight just reached out farther than Call's--t was the plain fact.

"I expect it's Famous Shoes," Gus said. "It's about time that rascal got back." "He ain't a rascal, he's our scout," Call said. "What's rascally about him?" "Well, he's independent," Augustus commented. "What's the use of a scout who goes off and don't bring back a report but every two or three days? And besides that, he beat me at cards." "An Indian who can beat a white man at cards is a rascal for sure," Long Bill volunteered.

"I expect it just took him this long to find Kicking Wolf's track," Call said.

A few minutes later they sighted the Canadian River, a narrow watercourse cutting through a shallow valley. There was not a tree along it.

"Now, that's a disappointment," Augustus said.

"Here we are at the river, and there's not any dern wood. We'll have to burn our stirrups if we want to make a fire." Then Call saw Famous Shoes--Inish Scull had stopped to receive his report. What amazed Call was that Famous Shoes had arrived so swiftly. Only moments before, it seemed, the scout had been so far away that Call hadn't even been able to see him; but now he was there.

"I'm about to quit rangering, if it means coming to a place where I can't tell up from down," Augustus said, annoyed that there seemed no likelihood of a good roaring fire beside the Canadian.

Call had heard that threat from Augustus before-- had heard it, in fact, whenever Gus was vexed--and he didn't take it seriously.

"You don't know how to do anything besides ride horses and shoot guns," Call told him.

"If you was to quit rangering you'd starve." "No, the fact is I know how to gather up women," Augustus said. "I'll find me a rich fat woman and I'll marry her and live in ease for the rest of my days." "Now you're talking bosh," Call said. "If you're so good at marrying, why ain't you married Clara?" "It's far too cold to be talking about such as that," Augustus said, vexed that his friend would bring up Clara Forsythe, a woman far too independent for her own good, or anybody else's good either--his in particular. He had proposed to Clara the day he met her, in her father's store in Austin, years before, but she had hesitated then and was still hesitating, despite the fact that he had courted her fast and furiously, all that time. Clara would admit that she loved him--she was not the standoffish sort--but she would not agree to marry him, a fact that pained him deeply; despite all he had done, and all he could do, Clara still considered herself free to entertain other suitors. What if she married one? What could he do then but be brokenhearted all his life?

It was not a circumstance he wanted to be reminded of, on a morning so cold that he couldn't tell up from down--and he particularly resented being reminded of it by Woodrow Call, a man inept with women to such a degree that he had entangled himself with a whore. Maggie Tilton, the whore in question, was plenty pretty enough to marry, though so far, Woodrow had shown no sign of a willingness to marry her.

"You're no man to talk, shut up before I give you a licking," Gus said. It was an intolerable impertinence on the part of Woodrow Call to even mention Clara's name, especially at a time when they were having to struggle hard just to avoid freezing.

Call ignored the threat. Any mention of Clara Forsythe would provoke Augustus into a display of fisticuffso; it always had. Call himself avoided Clara when possible. He only went into the Forsythe store when he needed to buy cartridges or some other necessity. Though certainly pretty well beyond the norm, Clara Forsythe was so forward in speech that a man of good sense would plan his day with a view to avoiding her.

Even when she was only selling Call a box of cartridges or a tool of some sort, Clara would always find a way to direct a few ^ws to him, though--in his view--no ^ws were called for, other than a thank you. Instead of just handing him his change and wrapping up his purchase, Clara would always come out with some statement, seemingly mild, that would nonetheless manage to leave him with the impression that there was something not quite right about his behaviour. He could never figure out quite what he did to annoy Clara, but her tone with him always carried a hint of annoyance; a strong enough hint, in fact, that he tried to time his visits to the afns, when her father usually tended the store.

Maggie Tilton, the whore he liked to see, never gave him the sense that there was anything wrong with his behaviour--if anything, Maggie swung too far in the other direction. She could see no wrong in him at all, which made him feel almost as uncomfortable as Clara's needlegrass criticisms. Maybe the fact that one was a whore and the other respectable had something to do with it--in any case Augustus McCrae was the last person whose opinion he felt he needed to listen to. Gus's mood bobbed up and down like a cork, depending on whether Clara had been sweet to him or sour, soft or sharp, friendly or aloof. In Call's view no man, and particularly not a Texas Ranger, ought to allow himself to be blown back and forth by a woman's opinion. It wasn't right, and that was that.

Long Bill was close enough to hear Gus threaten to give Call a licking, a threat he had heard uttered before.

"What's got him riled?" Long Bill inquired.

"None of your business. Get gone, you fool!" Gus said.

"You must have swallowed a badger, Gus--I swear you're surly," Long Bill said. "I wonder if Famous Shoes has seen any wood we could make into a nice fire, while we're wandering." Before anyone could answer, Inish Scull, their captain, gave a loud yell of rage, wheeled Hector, and spurred him into a great lumbering run toward the west. The sleet spumed up in clouds behind him. Inish Scull didn't wave for the troop to follow him, or give any indication that he cared whether the twelve rangers came with him or not. He just charged away, leaving Famous Shoes standing alone by a large, steaming pile of horse turds which Hector had just deposited on the prairie.

"Well, there goes Captain Scull--I expect he's sighted his prey," Long Bill said, pulling his rifle from its scabbard. "We best whip up or we'll lose him." The troop, with Gus at its head, immediately clattered off after Captain Scull, but Call didn't follow, not at once. He didn't fear losing contact with the Captain while he was riding Hector--an elephant could not leave a much plainer track. He wanted to know what Famous Shoes had said to provoke the charge.

"Is it Kicking Wolf?" he asked the Kickapoo. "Is it going to be a fight?" Famous Shoes was a slight man with a deceptive gait. He never seemed to hurry, yet he had no trouble keeping up with a troop of horsemen. Even if the horsemen charged off, as Inish Scull and the whole troop had just done, Famous Shoes would usually manage to catch up with them by the time a campfire was made and coffee boiling. He moved fast, and yet no one ever saw him moving fast, a thing Call marvelled at. Sometimes he responded to questions and sometimes he didn't--but even if he chose to answer a given question, the answer would usually lay a little sideways to the question as it had been phrased.

At the moment he was looking closely at the smoky green pile of Hector's droppings.

"The Buffalo Horse has been eating prickly pear," he said. "I guess he don't like this icy grass." "Kicking Wolf," Call repeated. "Is it Kicking Wolf they went off after?" Famous Shoes looked at Call with mild surprise, his usual look when responding to direct questions. The look left Call with the feeling that he had missed something--what, he didn't know.

"No, Kicking Wolf is over by the Rio Pecos," Famous Shoes said. "The Captain will have to ride a faster horse if he wants to catch Kicking Wolf. The Buffalo Horse is too slow." That was Call's opinion too, but he didn't say it.

Then Famous Shoes turned away from the dung pile and gestured toward the west.

"Kicking Wolf didn't really want those horses--not the geldings," he said. "He only wanted the three studhorses, to breed to his young mares. Those are good young studhorses. They will make him some fine colts." "If he only kept three, what'd he do with the others?" Call asked.

"He butchered them," Famous Shoes said.

"His tribe took the meat, but the women didn't do a very good job of butchering all those horses. There is plenty of meat left. We can take it if we want to." "If we ain't going to catch Kicking Wolf today, maybe the Captain will let Deets cook up some of the meat," Call said. "We're all hungry." Deets was a young black man, making his second trip with the troop. He had been found sleeping in the stables one morning, covered with dust and hay. He had escaped from a large group of stolen slaves who were being driven into Mexico by the famous chief Wildcat, a Lipan who had perfected the practice of selling stolen slaves to rich Mexican ranchers. Call had been about to chase the boy off, for trespassing on ranger property, but Inish Scull liked Deets's looks and kept him to do the stable work. He was made a cook one day when the Captain happened to taste a stew he had cooked up for some black families who were at work building homes for the legislators.

Famous Shoes didn't reply, when Call mentioned eating. He seemed to live on coffee, rarely taking food with the rangers, though he .was known to have a fondness for potatoes. Often he would slip two or three raw spuds in his pouch, before setting off on a scout. Raw potatoes and a little jerky seemed to be what he lived on.

Call knew that he ought to be hurrying after the troop, but he could not resist lingering for a moment with Famous Shoes, in hopes of learning a little bit about tracking and scouting. Famous Shoes didn't look smart, yet he made his way across the llano as easily as Call would cross a street. Captain Scull was particular about scouts, as he was about everything. He didn't trust anybody--not even his wife, by some reports--yet he allowed Famous Shoes to wander for days at a stretch, even when they were in hostile territory. Call himself knew little about the Kickapoo tribe--they were supposed to be enemies of the Comanches, but what if they weren't?

What if, instead of helping them find the Indians, Famous Shoes was really helping the Indians find them?

Call thought he would try one more query, just to see if Famous Shoes could be persuaded to answer the question he was asked.

"I thought there was plentiful antelope, up here on the plains," he said. "I've et antelope and it's a sight tastier than horsemeat. But we ain't seen an antelope this whole trip.

Where'd they all go?" "You had better just fill your belly with that fresh horsemeat," Famous Shoes said, with an amused look. "The antelope are over by the Purgatory River right now. There is good sweet grass along the Purgatory River this year." "I don't know why this grass wouldn't be sweet enough for them," Call said. "I know it's icy right now, but this ice will melt in a day or two." Famous Shoes was amused by the young ranger's insistence. It was not the young man's place to question the antelope. Antelope were free to seek the grass they preferred--they did not have to live by the Palo Duro, where the grass was known to be bitter, just because some Texans liked antelope meat better than horsemeat. It was typical of the whites, though. Seventeen horses were dead and there was plenty of tasty meat left on their carcasses. Those horses would never eat grass again, sweet or bitter; only the three stallions Kicking Wolf had kept would know the flavor of grass again. Yet, here was this young man, Call, expecting to find antelope standing around waiting to be shot. Only buffalo were peculiar enough to stand around waiting to be shot by the white men, which was why the numbers of buffalo were declining. There were plenty of antelope, though-- they lived wherever the grass was sweetest, along the Purgatory or the Canadian or the Washita or the Rio Pecos.

"I don't think we will see any antelope today," Famous Shoes said--and then he left. The rangers had galloped away to the west, but Famous Shoes turned north. It vexed Call a little. The man was their scout, yet he never seemed to travel in the same direction as the troop.

"I'd be curious to know where you're heading," he asked, trotting after the scout, in a polite tone. After all, the man hadn't really done anything wrong--he just did things that seemed peculiar.

Famous Shoes had been moving in a light trot when Call followed him and asked him the question. He looked up at Call, but he didn't slow his motion.

"I'm going to see my grandmother," he said.

"She lives up on the Washita with one of my sisters. I guess they are still there, if they haven't moved." "I see," Call said. He felt foolish for having asked.

"My grandmother is old," Famous Shoes said.

"She may want to tell me a few more stories before she dies." "Well, then, that's fine," Call said, but Famous Shoes didn't hear him. He had begun to sing a little song, as he trotted north.

Famous Shoes' voice was soft, and the wind still keened. Call heard only a snatch or two of the song, before Famous Shoes was so far away that the song was lost in the wind.

A little perplexed, feeling that he might somehow have been out of order, Call turned his horse and began to lope west, after the troop. The tracks of Hector, the Buffalo Horse, were as easy to follow as a road. He wondered, as he loped over the cold plains, what made Indians so much like women. The way Famous Shoes made him feel, when he asked a question, was not unlike how Clara Forsythe made him feel, when he ventured into her store. With both the Indian and the women he was always left with the feeling that, without meaning to, he had made some kind of mistake.

Before he could worry the matter much more he saw a horseman approaching, back along the trail Hector had made. For a moment, he was fearful enough to heft his rifle--out on the plains, a Comanche could pop out at you at any time. Maybe one had got between him and the troop and was planning to cut him off.

Then, a moment later, he saw that it was only Gus, coming hell for leather back along the sleety trail.

"Why'd you lag, Woodrow? We thought you'd been ambushed," Gus said, a little out of breath from his rapid ride.

"Why no, I was just talking to Famous Shoes," Call said. "You didn't need to lather your horse." "We heard that whooping last night--y could have been ambushed," Augustus reminded him.

"I ain't ambushed, let's go," Call said.

"The boys will eat all the breakfast if we don't hurry." Augustus was annoyed. His friend could at least have thanked him--af all, he had put his own life at risk, coming back alone to look for him.

But then, the fact was, Woodrow Call just wasn't the thanking kind.

The morning Inez Scull first called Jake Spoon into her bedroom, she was sitting on a blue velvet stool. The bedroom was in the Sculls' fine brick mansion on Shoal Creek, the first brick house in Austin, the rangers had been told. Jake had only been with the rangers three months at the time, working mainly as a kind of orderly for Captain Scull. His chief task was to groom Hector, and get him saddled when the Captain required him. Now and again Captain Scull would dispatch Jake to run an errand for Madame Scull--?Madame Scull" was how she preferred to be addressed. Usually the errand would consist of picking up packages for her at one of the more prominent stores. Jake had come to Texas with a group of ragged settlers from Kansas; he had never seen such buying as the Sculls routinely indulged in. The Captain was always ordering new guns, or saddlery, or hats or gloves or spyglasses. The big dining room table in the Scull mansion was always littered with catalogues of all descriptions--catalogues of combs or dresses or other frippery for Madame Scull, or knives or fine shotguns or microscopes or other gadgets for the Captain.

The house even boasted a barometer, a thing Jake had never heard of, and also a brass ship's clock at the head of the stairs, a clock that sounded bells every hour and half hour.

Jake had never been, or expected to be, in a fine lady's bedroom when the kitchen girl, Felice, a young high yellow girl he had taken a bit of a fancy to, came outside and told him that the lady of the house wanted to see him upstairs. Jake was a little nervous, as he went up the stairs. Madame Scull and the Captain were often out of temper with one another, and were not quiet in their expressions of rage or discontent. More than once, according to Felice, the Captain had taken a bullwhip to his lady, and, more than once, she had taken the same bullwhip to him--not to mention quirts, buggy whips, or anything else that lay to hand. At other times, they screamed wild curses at one another and fought with their fists, like two men. Some of the Mexican servants were so alarmed by the goings-on that they thought the devil lived in the house--a few of them fled in the night and didn't stop until they were across the Rio Grande, more than two hundred and fifty miles away.

Still, both the Captain and Madame Scull had been very nice to Jake. Madame Scull had even, one day, complimented him on his curly hair.

"Why, Jake, those curls will soon be winning you many female hearts," she said to him one morning, when he was carrying out a package she wanted sent off.

The men, Augustus McCrae particularly, scoffed at Jake for accepting soft work at the Captain's house, when he should have been out riding on Indian patrols. But Jake had no fondness for horses, and, besides, had a mighty fear of scalping. He was but seventeen, and considered that he had time enough to learn about Indian fighting. If, as some predicted, the Indians were whipped forever, before he got to fight them, it would not be a loss that grieved him much. There would always be Mexican bandits to engage the rangers--Jake supposed he could get all the fighting he wanted along the border, and soon enough.

When Madame Scull called him upstairs he supposed it was just to carry out another package; the worst it was likely to entail was hanging a drape--Madame Scull was always getting rid of drapes and replacing them with other drapes. She was always shifting the furniture too, much to Captain Scull's vexation. Once he had come home from a dusty scout and started to plop down in his favorite chair, with one of the scientific books he loved to pore over, only to discover that his favorite chair was no longer in its spot.

"Goddamnit, Inez, where's my armchair?" he asked. Jake, flirting with Felice, had happened to be in earshot when the outburst came.

"That smelly thing, I gave it to the nigras," Mrs. Scull remarked coolly.

"Why, you hairy slut, go get it back right now!" the Captain yelled--the comment startled Jake considerably and put Felice in such a fright that she lost all interest in courting.

"I've never liked that chair, and I'll decide what furniture stays in my house, I reckon," Madame Scull said. "If you like that chair so much, go live with the nigras--I, for one, shan't miss your damn tobacco stains." "I want my chair and I'll have it!" the Captain declaimed; but at that point Jake ran out of the kitchen and hunted up a task to do in the stables. He had never expected to hear a captain in the Texas Rangers call his wife a slut, much less a hairy slut. Behind him, as he hurried off the porch, he heard the argument raging, and a crash of china. He feared the Sculls might be approaching the bullwhip stage, and didn't want to be anywhere around.

The morning he got called into the bedroom he had to make the same dash again, only faster. When he came into the bedroom, Mrs.

Scull beckoned him over to the blue velvet stool where she sat. She was red in the face.

"Ma'am, is it the drapes again?" Jake asked, thinking she might have got a little too much sun through the long windows beside her bed.

"It ain't the drapes, thank you, Jake," Inez Scull said.

"My sweet boy," she added. "I do so fancy dimpled boys with curly hair." "Mine's always been curly, I guess," Jake said, at a loss how to respond to the remark. Madame Scull still had the same, sun-flushed look on her face.

"Stand a little bit closer, so I can see your dimples better," Inez Scull said.

Jake obediently placed himself within arm's length of the stool, only to get, in the next moment, the shock of his life, when Madame Scull confidently reached out and began to unbutton his pants.

"Let's see your young pizzle, Jakie," she said.

"What, ma'am?" Jake said, too startled to move.

"Your pizzle--let's have a look," Madame Scull repeated. "I expect it's a fine one." "What, ma'am?" Jake said again. Then a sense of peril came over him, and he turned and dashed out of the room. He didn't quit dashing until he had reached the ranger stables. Once there, he squeezed into a horse stall and got his pants rebuttoned properly.

He spent the rest of the day and most of the next few days as far from the Scull mansion as he could get and still do his work. Jake didn't know what to think about the incident--at times, he tried to persuade himself that he dreamed it. He desperately wanted to find someone to confide in, but the only person in the troop that he could trust with such dangerous information was Pea Eye Parker, a gangly, half-starved youth from the Arkansas flats who was not much older than himself. Pea Eye had come to Texas with his parents to farm, only to have both parents, a brother, and three sisters die within a year. Woodrow Call had happened to notice Pea Eye in an abandoned cornfield one day--the farmer had been burned out and his wife killed by Comanches. Pea Eye was sitting by a fence, eating the dried-out corn right off the cob.

"Ain't that corn too dry to chew?" Call asked him. The young fellow looked to be seventeen or eighteen--he didn't even have drinking water to wash the dry kernels down with.

"Mister, I'm too hungry to be picky," Pea Eye said. He looked hollow in the eyes, from starvation and fatigue. Woodrow Call had seen something in the boy that he liked--he had let Pea Eye ride behind him, into Austin.

Pea Eye soon proved to be adept at horseshoeing, a task most rangers shunned.

Augustus McCrae particularly shunned it, as he would shun cholera or indigestion. Pea Eye had wanted to ride out with the troop, of course, but Captain Scull had left him in town at first, considering him a little too green for the field. But when the time came to visit Fort Belknap, the Captain decided to leave Jake and take Pea Eye. It was the day before they were to leave that Madame Scull put her hand in Jake's pants. Jake could not, with the troop's departure at hand, bring himself to say anything about the incident to Pea Eye, fearing that, in his excitement, he might blab.

On the morning the troop was to leave, Jake half expected Captain Scull to walk up and kill him, but the Captain was as pleasant to him as ever. As the troop was preparing to mount, the Captain turned to him and informed him calmly that Madame Scull wanted him to be her equerry while the troop was gone.

"Her what?" Jake asked--he had not heard the term before.

"Equerry, equus, equestrian, equestrienne," Captain Scull said. "In other ^ws, Inez wants you to be her horse." "What, sir?" Jake asked. Since he began to deal with the Sculls, he had come to question both his eyesight and his hearing: for the Sculls frequently said and did things he couldn't understand or believe, even though he heard them said and saw them happen. In his old home in Kansas, nobody said or did such things--of that, Jake was sure.

"She'll have her way, too, boy!" the Captain said, his temper mounting at the thought of his wife's behaviour. "She'll ride you to a lather before I'm halfway to the Brazos, the wild hussy!" "What, sir?" Jake asked, for the third time.

He had no idea what the Captain was talking about, or why he supposed that Mrs. Scull wanted to ride him.

"Boy, are you a stutterer, or have you just got a brick for a brain?" the Captain asked, coming close and giving Jake a hard look.

"Inez wants to mount you, boy--ain't that clear to you yet?" he went on. "Her father's the richest man in the South. They've three hundred thousand acres of prime plantation land in Alabama, and a hundred thousand more in Cuba. "Inez"' ain't her name, either--she just took that name because it matches mine. In Birmingham she's just plain Dolly, but she was raised in Cuba and thinks she has a right to the passions of the tropics." He paused, and glared at the big brick house on the slope above the creek. Around him, the men were mounting their horses for the long ride to Fort Belknap. Inish Scull glared at his mansion, as if the house itself were responsible for the fact that his wife would not desist from unseemly passions.

"Lust is the doom of man--I've often forsworn it myself, but my resolve won't hold," the Captain said, stepping close to Jake. "You're a young man, take my advice. Beware the hairy prospect. Do that and improve your vocabulary and you'll yet make a fine citizen. Old Tom Rowlandson, now there was a man who understood lust. He knew about the hairy prospect, Tom Rowlandson did.

I've a book of his pictures right up in my house. Take a peek in it, boy. It might help you escape Inez. Once you start tupping with slavering sluts like her, there's no recovery: just look at me! I ought to be secretary of war, if not president, but I'm doing nothing better than chasing heathen red men on this goddamn dusty frontier, and all because of a lustful rich slut from Birmingham! Bible and sword!" A few minutes later the troop rode away, planning to be gone for a month, at least.

Jake felt regretful for a few hours--if he had tried harder to persuade the Captain to take him along, the Captain might have relented. After all, he had taken Pea Eye. If there was a fight, it might have meant a chance for glory. But he hadn't pressed to go, and the Captain had left him with the problem of Madame Scull.

With the Captain gone and the threat of immediate execution removed, Jake found that his mind came to dwell more and more on what Madame Scull had done.

There was no denying that she was a beautiful woman: tall, heavy bosomed, with a quick stride and lustrous black hair.

It seemed to Jake that the Captain, for whatever reason, had simply handed him over to Madame Scull. He was supposed to be her equerry--t was now his job. If he didn't do his equerrying well, the Captain might even dismiss him from the rangers when the troop returned.

By the time the troop had been gone half a day, Jake Spoon had persuaded himself that it was his duty to present himself at the Scull mansion.

He had taken to going to the mansion regularly in order to intercept Felice at the well, where she was frequently sent. Madame Scull was reckless in her use of water--trips to fetch it took Felice back and forth to the well for much of the day.

This time, though, when Felice came out the back door with her bucket, she was limping. Felice was a quick girl, who normally walked with a springy step. Jake hurried over, anxious to see why she was lame, and was surprised to see that she had a black eye and a big bruise on one cheek.

"Why, what done that? Did the Captain strike you?" Jake asked.

"No, not the Captain ... the Missus," Felice said. "She beat me with the handle of that black bullwhip. I got marks all over, from where that woman beat me." "Well, but why?" he asked. "Did you sass her, or drop a plate?" Felice shook her head. "Didn't sass her and didn't drop no plate," she said.

"But you must have done something to bring on a licking," Jake said. Felice's dress had slipped off one shoulder as she struggled with the heavy water bucket--Jake saw a swollen black bruise there, too.

Felice shook her head. Jake didn't understand. She had come from Cuba with Madame Scull, had been a servant to her since she was a girl of six. When she was younger the Missus might slap her once in a while, for some slip, but it was only later, once Felice had begun to fill out as a woman, that the Missus had begun to beat her hard. Lately, the beatings had become more and more frequent. If Captain Scull even glanced at Felice as she was serving breakfast, or requested a biscuit or a second cup of coffee, the Missus would often corner her later in the day and quirt her severely. Sometimes she punched her, or grabbed Felice's hair and tried to yank it out.

There was no knowing when the Missus might beat her, but yesterday had been the worst. The Missus caught her in the hall and beat her with the handle of the bullwhip--beat her till her arm got tired of beating. One of Felice's teeth was loose--the Missus had even hit her in the mouth.

Jake understood that Felice was a slave, and that the Sculls could do whatever they wanted to with her; still, he was shocked at the bruises on Felice's face. In Kansas, few people still owned slaves; his own family had been much too poor to afford one.

Jake offered to carry the water bucket, which was heavy. As they were nearing the house he happened to glance up and see Madame Scull, watching them from a little balcony off her bedroom. Jake immediately lowered his eyes, because Madame Scull had no clothes on. She just stood on the balcony, her heavy bosom exposed, brushing her long, black hair.

Jake glanced over at Felice and was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

"Why, Felice, what is it?" he asked.

"Are you hurt that bad?" Felice didn't answer. She didn't want to try and put ^ws to her sorrow. She had come to like Jake. He was polite and let her know that he liked her; besides, he was young and his breath was sweet when he tried to kiss her--not foul with tobacco smells like the Captain, who lost no opportunity to be familiar with her. Felice had been thinking of meeting Jake behind the smokehouse, one night--he had been pleading with her to do just that. Felice wanted to slip out with Jake--but she knew now that she couldn't, not unless she wanted to be beaten within an inch of her life.

The Missus wanted Jake, that was plain. There she stood on the balcony, showing Jake her titties. The Missus would take him, too.

Felice knew that she would have to give up on him and do it immediately, or else risk bad trouble. The Captain was gone--despite his stinking breath the Captain would sometimes take up for Felice, just to be contrary. But she belonged to the Missus, not the Captain. If the Missus got too jealous, she might even sell her.

Several old, ugly men had cast glances at her when they came to visit the Sculls. They looked like rich men, too--one of them might buy her and use her harder than the Missus did. In Cuba, she had seen bad things happen to slaves: brandings and horsewhippings and even hangings. The Missus had never done anything that bad to her, but if she got sold to some old ugly man, he might chain her and hurt her bad.

Jake wasn't worth such a risk--nothing was worth such a risk. But it still made her fill with sorrow, that the Missus would take the one person who was sweet to her.

Once they got inside the house Jake didn't know what to do, other than set the water bucket on the stove. Felice had gone silent; she wouldn't speak at all. She wiped away her tears on her apron and went about her tasks, looking down. She wouldn't turn to him again--not a ^w, and not a look. It was a big disappointment. He thought he had about persuaded her to slip out some night and meet him behind the smokehouse--then they could kiss all they wanted.

But that plan seemed to be spoiled, and he didn't know why.

He was about to leave in dejection and go back to the ranger stables, when old Ben Mickelson, the skinny, splotchy butler, came in, shaking from drink. Ben wore a shiny old black coat and took snuff, sniff+ so loudly that it caused Jake to flinch if he happened to be nearby.

"Madame would like to see you upstairs," old Ben told him, in his dry voice. "You're late as it is--I wouldn't be later." Old Ben had an ugly way of pushing out his lips, when he was spoken to by anyone but the Master or the Mistress. He pushed them out at Jake until Jake wanted to give him a hard punch.

"What am I late for? I ain't been told," he said. The thought of going upstairs made him more and more nervous.

"I ain't the Madame--if she says you're late, I guess you are," old Ben said.

In fact, Ben Mickelson hated young men indiscriminately, for no better reason than that they were young and he wasn't. Sometimes he hated young men so hard that he got violent notions about them, notions that affected him like a fever. Right at the moment, he was having a violent imagining in which young Jake was being chewed on by seven or eight thin hungry pigs. There were plenty of thin hungry pigs running loose within the town of Austin, too. It was against the ordinances, but the skinny, half-wild pigs didn't know there was an ordinance against them. They kept running loose, a menace to the populace. If six or seven of the wild pigs cornered Jake, they would soon whittle him down to size. Then the Madame wouldn't be so anxious to get him between her legs, not if he was well chewed by some hungry pigs.

Old Ben was violently jealous of the Madame and her lusts. Once, years before, in a moment of anxious weakness, Inez Scull had pulled Ben's pants down in a closet and coupled with him then and there. "You're an ugly old thing, Ben," she told him, after the brief act was over. "I don't fancy men with liver spots, and you've got 'em." Ben Mickelson was a little crestfallen. Their embrace, though brief, had been passionate enough to dislodge almost every garment hanging in the closet. He thought he might expect a compliment, but all he got was a comment about his liver spots.

"I expect it's the climate, Madame," he said, as Inez Scull was fastening her bodice. "I never got spots when we lived in Boston." "It's not the climate, it's all that whiskey you drink," Madame Scull said, whereupon she left and never touched Ben Mickelson again. For days and weeks he lingered by the closet, hoping Madame Scull would come by in a lustful state again--s lustful that she would be inclined to overlook liver spots. But what had occurred in that closet, amid ladies' shoes and fallen dresses, was never repeated. Years passed, and Ben Mickelson got bitter. Jake Spoon, not yet eighteen, with his dimples and curls, baby fat still in his cheeks, would not likely be liver-spotted, and that fact alone was enough to make Ben Mickelson hate him.

Jake looked at Felice, as he stood at the foot of the stairs, but Felice would not meet his eye. He thought he saw tears on her cheeks, though--he supposed she still ached from the beating.

Felice turned and took up her broom, so old Ben wouldn't see her tears. Old Ben had to be watched and avoided. He was always poking at her with his skinny fingers. But the threat of his fingers didn't cause her tears. She cried because she knew she would have to hold herself in, not let herself start feeling warm about any of the boys that came to the house. The Missus wanted all the boys for herself. Jake had been kind to her, helping her carry water and doing little errands for her when he could.

She had begun to want to see him behind the smokehouse--but that was lost. When Jake came back down the stairs, he would be different. He would have the Missus's smell on him. He wouldn't be sweet to her anymore, or help her carry water or feed the chickens.

As Felice swept she felt old Ben following her, getting closer, hoping for a pinch or a grab. It filled her with fury, suddenly; she wasn't going to have it, not this morning, when her new feeling for Jake had just been crushed.

"You scat, you old possum!" Felice said, whirling on the butler. The anger in her face startled old Ben so that he turned on his heel and went to polish the doorknobs. It was a hard life, he felt, when a butler wasn't even allowed to touch a saucy yellow girl.

When Jake approached Madame Scull's bedroom he felt a deep apprehension, a fear so deep that it made his legs shaky. At the same time he felt a high excitement, higher than what he felt when he managed to snatch a kiss from Felice. It was a little like what he felt when he visited one of the whore tents down by the river with Gus McCrae, a treat he had only been allowed twice.

But this excitement was higher. Madame Scull wasn't a whore, she was a great lady. The Scull mansion was finer by far than the Governor's house. Jake was conscious that his pants were ragged, and his shirt frayed. To his horror he saw, looking down, that he had forgotten to wipe his feet: he had muddied the carpet at the head of the stairs. Now there was mud on Madame Scull's fine carpet.

Then he noticed Inez Scull, watching him from the bedroom door. She had the same sun-flushed look on her face that she had had when she put her hand in his pants.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I tracked in mud," he said. "I'll get the broom and clean it up for you." "No, hang the mud--don't you be running off from me again," Madame Scull said.

Then she smiled at him. She had put on a gown of some kind, but it had slipped off one shoulder.

""Come to my parlor,"' said the spider to the fly," Inez said, thinking how glad she was that Inish had had to leave to chase red Indians. The Comanche might be an inconvenience to the ragged settlers, but they were a boon to her, the fact being that her husband's embraces had long since grown stale. Austin was a dull, dusty town, with no society and little entertainment, but there was no denying that Texas produced an abundance of fine, sturdy young men. They were hardly refined, these boys of the frontier, but then she wasn't seeking refinement. What she wanted was fine sturdy boys, with curls and stout calves, like the one who stood before her at the moment. She walked over to Jake--he had tracked rather a lot of mud up her stairs--and took up where she had left off, quickly opening his pants, confident that in a week or less she could cure him of embarrassment where fleshly matters were concerned.

"Let's see that little pricklen again," she said.

"You scarcely let me touch it the other day." Jake was so shocked he could not find a ^w to say.

""Pricklen,"' that's what my good German boy called it," Inez said. "My Jurgen was proud of his pricklen, and yours is nothing to be ashamed of, Jakie." She began to lead Jake down the long hall, looking with interest at what had popped out of his pants. His pants had slipped down around his legs, which meant that he couldn't take very long steps. Madame Scull led him by the hand.

"I expect I'd have my Jurgen and his pricklen yet if Inish hadn't hanged him," Madame Scull said casually.

At that point, hoping he hadn't heard right, Jake stopped. All he could see was the hang noose, and himself on the gallows, with the boys standing far below, to watch him swing.

"Oh dear, I've given you a fright," Inez said, with a quick laugh. "Inish didn't hang my Jurgen for this! He wouldn't hang a fine German boy just because he and I had enjoyed a little sport." "What'd he hang him for, then?" Jake asked, unconvinced.

"Why, the foolish boy stole a horse," Madame Scull said. "I don't know what he needed with a horse--he .was rather a horse, in some respects. I was quite crushed at the time. It seemed my Jurgen would rather have a horse than me.

But of course Inish caught him, and took him straight to the nearest tree and hung him." Jake didn't want to hang, but he didn't want to leave Madame Scull, either.

Anyway, with his pants around his ankles, he could hardly walk, much less run.

They were near a big hall closet, where coats and boots were kept. Jake noticed that Madame Scull was freckled on her shoulders and her bosom, but he didn't have time to notice much more, because she suddenly yanked him into the closet. Her move was so sudden that he lost his balance and fell, in the deep closet. He was on his back, amid shoes and boots, with the bottoms of coats hanging just above him. Jake thought he must be crazy, to be in such a situation.

Madame Scull was breathing in loud snorts, like a winded horse. She squatted right over him, but Jake couldn't see her clearly, because her head was amid the hanging coats. There was the smell of mothballs in the closet, and the smell of saddle soap, but, even stronger, there was the smell of Inez Scull, who was not cautious in her behaviour with him--not cautious at all. She flung coats off their hangers and kicked shoes and boots out into the hall, in order to situate herself above him, exactly where she wanted to be.

To Jake's amazement, Madame Scull began to do exactly what the Captain had told him she would do: make him her horse. She sank down astride him and rode him, hot and hard, rode him until he was lathered, just as the Captain had said she would, though the Captain himself was probably not even halfway to the Brazos River yet. He wondered, as she rode him, what the servants would think if one of them happened to come upstairs and notice all the shoes Madame Scull had kicked out into the hall.

Kicking Wolf had killed the seventeen geldings in a barren gully. The butchering had been hasty; though the best meat had been taken, much was left. The rocks in the gully were pink with frozen blood. The carcasses all had ice on their hides--Augustus saw one horse who had ice covering its eyes, a sight that made his stomach rise. Guts had been pulled out and chopped up; those left had frozen into icy coils. Buzzards wheeled in the cold sky.

"I thought I was hungry a minute ago," Augustus said. "But now that I've seen this I couldn't eat for a dollar." Many of the men were dead asleep, slumped wherever they had stopped. Captain Scull sat on a hummock of dirt, staring toward the west. Now and then, he spat tobacco juice on the sleety ground.

"I can eat," Call said. "It won't cost nobody a dollar, either. I've seen the day when you didn't turn up your nose at horsemeat, I recall." "That was a warmer day," Gus commented. "It's too early to be looking at this many butchered horses." "Be glad it ain't butchered men," Call said.

Deets, the black cook, seemed to be the only man in the outfit who could muster a cheerful look. He had a stew pot bubbling already, and was slicing potatoes into it when they rode up.

"If Deets can make that horsemeat tasty, I might sample a little," Augustus said. At the sight of the bubbling pot, he felt his appetite returning.

Long Bill Coleman had his feet practically in the fire, his favorite posture when camped on a cold patrol. He had fallen asleep and was snoring loudly, oblivious to the fact that the soles of his boots were beginning to smoke.

"Pull him back, Deets, his feet are about to catch fire," Augustus said. "The fool will sleep with his feet amid the coals." Deets pulled Long Bill a yard or two back from the fire, then offered them coffee, which they took gratefully.

"Why'd you let all these boys nod off, Deets?" Gus said. "Old Buffalo Hump might come down on us at any minute-- they best be watching their hair." "Let 'em nap--they ridden for two days," Call said. "They'll wake up quick enough if there's fighting." Deets took a big tin cup full of coffee over to Captain Scull, who accepted it without looking around. The Captain's mouth was moving, but whatever he was saying got lost on the wind.

"Old Nails is talking to himself again," Augustus observed. "Probably cussing that feisty wife of his for spending money. They say she spends twenty-five dollars ever day of the week." Call didn't think the Captain was cussing his wife, not on a bald knob of the prairie, icy with sleet. If he was cussing anybody, it was probably Kicking Wolf, who had escaped to the Rio Pecos with three fine stallions.

"What was he saying, Deets?" he asked, when the black man came back and began to stir the stew.

Deets did not much like reporting on the Captain. He might get the talk wrong, and cause trouble. But Mr. Call had been good to him, giving him an old ragged quilt, which was all he had to cover with on the cold journey.

Mr. Call didn't grab food, like some of the others, or cuss him if the biscuits didn't rise quick enough to suit him.

"He's talking about that one who shot him--down Mexico," Deets said.

"What? He's talking about Ahumado?" Call asked, surprised.

"Talking about him some," Deets admitted.

"I consider that peculiar information," Augustus said. "We're half a way to Canada, chasing Comanches. What's Ahumado got to do with it?" "He don't like it that Ahumado shot his horse," Call said, noting that some of the men around the campfire were so sound asleep they looked as if they were dead. Most of them were sprawled out with their mouths open, oblivous to the wind and the icy ground. They didn't look as if they would be capable of putting up much resistance, but Call knew they would fight hard if attacked.

The only man he was anxious about on that score was young Pea Eye Parker, a gangly boy who had only been allotted an old musket. Call didn't trust the gun and hoped to see that the boy got a repeating rifle before their next expedition. Pea Eye sat so far back from the campfire that he got little succor from it. He was poorly dressed and shivering, yet he had kept up through the long night, and had not complained.

"If you pulled in a little closer to the campfire you'd be warmer," Call suggested.

"It's my first trip--I don't guess I ought to take up too much of the fire," Pea Eye said.

Then he swivelled his long neck around and surveyed their prospects.

"I was raised amid trees and brush," he said. "I never expected to be no place where it was this empty." "It ain't empty--there's plenty of Comanches down in that big canyon," Augustus informed him.

"Buffalo Hump's down there--once we finally whip him, there won't be nothing but a few chigger Indians to fight." "How do you know we'll whip him?" Call said.

"It's bad luck to talk like that. We've been fighting him for years and we ain't come close to licking him yet." Before Augustus could respond, Captain Scull abruptly left the hummock where he had been sitting and stomped back into camp.

"Is that stew ready? This is a damn long halt," he said. Then he glanced at Call, and got a surprised look on his face.

"I thought Famous Shoes was with you, Mr.

Call," Scull said. "I had no reason to suspect that he wasn't with you, but I'll be damned if I can spot him. It might be the glare off the sleet." "No sir, he's not with me," Call said.

"Damn it, why not?" Captain Scull asked. "If he's not with you, you'll just have to go fetch him. We'll save you some of the stew." "Sir, I don't know if I can fetch him," Call said. "He went to visit his grandmother. I believe she lives on the Washita, but he didn't say where, exactly." "Of course you can fetch him--why shouldn't you?" Scull asked, with an annoyed look on his face. "You're mounted and he's afoot." "Yes, but he's a swift walker and I'm a poor tracker," Call admitted. "I might be able to track him, but it would be chancy." "What a damned nuisance--the man's gone off just when we need him most," Inish Scull said.

He tugged at his peppery gray beard in a vexed fashion. When a fit of anger took him he grew red above his whiskers; and, as all of the men knew, he was apt to grow angry if offered the slightest delay.

Call didn't say it, but he found the Captain's comment peculiar. After all, Famous Shoes had been off, ever since they crossed the Prairie Dog Fork of the Brazos. The scout wandered at will, returning only occasionally to parley a bit with the Captain, as he just had that morning.

Based on past behaviour, Captain Scull had no reason to expect to hear from Famous Shoes for a day or two more, by which time the scout could have visited his grandmother and returned.

It was impatient and unreasonable behaviour, in Call's view; but then, that seemed to be the way of captains, at least the ones he had served.

They were impatient to a fault--if they didn't get a fight one place, they would turn and seek a fight somewhere else, no matter what the men felt about it, or what condition they were in. They had missed Kicking Wolf, so now, if Deets was right, the Captain's thoughts had fixed on Ahumado, a Mexican bandit hundreds of mules to the south, and a marauder every bit as capable as Kicking Wolf or Buffalo Hump.

Still, Call had never disobeyed an order, or complained about one, either--it was Gus McCrae who grumbled about orders, though usually he was circumspect about who he grumbled to. Call knew that if the Captain really wanted him to go after Famous Shoes, he would at least have to try.

Call felt lank--he thought he had better quickly gulp down a plate of stew before he went off on a pursuit that might take days.

Captain Scull, though, did not immediately press the order. He stood with his back to the fire, swishing the remains of his coffee around in his cup. He looked at the sky, he looked at the horses, he looked south. Call held his peace--the muttering about Ahumado might only have been a momentary fancy that the Captain, once he had assessed the situation, would reject.

The Captain sighed, gulped down the rest of his coffee, held out the cup for Deets to refill, and looked at Call again.

"I got short shrift from my grandmothers," he remarked. "One of them had ten children and the other accounted for fourteen--they were tired of brats by the time I came along. How long do you think Famous Shoes planned to visit?" "Sir, I have no idea," Call admitted.

"He wasn't even sure his grandmother still lived on the Washita. If he don't locate her I expect he'll be back tomorrow." "Unless he thinks of somebody else to visit," Augustus said.

Call hastily got himself a plate of stew.

He felt he had been a little derelict in hesitating to set off immediately in pursuit of Famous Shoes. After all, the man could scarcely be more than five miles away. With reasonable luck, he ought to be able to overtake him. It was only the featurelessness of the plains that worried him: he might ride within a mile of Famous Shoes and still miss him, because of the dips and slantings of the prairie.

Now he felt like he ought to be ready to leave, if that was what the Captain wanted.

"Taters ain't cooked yet," Deets informed him, as he dished up the stew. "That meat mostly raw, too." "I don't care, it'll fill me," Call said. "If you'd like me to go look for him, Captain, I will." Inish Scull didn't respond--indeed, he gave no indication that he had even heard Woodrow Call. Captain Scull was often casual, if not indifferent, in that way, a fact which vexed Augustus McCrae terribly. Here Woodrow, who was as cold and hungry as the rest of them, was offering to go off and run the risk of getting scalped, and the Captain didn't even have the good manners to answer him! It made Gus burn with indignation, though it also annoyed him that Call would be so quick to offer himself for what was clearly a foolish duty. Famous Shoes would turn up in a day or two, whether anybody looked for him or not.

"I was thinking of Mexico, Mr. Call," Captain Scull said finally. "I see no point in pursuing Kicking Wolf for the sake of three horses. We'll corner the man sooner or later, or if we don't get him the smallpox will." "What? The smallpox?" Augustus said; he had a big nervousness about diseases, the various poxes particularly.

"Yes, it's travelling this way," Inish Scull said impatiently, his mind being now on Mexico.

"The theory is that the Forty-niners spread it among the red men, as they were running out to California to look for gold," he added. "Very damn few of them will find any of the precious ore. But they've brought the pox to the prairies, I guess. The Indians along the Santa Fe Trail have it bad, and I hear that those along the Oregon Trail are dying by the hundreds.

It'll be among the Comanches soon, if it ain't already. Once the pox gets among them they'll die off so quick we'll probably have to disband the rangers. There'll be no healthy Indians left to fight." Captain Scull finished his speech and lifted his coffee cup, but before he could sip, a peppering of gunfire swept the camp.

"It's Buffalo Hump, I knowed it!" Augustus said.

Call had only gulped down a few bites of stew when the shooting started. He ran back to his horse and pulled out his rifle, expecting the Indians to be upon them, but when he turned the prairie looked empty. Most of the rangers had taken cover behind their horses, there being no other cover to take.

Captain Scull had drawn his big pistol, but had not moved from his spot by the coffeepot. He had his head tilted slightly to one side, watchful and curious.

"We just lost Watson," he said, examining the camp. "Either that, or he's enjoying a mighty heavy nap." Augustus ran over and knelt by Jimmy Watson, a man a year or two older than himself and Call. At first he saw no wound and thought the Captain might be right about the heavy nap, but when he turned Jimmy Watson slightly he saw that a bullet had got him right under his armpit. He must have been lifting his gun and the bullet passed just beneath it and killed him.

"Nope, Jim's dead," Gus said. "I wish the damn Comanches would stand up, so we could see them." "Wish for Christmas and roast pig, while you're wishing," Call said. "They ain't going to stand up." Then, a moment later, five young warriors appeared horseback, a considerable distance from the camp. They were yelling and whooping, but they weren't attacking. The lead horseman was a tall youth whose hair streamed out behind him as he raced his pony.

Several of the rangers lifted their rifles, but no one fired a shot. The Comanches had gauged the distance nicely--they were already just out of rifle range.

Call watched Captain Scull, waiting for him to give the order to mount and pursue--the Captain had taken out his binoculars and was studying the racing horsemen.

"I was looking for brands on the horses," he said. "I was hoping our Abilene ponies might be there. But no luck--they're just Comanche ponies." All the rangers stood by their horses, waiting for the order to pursue the Comanches, but Captain Scull merely stood watching the five young warriors race away, as casual as if he had been watching a Sunday horse race.

"Captain, ain't we gonna chase 'em?

They kilt Jimmy Watson," Augustus asked, puzzled by the Captain's casual attitude.

"No, we'll not chase them--not on tired horses," the Captain said. "Those are just the pups. The old he-wolf is down there somewhere, waiting. I doubt those youngsters expected to hit anybody, when they shot--they were just trying to lure us down into some box canyon, where the he-wolf can cut us off and tear out our throats." He turned and put his binoculars back in their leather case.

"I'd prefer to wait for that stew to mature and then take breakfast," he said. "If the old he-wolf wants us bad enough, let him come.

We'll oblige him with a damn good scrap, and when it's over I'll take his hide back to Austin and nail it to the Governor's door." "Sir, what'll we do with Jimmy?" Long Bill asked. "This ground's froze hard.

It'll take a good strong pick to hack out a grave in ground like this, and we ain't got a pick." Captain Scull came over and looked at the dead man--he knelt, rolled the man over, and inspected the fatal wound.

"There's no remedy for bad luck, is there?" he said, addressing the question to no one in particular.

"If Watson hadn't raised his arm just when he did, the worst he would have gotten out of this episode would have been a broken arm. But he lifted his gun and the bullet had a clear path to his vitals. I'll miss the man. He was someone to talk wives with." "What, sir?" Augustus asked. The remark startled him.

"Wives, Mr. McCrae," Inish Scull said. "You're a bachelor. I doubt you can appreciate the fascination of the subject--but James Watson appreciated it. He was on his third wife when he had the misfortune to catch his dying. He and I could talk wives for hours." "Well, but what happened to his wives?" Long Bill inquired. "I'm a married man.

I'd like to know." "One died, one survives him, and the one in the middle ran off with an acrobat," the Captain said. "That's about average for wives, I expect. You'll find that out soon enough, Mr.

McCrae, if you take it into your head to marry." Augustus was thoroughly sorry that the subject of marriage had come up. It seemed to him that he had been trying to get married for half his life-- he had just happened, unluckily, to fall in love with the one woman who wouldn't have him.

"Sir, even if one of his wives did run off with an acrobat, we've still got to bury him, someway," Long Bill said. Once Long Bill got his mind on something he rarely allowed it to be deflected until the question at hand was closed. Now the question at hand was how to bury a man when the ground was too frozen to yield them a grave. When Jimmy Watson had been alive he needed wives, apparently, and it was a need Long Bill understood and sympathized with. But now he was dead: what he needed was a grave.

"Well, I suppose we do need to bury James Watson--t's the Christian way," the Captain said. "It was not the way taken by my cousin Willy, though. Cousin Willy was a biologist. He studied with Professor Agassiz, at Harvard. Willy was particularly fond of beetles--excessively fond, some might say. He fancied tropical beetles, in particular. Professor Agassiz took him to Brazil, where there are some wonderful beetles--m beetles than any place in the world except Madagascar, Willy claimed. They've even got an undertaker beetle, down there in Brazil." "What kind?" Augustus asked. He had vaguely heard of Brazil, but he had never heard of an undertaker beetle.

"An undertaker beetle, sir," Captain Scull went on. "Willy wanted to go back into the food chain the fastest way possible, and the fastest way was to have himself laid out naked in a tidy spot where these undertaker beetles were plentiful.

"So that's what they did with W," the Captain continued. "They had no choice--Willy had fixed it all in his will. They laid him out naked in a pretty spot and the beetles immediately got to work. Pretty soon Willy was buried, and by the next day he was part of the food chain again, just as he wished. If we left James Watson to the coyotes and the buzzards, we'd be accomplishing the same thing." Long Bill Coleman was horrified by such talk. He was unfamiliar with Brazil, and the thought of being buried by beetles gave him the shudders. Not only was the Captain forgetting about Jimmy Watson's widow, whose feelings about the burial had to be considered, he was even forgetting about heaven.

"Now then, that's strange talk," he said.

"How would a man get up to heaven, with no one to say any scriptures over him, andwith just a dern bunch of beetles for undertakers? Of course, out here in the baldies we can't expect undertakers, but I guess I'll try to bury my pards myself --I wouldn't trust the job to a bunch of dern bugs." "My cousin Willy was of an agnostical bent, Mr. Coleman," the Captain said. "I don't think he believed in heaven, but he did believe in bugs. They're not to be underrated, sir--not according to my cousin Willy. There are more than a million species of insects, Mr.

Coleman, and they're a sight more adaptable than us. I expect there will be bugs aplenty when we humans are all gone." Young Pea Eye Parker was so hungry, he found it hard to pay attention to the conversation. For one thing, he couldn't figure out what a food chain could be, unless the Captain was talking about link sausage. How a beetle in a country he had never heard of could turn a dead man into link sausage was beyond his ken. Deets's stew pot was bubbling furiously; now and then, a good odor drifted his way. His only opinion was that he himself did not intend to be buried naked. It would be a hard shock to his ma if he came walking into heaven without a stitch.

Deets, stirring the stew, did not like to be discussing dead folks so boldly--for all they knew, the dead could still hear. Just because the lungs stopped working didn't mean the hearing stopped, too. The dead person could still be in there, listening, and if a dead person was to hear bad things said about him, he might witch you. Deets had no desire to be witched--when it became necessary to make some comment about a dead person, he made sure his comment was respectful.

Call was vexed. He was prepared to go fight the Comanches who had just killed Jimmy Watson-- if the rangers had pressed the pursuit at once, they might have got close enough to bring down a Comanche or two. He didn't think Buffalo Hump was waiting to ambush them; to him it just looked like a party of five young braves, hoping to count coup on the white men--and they had counted coup.

How could the Captain stand around talking about beetles when one of their men had been killed?

Augustus knew what his friend was feeling--he himself felt exactly the same thing. The Comanches had killed a Texas Ranger and got away clean. Behaviour such as that would soon make the rangers the laughingstock of the prairies. And yet Captain Scull's reputation as a deadly and determined fighter was well earned. He and Call had often seen the Captain deal out slaughter.

What was wrong with him this morning?

Captain Scull suddenly looked at the two young rangers, a trace of a smile on his lips --his look, as was often the case, made both men feel that he could read their minds.

"Why, do I smell discontent? I believe I catch a whiff of it," the Captain said.

"What's the matter, Mr. Call? Afraid I've lost my vinegar?" "Why, no sir," Call said, truthfully.

Despite his pique, he had not supposed that Captain Scull had lost his fight. What he felt was that the Captain, as a commander, was changeable in ways he didn't understand.

"I would have liked to punish those braves, while we still had a chance to catch them," Call added.

"That was my thought, too," Augustus said.

"They killed Jimmy Watson, and he was a mighty fine fellow." "That he was, Mr. McCrae--t he was," Captain Scull said. "Normally I would have given chase myself, but this morning I'm not in the mood for it--not right this minute, at least." Inish Scull went to his saddlebags and took out the huge brown plug of tobacco he cut his chaws from. He had a special little knife with a mother-of-pearl handle, just for cutting his tobacco. He was so fearful of losing his little knife that he kept it attached to his belt by a thin silver chain, such as he might use on a pocket watch.

The Captain took out his knife, found a place not far from the fire, and began to cut himself a day's worth of chaws, working carefully--he liked to make each chaw as close to square as possible.

Often, once the Captain had cut off a chaw, he would hold it up for inspection, and trim it a little more, removing a sliver here and a sliver there, to make it a little closer to square.

"I believe our stew's about ready, Deets," he said, once he had restored the big brownish plug to his saddlebag. "Let's eat. I might recover my chasing mood once I've sampled the grub.

"Ever work in an office, Mr. Call?" he then inquired, as the men lined up with their tin plates to get their stew. Call was startled. Why would the Captain suppose he had ever worked in an office, when the records plainly showed that he had been employed as a Texas Ranger from the age of nineteen?

"No sir, I've worked outside my whole life," Call said.

"Well, I have worked in an office, sir," the Captain said. "It was the Customs House in Brooklyn, and I was sent to work there by my pa, in the hope of breaking me of certain bad habits.

I worked there for a year and did the same thing, in the same way, every day. I arrived at the same time, left at the same time, took my sip of wine and bite of bread at the same time. I even pissed and shat at the same time--I was a regular automaton while I held that office job, and I was bored, sir--bored!

Intolerably bored!" Inish Scull's face reddened suddenly, at the memory of his own boredom in the office in Brooklyn. He neatly stacked up his ten squares of cut tobacco and looked at Call.

"The tragedy of man is not death or epidemic or lust or rage or fitful jealousy," he said loudly--his voice tended to rise while declaiming unpleasant facts.

"No sir, the tragedy of man is boredom, sir--boredom!" the Captain said. "A man can only do a given thing so many times with freshness and spirit--then, no matter what it is, it becomes like an office task. I enjoy cards and whoring, but even cards and whoring can grow boresome. You tup your wife a thousand times and that becomes an office task, too." Scull paused, to see if the hard truths he was expounding were having any effect on his listeners, and found that they were. All the men were listening, with the exception of an old fellow named Ikey Ripple, who had gulped a little stew and fallen back to sleep.

"You see?" the Captain said. "Mr. Ike Ripple is bored even now, even though Buffalo Hump could show up any minute and lift his hair.

"Now ... that's my point, sir!" he said, looking directly at Call. "I will break the resistance of the goddamn red Comanches on these plains, given the time and the resources, but I'll be damned if I'll jump up and chase every Indian brat that fires a gun off at me. Do that and it becomes office work--d you get my point, Mr. Call?" Call thought he got the point, but he wasn't sure he agreed with it. Fighting Indians meant risking your life--how many men in offices had to risk their lives?

"Why, yes, Captain, I believe I do," Call said mildly. After all, the Captain was older--he had survived more Indian fights than any man on the frontier. Perhaps they had grown boresome to him.

"Uh, Captain, you never said how your cousin died--t one that got buried by the beetles," Long Bill remarked. The details of the unorthodox burial had been preying on his mind; he was curious as to what sort of death had led up to it.

"Oh, cousin Willy--why, snakebite," the Captain said. "Willy was bitten by a fer-de-lance, one of the deadliest snakes in the world." He had begun to stuff the square-cut plugs of tobacco into his coat pocket, for use during the day.

"He was a scientist to the end, our William," he went on. "He timed his own death, you know--timed it with a stopwatch." "Timed it? But why, sir?" Gus asked.

"If I was dying of snakebite I doubt I'd get out my watch." "Oh--then what would you do, Mr. McCrae?" the Captain asked, in a pleasant tone.

Augustus thought of Clara Forsythe, so fetching with her curls and her frank smile.

"I believe I'd just scrawl off a letter to my girl," Gus said. "I'd be wanting to bid her goodbye, I expect." "Why, that's fine--t's the human instinct," Captain Scull said. "You're a romantic fellow, I see. So was our Willy, in his way --only he was romantic about science.

Professor Agassiz taught him to never waste an experience, and he didn't. The average time of death from the bite of a fer-de-lance is twenty minutes. I expect Willy hoped to improve on the average, but he didn't. He died in seventeen minutes, thirty-four seconds, give or take a second or two." Captain Scull stood up and looked across the gray plain.

"Willy was alone when he was bitten," the Captain said. "His stopwatch was in his hand when they found him. Seventeen minutes and thirty-four seconds, he lived. Now that's bravery, I'd say." "I'd say so too, Captain," Call said, thinking about it.

"Do you believe that tale about the beetles and the stopwatch?" Augustus asked. Call sat with his back to a large rock, looking off the edge of the canyon; the wind had died, the sleet had stopped blowing, but it was still bitter cold. In the clear night they could see Comanche campfires, far below them and halfway across the Palo Duro Canyon.

"There's forty campfires down there," Call commented. "There's enough Indians in this canyon to wipe us out six times." "Well, but maybe they ain't interested--the Captain wasn't," Gus replied. "Why don't you just answer the question I asked you?" "I'm on guard duty, that's why," Call said. "We need to be listening, not talking." Augustus found the remark insulting, but he tried not to get riled. Woodrow was so practical minded that he was often rude without intending rudeness.

"I'm your oldest friend, I guess I can at least ask you a question," Augustus said. "If I can't, then I've a notion just to roll you off this bluff." "Well, I do believe the Captain's story --why wouldn't I?" Call said.

"Myself, I think it was just a tale," Gus said. "He wasn't in the mood for an Indian fight, so he told us a tale. You're so gullible you'd believe anything, Woodrow.

I've never met anybody who behaves like the people the Captain talks about." "You don't know educated people, that's why," Call said. "Besides, his cousin was in Brazil.

You've never been to Brazil--y don't know how people behave down there." "No, and if they've got snakes that can kill you in seventeen minutes, I ain't never going, either," Augustus said.

Call watched the wink of campfires in the darkness far below.

"Oh Lord, I hope the Captain don't drag us off to Mexico," Gus said. "I'd like to see my Clara before the month's out." Call was silent--if he didn't respond, maybe the subject of Clara Forsythe would die away. Usually it didn't die quickly, though.

For ten years, at guard posts all over the Texas frontier, he had listened to Augustus talk about Clara Forsythe. It wasn't even that the subject was boresome, particularly--it was just that it was pointless. Clara had set her mind against marrying Gus, and that was that.

"Buffalo Hump's down there," he remarked, hoping Gus would accept a change of subject.

Under the circumstances it would be a prudent change. Buffalo Hump might be older now, but he was still the most feared war chief on the southern plains. If he woke up in the mood to do battle, Gus would have more to worry about than Clara's refusal.

"I miss Clara," Augustus said, ignoring his friend's feint. "It helps to talk about her, Woodrow. Don't be so stingy with me." Of course, Augustus knew that Woodrow Call hated talking about romance, or marriage, or anything having to do with women. He wouldn't even discuss poking, one of Augustus's favorite topics of discussion, as well as being a highly favored activity. Many a night he had sat with Woodrow Call on guard duty and engaged in the same tussle, when it came to conversation. Call always wanted to talk about guns, or saddles, or military matters, and Gus himself would try to steer the conversation onto love or marriage or women or whores--something more interesting than the same old boots-and-saddles stuff.

"I expect you're a lucky man, Woodrow," he said. "You'll probably be married long before I am." "That wouldn't be hard," Call admitted, "You'll never be married, unless you give up on Clara. She don't mean to marry you and that's that." "Hush that talk," Gus said. "If you knew anything about women you'd know that women change their minds every day. The only reason you don't want to hear no talk of marriage is because you know you ought to marry Maggie, but you don't want to. You'd have made a good Indian, Woodrow. You've got no use for the settled life." Call didn't argue; what Augustus said was true, in the main. Maggie Tilton was a kind woman who would undoubtedly make some man a good wife--but he would not be that man. The truth was he'd rather be right where he was, sitting on a canyon's rim, looking down on the campfires of the last wild, dangerous Indians in Texas, eating horsemeat stew and breasting weather that would freeze you one night and burn your skin off the next day, than to live in a town, be married, and buy vittles out of a store. Maggie was pretty and sweet; she might yet find a man who would protect her. He himself had no time to protect anybody, except himself and his comrades. That was the way it was, and that was the way it would stay, at least until the Indians camped below them had been whipped and scattered, so that they could no longer raid, burn farms, take white children captive, and scare back settlement on the southern edge of the plains.

Augustus was bored, and when he was bored he liked to devil his friend as much as possible. It annoyed Call that he wouldn't just shut up. It was a fine, still night. Now and then he could hear the Comanches' horses nickering, from the floor of the canyon.

"I know one thing," he said. "If I was a Comanche I would have had your scalp long before this.

You're so dern careless it's lucky you've even survived." "Now that's brash talk," Augustus said.

"You could spend a lifetime trying to take my scalp, and not disturb a hair." "That's bragging," Call replied. "You've always had a troop of rangers with you--t's why you have your hair." "If I'm going to take risks I prefer to take them with women," Gus said. "Any fool can wander off and get scalped." "Go back to camp--it ain't your turn to stand guard anyway," Call told him. "I'd rather listen to owl hoots than to listen to you yap." Augustus was mildly insulted, but he made no move to leave.

"I wonder what Jimmy Watson and the Captain had to say to one another about wives," he said. "I would have liked to listen in on a few of those conversations." "Why, it would be none of your business," Call told him.

"That wife of the Captain's is fancy," Augustus said. "A woman who can spend twenty-five dollars every day of the week is too dern expensive for me." "He's rich and so is she--I don't suppose it matters," Call said.

Augustus gave up on getting his friend to talk about women--he scooted a little closer to the edge of the deep canyon.

"Look down there, Woodrow," he said.

"That's probably all that's left of the fighting Comanche." "No it ain't," Call said. "There's several bands off to the west--they call them the Antelopes. However many there are, it's enough to scare most of the white people out of the country north of the Brazos. They just picked off one of us, this very day." "Woodrow, you're the most arguesome person I've ever met," Augustus said. "Here I've been trying to talk sense to you all night and you ain't agreed with a single thing I've said. Why am I even talking to you?" "I don't know, but if you'll stop we can stand guard in peace," Call said.

Augustus made no answer. He scooted a little closer to where Call sat and pulled his long coat up around his ears, as protection from the deep cold of the night.

Buffalo Hump had taught Blue Duck that the safest time to attack a white man, and a Texas Ranger particularly, was while the man was squatting to do his morning business. The whites were foolish in their choice of clothes; they wore tight trousers that slowed their movements when they squatted to shit. Blue Duck, like most braves, only wore leggins--even those he discarded unless it was bitter cold. The leggins didn't interfere with his movements, if he had to rise quickly. But a squatting white man was like a hobbled horse: you could put an arrow in him or even jump on him and cut his throat before he could get his pants up and run.

Blue Duck knew they had killed a ranger the morning before. He had seen the other men hacking out a shallow grave with their bowie knives. They even spent a long time gathering rocks and piling them on the grave, to protect the corpse; a foolish labor. Then they sang a death song of some kind over the rocks, and rode off.

As soon as the rangers were out of sight Blue Duck quickly scattered the rocks and pulled out the corpse--of course it was stiff as wood. He tied the corpse on his pony and followed the whites all day. He was alone. The other braves had spotted three antelope and had gone off to run them down. He doubted that they would catch up with the antelope, but he didn't try to stop them from leaving. There was more bravery in following the Texans alone. Perhaps he would be able to kill Gun In The Water, or even Big Horse Scull. After all, even Big Horse would have to shit sometime. Perhaps he could get him with an arrow, while he squatted.

That night, when the rangers camped, Blue Duck made a big circle around them, carrying the corpse. He wanted to put the dead ranger where the others would find him in the morning. First, though, he untied the corpse and began to hack it up. He scraped the icy scalp away from the skull. Then he cut off the man's privates and sliced open his body cavity. He pulled out the frozen organs and smashed the man's ribs with a big rock. He had with him a little axe that he had found in a burned-out farmhouse near the Brazos.

With the little axe he cut the man's feet off and threw them into the canyon, to assure that the ranger would be a cripple in the spirit world. Finally, with a single blow of the axe, he split open the man's skull. Then he shot three arrows into the man's legs--his arrows. He wanted the whites to know that he was Blue Duck, a warrior equal to his father, Buffalo Hump.

In the darkness he brought the hacked-up corpse as close to the ranger camp as he dared come. He didn't want them to ride away and miss it, so he put it near the horses. It was only an hour before dawn. Soon the rangers would be stumbling off to do their shitting. He would wait, a little distance away. Perhaps Big Horse would walk out, hoping to shit in private. If he came Blue Duck meant to wait until his pants were tight against his legs, before trying to kill him.

While it was still dark he walked over toward the canyon, to make sure his horse was still there.

Once while sneaking up on some Kiowa he had failed to secure his horse, a skittish pony.

The horse ran off, causing him to miss the battle. He had to walk all the way back to the Comanche camp, a humiliation he had not forgotten.

It was while returning to his horse that he saw Gun In The Water. The other one, Silver Hair McCrae, was walking back toward the camp, his shoulders hunched. It was cold and misty; the clouds of McCrae's breath were whiter than the mist. Blue Duck thought McCrae would surely see him, but McCrae was taken by a fit of coughing as he stumbled on toward the camp.

He was almost to his horse when he saw Gun In The Water walking along, a pretty rifle in his hands. Blue Duck immediately decided to kill him. Gun In The Water went into a little shallow gully near the edge of the camp and began to take down his pants.

It was then that Blue Duck made his mistake. He had a gun and a bow as well--he preferred the gun and was out of practice with the bow; it was a failing his father had often chided him about. His father still practiced every day, shooting arrows at prickly pear, or jackrabbits, or anything he thought might sharpen his aim.

Blue Duck knew that he could easily kill Gun In The Water with his gun; but he had not yet checked on his horse. If he fired a gun and his horse was not still there, the rangers could run him down and kill him. He thought he had better attempt to kill Gun In The Water with an arrow, which meant creeping a little closer. He crept a little closer and was just raising up to draw the bow when Gun In The Water, still squatting, brought up his rifle and shot him. Blue Duck shot his arrow just as the bullet struck him; the arrow missed completely, sailing over Gun In The Water's head.

The bullet had gone into his side, spilling blood down his leg, but Blue Duck could not pause to think about how badly he might be hurt.

He had to run for his life. Gun In The Water fired again and hit him again, this time only in the arm.

Blue Duck ran as fast as he could. He could hear the rangers yelling. Soon the great Buffalo Horse would be thundering after him. His horse was still there, and in a moment he was on him, clutching his rifle and his bow. He flailed at the horse and the horse ran well, but before he had gone many yards there was a shot and his horse fell.

Blue Duck was up at once--he saw that it was McCrae who had shot his horse. McCrae, mounted, was already in pursuit, and, just behind him, Blue Duck saw Scull, on his great steed.

Big Horse Scull was waving a big sword --x was known that he liked to kill with the sword, when circumstances allowed it.

Blue Duck ran for his life, embarrassed by his own carelessness. He knew that the whites would tell that his arrow had flown over Gun In The Water's head; Buffalo Hump would be dark in his displeasure. He raced along the edge of the canyon, looking for a place that he could go down but that a horse could not. The Buffalo Horse had already outrun McCrae, whose mount had come up lame. It was Big Horse Scull and the Buffalo Horse who were pounding down upon him.

Then, desperate, Blue Duck jumped--he had come to a place where the drop was not sheer. He jumped fifteen feet and rolled and rolled--the slope was slick with frost. He could not stop rolling but he held on to his weapons.

Bullets were hitting all around him, zinging off the frozen ground. But the depths of the canyon were still in darkness--the farther he rolled, the more the night protected him. A hard little rock gouged his ribs and then he slammed into a large boulder, stopping his roll. The shots had stopped. The rangers could no longer see him and had decided not to waste any more bullets. Blue Duck crawled behind the boulder, panting. He knew that Big Horse Scull had almost caught him.

He wasn't scared--he knew that even the Buffalo Horse could not follow him down the steep sides of the canyon--but he was out of breath and confused. When he could breathe a little better he stood up and satisfied himself that his wounds would not kill him. He heard the beat of wings and looked up to see a red hawk, flapping just above him, climbing into the air, higher and higher, toward the rim of the canyon. He wished he could become a hawk--then he could glide down into the canyon on hawk wings and drop right into the camp.

But he was not a hawk. The slope was icy and the drop steep but Blue Duck limped along.

He knew it was not wise to wait. Gun In The Water and McCrae might be bold enough to climb down into the canyon after him. As he made his way down, slipping now and then on patches of ice, he took care to keep his weapons tight in his hands. His father might approve of his bold attack on the rangers, but only if he came back with his weapons in good order. Buffalo Hump was always scornful of warriors who lost weapons in battle. A bow to him was a special thing--it should always be in the hands of the warrior it belonged to, not in the hands of his enemy. If the enemy had his bow, a witch doctor might be able to witch it in such a way that it would never shoot arrows accurately again. Rifles, to Buffalo Hump, were of lesser importance; they came from the whites and were not made with skills the Comanche had learned. The gun Buffalo Hump allowed Blue Duck to have was old and not very reliable, but it was a gun, and it would be foolish to let any gun fall into the hands of an enemy.

When Blue Duck stopped a minute he listened for the sound of horses. Surely the shooting had been heard in camp. Some warriors ought to be on their way to investigate. Now, to the east, the canyon rim was orange with light. If the rangers were following him they would soon be able to shoot at him from a long distance. He hurried as much as he could, trying to get well down into the canyon before light came, but he had to be careful. He did not want to lose his footing on a patch of ice and start rolling again.

Perhaps his father would come, Blue Duck hoped.

Sometimes Buffalo Hump rode out just before dawn, on a short hunt. He was better than anyone in camp at surprising young deer at their morning feeding. Often he would arrive back in camp with a doe or a big yearling fawn slung over his horse. Buffalo Hump's young wife, Lark, was good at working deerskins. She had made a soft cloak that Buffalo Hump could throw over his great hump. Lark was comely and plump--Blue Duck thought that Lark was one of the reasons his father had little interest in fighting. He preferred to stay with Lark, letting her feed him, and enjoying the warmth of her young body. Lark had come from the band led by old Slow Tree, who was so afraid of Buffalo Hump that he had let him take the girl for only a few horses, a thing that made Kicking Wolf angry. He himself had bought two wives from old Slow Tree and had even tried to buy Lark before Buffalo Hump saw her. But Slow Tree had never given Kicking Wolf any bargains, when it came to purchasing wives; the contrary old chief had refused absolutely to let Kicking Wolf buy Lark only a month before he let her become the wife of Buffalo Hump.

Blue Duck limped on down and finally reached the floor of the canyon. When he looked up he saw to his astonishment that the Buffalo Horse was still at the canyon rim, high above him. Big Horse Scull was not on him--the horse was just standing there. It was a worrisome thing: the Buffalo Horse might be some kind of witch animal that would cause his death if he were not careful.

Blue Duck hurried as fast as he could, worried about the witch horse high above him.

Probably it was the witch horse that had alerted Gun In The Water, enabling him to put a bullet into Blue Duck without even aiming his gun. The more Blue Duck thought about it, the angrier it made him--the next time he had an opportunity to kill Gun In The Water he meant to come on him while he slept and cut his throat--he vowed never again to embarrass himself by sending an arrow over an enemy's head. There was no question of missing when you drew a knife across a man's throat.

Blue Duck knew he had better get home and explain that a witch had been involved, before his father heard the story from someone else.

Buffalo Hump had a way of knowing what had happened to one of his people before anyone else in the tribe. Old women told him things that they had heard from crows or hawks--things that had happened far from camp, so far that no warrior would have time to return and report. Some old woman might already have heard about the wild arrow from a bird, and told his father, which would not be a good thing, particularly not on a day when he had lost a horse--it was a loss his father would be sure to resent. The whites had a lot of horsemeat already; perhaps they would not even bother to butcher his horse, in which case he could go back later and get the meat and bring it to Lark, who was the only one who could cook for his father now. His other two wives were angry because of Lark and rarely lifted a hand to cook for Buffalo Hump now. Since he liked the plump young woman so much his older wives saw to it that she did all the work. One of the wives, old Heavy Leg, even made Lark go around the outside of the camp and collect the turds that people dropped in their shitting. Heavy Leg told Lark that they might need the turds for fuel, but that was absurd. The Comanches did not burn human turds for fuel, not in a wooded canyon where there were many buffalo chips to be gathered. When Lark protested, the two old wives, Heavy Leg and Hair On The Lip, beat her with an axe handle they had found in a white man's wagon.

Hair On The Lip got her name because she had a mustache, like a white man. Even so, Hair On The Lip had been Buffalo Hump's favorite wife for many years. Even now he sometimes made Lark leave the lodge so he could joke around with Hair On The Lip.

Blue Duck walked halfway across the canyon--he was angry that no one had responded to the shooting and come to see if he was in trouble. Then he saw Slipping Weasel and Last Horse riding toward him. They were just trotting their horses, not in any hurry; even after they came close enough to see that he was limping they only put their horses into an easy lope. Buffalo Hump was not with them, nor were any of the other warriors. Though he was now in sight of the camp, no one was paying much attention. The sun had touched the bottom of the canyon now--p were just standing around looking at it, enjoying the warmth after so many cold days.

"You have a lot of blood on your leg," Slipping Weasel said, when Blue Duck came limping up to them.

"Where did you get all that blood?" Last Horse inquired.

"Are you stupid? It's my blood," Blue Duck told them. "It's my blood and it came from inside me." He regarded Slipping Weasel as one of the most ignorant members of the band. Why was it necessary to ask where he got the blood on him when it was obvious that he was wounded? Slipping Weasel was so dumb that Blue Duck tried to avoid going on raids with him. He made too many mistakes, and was forgetful as well. Once he had even forgotten a captive and the captive had drowned in a flooded creek, trying to run away.

"You have many wounds today--y have been busy," Last Horse said, as if being wounded was a pleasant thing.

The two warriors were not trying to help him, particularly; they had just ridden over out of curiosity, to see what might have occurred. Even when they realized he was wounded they did not become any more helpful. Neither of them offered him a horse to ride to camp, a discourtesy that made him want to pull out his knife and stick it in both of them.

He wanted to, but he held back, afraid of what would happen if he killed them both.

Slipping Weasel had already told him that the old men had talked to Buffalo Hump about sending him out of the tribe. It was because of his Mexican blood, Blue Duck felt sure. Several young men in the tribe had been born of white captives, or brown captives, and the old men didn't like it. The half-breeds were sometimes driven out. The old men might tell his father that it was because of his behaviour, his fighting, that he should be sent away, but Blue Duck didn't believe it. They wanted to be rid of him because he carried his mother's blood. He often thought of leaving the tribe himself, but hadn't, because he was not ready and not equipped. He had only a poor gun, and now he had no horse. When he was ready he meant to leave of his own accord--one morning his father would just discover that he was gone. He would shame the old ones, though, by killing more whites than any of the young men who were pure blood, of the tribe.

"Get off your horse, I need it," Blue Duck said, walking over to Slipping Weasel.

Slipping Weasel was shocked that Blue Duck would be so rude. There was a polite way to inquire about borrowing horses, but Blue Duck had not bothered about the polite way--m and more he did not bother with the polite way, which is why many of the younger warriors did not want to go with him when he wanted to hunt or raid. He was not a great chief, like his father. He could not simply order people to give him horses. It was true that he was wounded and would probably like to ride a horse to camp, but the camp was not far away. Why would he need a horse now, when he had to walk only a little distance further?

Besides, Slipping Weasel and Last Horse had been thinking of going on a deer hunt. If Blue Duck had been badly hurt they would have helped him without question--but he wasn't badly hurt. There was no reason they should waste time when the deer were farther down the canyon, waiting to be killed. Last Horse had seen them just at dusk --they would not have grazed far in one night, especially since they would have to paw at the sleety grass with their hooves before they could eat it.

"I see the Buffalo Horse up there," Last Horse remarked. The whole rim of the canyon was bright now, with the sunny dawn.

"If he had stepped on you, you would not need to borrow anybody's horse, because you would be dead," he added. "That horse has big feet." "I see him standing up there," Slipping Weasel said, looking up at the Buffalo Horse. He would have liked a closer look at the great horse--all the Comanches would have liked a closer look. But there was no way to get one without having to fight Big Horse Scull.

"I have heard that the Buffalo Horse can fly," Last Horse said. "They say his wings are larger than the wings of many buzzards put together. If he flies down here while we are talking I am going to run away." "If he flies down here I will shoot him," Slipping Weasel said. He too had heard the rumour that the Buffalo Horse could fly. He watched the horse closely; he too meant to run if the Buffalo Horse suddenly spread his wings and flew down at them.

Blue Duck didn't bother replying to such foolishness. If the Buffalo Horse could fly, Scull would long ago have flown above the Comanche people and killed them all. His father had once told him that there were vision women who could teach a man to fly, but no one had introduced him to such a vision woman. Buffalo Hump admitted that he himself might not be able to fly, because of the weight of his hump, but he thought that other men might be able to, if they could find the right old woman to teach them.

Blue Duck walked on away from the two men --he decided not to bother with their horses. The two vexed him so, that he might forget and kill them if he stayed around them; then he would be driven from the camp before he was ready to go.

When Blue Duck walked away, Slipping Weasel saw that most of his back was covered with fresh blood. The sight made him feel a little guilty. Blue Duck might have a worse wound than he and Last Horse supposed. What if he were to die before he reached camp? Men could die very suddenly, once they lost too much blood.

One minute they might be walking and the next minute they might be dead.

Part Mexican or not, Blue Duck .was the son of Buffalo Hump, and Buffalo Hump was their great chief. Though he didn't seem to be particularly fond of Blue Duck, there was no telling what Buffalo Hump might do if his own son dropped dead from a wound received fighting the white men. It would come out, of course, that he and Last Horse had failed to lend him a horse, although he was bleeding a lot. It would not please Buffalo Hump; there was no telling what he might do.

With that in mind Slipping Weasel trotted after Blue Duck--the deer down the valley could wait a few minutes, before they were killed.

"You had better take my horse," he said.

"You have too much blood coming out of you--I don't think you should be walking." Blue Duck ignored him. He was close to the camp now. Why should he take a horse when he had already done the walking?

Besides, now that he was close to camp and no longer had to fear that Gun In The Water or Silver Hair McCrae would slide down the canyon wall and ambush him, he was in no great hurry to get home. He would soon have to admit to his father that he had lost a horse, and his father would not be pleased.

"Your Mongol Hun cooked his meat by horse heat," Inish Scull observed. He was comfortably seated on a large rock at the edge of the Palo Duro, studying the distant Comanche camp through his binoculars. Gus and Call had both wanted to scamper down the slope after the fleeing warrior, but Inish Scull waved them back.

"Nope, it's too shadowy yet," he said.

"We'll not be skating down a cliff this morning after one red killer. He might have a few friends, scattered among those rocks." "I don't think so, Captain," Call said.

"He was alone when he came at me." "That doesn't contradict my point," the Captain said, a little sharply. Woodrow Call, though a more than competent fighting man, had a disputatious nature--not a welcome thing, in Inish Scull's command.

"If his friends were hiding in the rocks, then they couldn't have been with him when he shot the arrow at you, now could they?" Scull said. "Human beings are rarely in two places at once, Mr.

Call." Call didn't reply. Of course human beings couldn't be in two places at once; but the fleeing boy was well past the rocks in question, and no one had appeared to join him.

Augustus was puzzled by the remark about horse heat, a form of heat he had never heard of; nor was he exactly clear about the Mongol Huns.

The Captain was always talking about faraway places and peoples he had never heard of, Gurkhas and Zulus and Zouaves and the like, frequently launching into a lecture just as Augustus was possessed of a powerful urge to sleep. What he wanted to do at the moment was stretch out on a big rock and let the warm sun bake the chill out of him.

It was Woodrow Call who liked to hear the Captain discourse on the wars of history, or weaponry, or fighting tactics of any kind.

The Captain had even given Call a ragged old book about Napoleon; though the book had one cover off, Call carried it in his saddlebags and read in it a page or two at a time, at night by the campfire.

"What is horse heat, Captain?" Augustus asked--he did not want to seem indifferent to Inish Scull's instruction.

Indifference might result in Woodrow getting promoted over him, a thing he would find intolerable.

"Horse heat?" Inish said. "Why, your Mongol would slice off his steak in the morning and stick it under his saddle blanket. Then he'd gallop along all day, with the steak between him and the horse. Your Mongol might ride for fourteen hours at a stretch. By the time he made camp the steak would be cooked enough to suit him--a little horse heat and a lot of friction would do the job." "Fourteen hours under a saddle blanket?" Augustus said. "Why, it would just be horsehairs mostly, by then. I doubt I could stomach horsemeat if it had been under a saddle blanket all day." The Captain raised his binoculars--he had been looking down the canyon, where the sizable Comanche horse herd grazed.

"Buffalo Hump and his boys are hardly shy of horseflesh, at the moment," he said. "There must be nearly a thousand horses in that herd. I wonder what would happen if we tried to spook his ponies." "We'd need to find a good trail down off this rim," Call said, but Captain Scull seemed hardly to hear him. He was imagining a grand charge.

"These red men are in their winter camp," he said. "I expect they're lazy and well fed.

There's buffalo meat drying everywhere. We could come down like the wolf on the fold. It would be a chase you'd never forget." Augustus was annoyed. Just when he wanted to stretch out and enjoy the sunlight, the Captain wanted to run off the Comanche horse herd, a mission that was sure to be perilous.

"I expect they'd stop feeling lazy pretty quick, if we was to run off their horses," he said.

Inish Scull, binoculars to his eyes, suddenly stiffened. He had his glasses fixed on a certain lodge in the Comanche camp.

"That's him, gentlemen--I told you. That's Buffalo Hump. Bible and sword," the Captain said in an excited tone.

Call strained his eyes, but could barely see the lodges, across the canyon. Augustus, whose vision was the talk of the rangers, saw people, but they were the size of ants. He had once owned a good brass spyglass, but had lost it in a card game several months before. He had meant to get another, but so far had been prevented by poverty from acquiring that useful tool.

Inish Scull had not moved--his binoculars were still trained on the same spot.

"That young brave you chased is talking to Buffalo Hump--I expect it's his son.

The young wolf's bold, like the old wolf. We put some bullets in him, though. He's leaking considerable blood." "Not enough bullets, I guess," Call said.

"He made it back to camp." "Yes, and the rascal had a good look at the troop," Scull said. "He knows our numbers --in fact, he reduced our numbers, the damned scamp. He has a Mexican look-- the son of a captive, I expect. Here, gentlemen, I'll share my glass. It's not every day you get to watch Buffalo Hump at breakfast." It's not every day I'd want to, Call thought, but he eagerly took the binoculars. It took him a moment to focus them, but when he did he saw the great hump man, Buffalo Hump, a figure of nightmare across the southern plains for longer than he and Augustus had been rangers.

Call's last good look at the man had come twelve years earlier, during an encounter in the trans-Pecos. Now, there he stood. A young wife had spread a buffalo robe for him, but Buffalo Hump declined to sit. He was looking around, scanning the rims of the canyon. As Call watched, Buffalo Hump looked right at him-- or at least at the large rock where they all sat.

"He's looking for us, Captain," Call said. "He just looked right at me." "Let me look," Augustus said. "He almost got me once, the devil. Let me look." Call handed Gus the binoculars--when Augustus trained them on Buffalo Hump, the man was still standing, his head raised, looking in their direction.

"He's older, but he ain't dead, Woodrow," Gus said.

When he handed the binoculars back to Captain Scull he felt his stomach quivering--an old fear unsteadied his mind, and even his hand. His first glimpse of Buffalo Hump, which had occurred in a lightning flash many years before, was the most frightening moment in all his time as a fighting man on the Texas frontier. He had only escaped the hump man that night because of darkness, and because he had run as he had never run, before or since, in his life. Even so, he bore a long scar on one hip, from where Buffalo Hump's lance had struck him.

"Did you see, Woodrow?" he said. "He still carries a big lance, like the one he stuck in me." "Why, you're right, sir," Inish Scull said, studying Buffalo Hump through his binoculars again.

"He does have a lance in his hand. He's devoted to the old weapons, I suppose." "Why not?" Call said. "He come near to wiping out our whole troop the first time we fought him, and he didn't have nothing but a bow and a knife and that lance." "It's practice, you see," Scull said.

"The man's probably practiced with those weapons every day of his life since the age of four." Call had fought the Comanches as hard as any ranger, and yet, when he had looked down at them through Captain Scull's glass, saw the women scraping hides and the young men racing their ponies, he felt the same contradictory itch of admiration he had felt the first time he fought against Buffalo Hump. They were deadly, merciless killers, but they were also the last free Indians on the southern plains. When the last of them had been killed, or their freedom taken from them, their power broken, the plains around him would be a different place. It would be a safer place, of course, but a flavor would have been taken out of it--the flavor of wildness. Of course, it would be a blessing for the settlers, but the settlers weren't the whole story--not quite.

Inish Scull had lowered his binoculars--he had stopped watching the Indians and was staring into space.

"It's the quality of the opponent that makes soldiering a thing worth doing," he said. "It ain't the cause you fight for--the cause is only a cause. Those torturing fiends down there are the best opponents I've ever faced. I mean to kill them to the last man, if I can--but once it's done I'll miss 'em." He sighed, and stood up.

"When we finish this fight I expect it will be time to go whip the damn Southern renegades-- there'll be some mettle tested in that conflict, let me assure you." "Renegades, sir," Call said, a good deal puzzled by the remark. "I thought the Comanches were about the last renegades." Inish Scull smiled and waved a hand.

"I don't mean these poor savages," he said. "I mean the Southern fops who are even now threatening to secede from the Union. There'll be blood spilled from Baltimore to Galveston before that conflict's settled, I'll wager. It's the Southern boys I called "renegades"'--and they are renegades, by God. I'd like to ride south on my good horse, Hector, and kill every rebel fop between Charleston and Mobile." Captain Scull cased his binoculars and looked at the two of them with a mean grin. "Of course, all rebels ain't fops, gentlemen.

There's mettle on both sides, plenty of it.

That's why it will be a terrible war, when it comes." "Maybe it won't come, Captain," Augustus said, with a glance at Call. He was uneasily aware that the Captain was a Yankee, whereas he and Call were Southern. If such a war did come, the Captain and the two of them might find themselves on different sides.

"It will come within five years," Inish Scull said confidently. He stood up, walked to the very edge of the cliff, and spat a great arc of tobacco juice into the canyon.

"It'll be brother against brother, and father against son, when that war comes, gentlemen," he said. He turned and was about to walk to his horse when Augustus saw a movement, at the far south end of the canyon. It was just some moving dots, but there had been no dots there a few minutes earlier, when they had been looking at the Comanche horse herd.

"Captain, look," he said. "I think there's more Indians coming." Inish Scull took out his binoculars and scanned the southern distance with some impatience.

"Damn it, every time I make a sensible plan, something happens to thwart me," he said. "There are more Indians coming. If we tried to spook the horse herd now, we'd be heading right into them." Call looked where the others were looking but could only see a faint, wavy motion.

"Mr. Call, go rouse the men--we better skedaddle," Scull said. "It's old Slow Tree and he's got his whole band with him.

We're but twelve men, and Buffalo Hump knows it. Even if he's not in much of a fighting mood, some of the young men are bound to be excited by an advantage like that." Call knew that was true. It was well enough to look forward to the day when the Comanche would be a broken people, no longer dangerous--but that day was not in sight, and speculation along those lines was premature, in his view. There were now four or five hundred Comanche warriors right below them, a force strong enough to overrun any army the U.S.

government could put in the field. Call could now see a line of Indians, moving up from the south.

There were still the size of ants, but he knew they would sting a lot worse than ants, if it came to a fight.

"Go, Mr. Call--g," Captain Scull said. "Wake up the nappers and get everyone mounted. We're a tempting morsel, sitting up here on the top of this hole. At least we better make ourselves a morsel in motion." When Augustus looked to the south again he saw that the lead warriors had scared up a little pocket of buffalo that had been grazing in a small side canyon. There were only four buffalo, running for their lives, with a wave of warriors in pursuit.

"Those buffalo would have done better to stay hid," he remarked. "They'll soon be harvested now." Inish Scull seemed uninterested in the buffalo.

"I met old Slow Tree once, at a big parley on the Trinity," he said, his binoculars still pointed south. "Quite the diplomat, he is. He'll talk and promise peace, but it's just diplomacy, Mr.

McCrae. It won't help the next settler he encounters, out on the baldies somewhere." He paused and spat.

"I'll take Buffalo Hump over your diplomatic Indians," he said. "Buffalo Hump don't parley--don't believe in it.

He knows the white man's promises are worth no more than Slow Tree's. They're worth nothing, and he knows it. He scorns our parleying and peace-piping and the lot. I admire him for it, though I'd kill him in a second if I could get him in range." Augustus was watching the buffalo chase.

Only once, long ago, had he had the opportunity to watch Indians run buffalo.

That time it had been two tired Indians and one tired buffalo--in their desperation to bring down the meat they had chased the buffalo right through a ranger encampment, to the astonishment of the rangers, who roused themselves from cards and singsongs just in time to shoot the animal. The tired Comanches, badly disappointed, made it into the brush before the disorganized rangers could think to shoot them.

This time there were four buffalo and at least twenty young Indians in pursuit. Soon the buffalo fanned out, each with four or five Comanches at tail and side. None of the Comanches had guns.

Augustus saw one buffalo absorb six arrows without slackening its pace. Another was lanced and almost managed to turn under the horse of the young brave who lanced it, but the brave avoided the charge and returned to strike the buffalo twice more.

Soon, prickling with arrows, the buffalo began to stumble. Two fell, but two ran on.

Inish Scull, by now, was as absorbed in the chase as Augustus.

"What grand sport!" Inish Scull exclaimed. "I wish Hector and I were down there. Big Horse Scull and the Buffalo Horse could show them what for, I reckon!" Augustus didn't say anything, but he agreed. He and Woodrow had run buffalo a few times; even Woodrow got caught up in the sport of it. Even though they might need the meat, there was always a letdown when the buffalo fell and the skinning and butchering had to begin.

The third buffalo, prickly with arrows, finally fell, but the fourth ran on, although the whole force of Comanches was now after it, the braves crowding one another in order to aim their arrows.

"Look at it--why, you'd think the beast was immortal," Inish Scull said. "There must be thirty arrows in it." The buffalo, though, was not immortal. Finally it stopped, swung its head at its pursuers, and dropped to its knees. It bellowed a frothy bellow that echoed off the canyon walls. Then it rolled on its side and lay still--the young Comanches milled around it, excited from the chase.

Augustus watched for a moment. The Indian women were already skinning the first of the buffalo to fall.

"That's that--let's be off, sir--else they'll be skinning us next," Captain Scull said.

Augustus mounted, but turned his horse to watch the scene for another moment. He hadn't done the chasing or made the kill, but, for some reason, he felt the same letdown as if he had. The Comanche braves had stopped milling. They simply sat on their horses, looking down at the fallen beast. Though he could barely see the fallen animal--it was just a dot on the canyon floor--in his mind's eye he saw it clearly.

He was reminded of an old bull buffalo he and Call and Bigfoot Wallace, the famous scout, had struggled to kill years before on the Mexican plain. They had shot the beast more than twenty times, chased it until one of their horses died, and had finally had to dispatch it with their bowie knives, a process that bloodied Augustus from shoulder to calf.

The Comanche boy who had dealt the fourth buffalo the final lance hit was probably just as bloody--t buffalo, too, must have poured blood from a number of wounds before it rolled its eyes up in death.

Looking down on the scene from high above, Augustus, though he couldn't say why, felt a mood of sadness take him. He knew he ought to be going, but he could not stop looking at the scene far below. A line of Indian women were moving out from the camp, ready to help cut up the meat.

Inish Scull paused a moment. He saw that his young ranger had been affected by the chase they had just observed, and its inevitable ending.

"Post coitum omne animal triste," he said, leaning over to put a hand, for a moment, on the young man's shoulder.

"That's Aristotle." "What, sir?" Augustus asked. "I expect that's Latin, but what does it mean?" ""After copulation every animal is sad,"'" the Captain said. "It's true, too--though who can say why? The seed flies, and the seeder feels blue." "Why is it?" Augustus asked. He knew, from his own memories, that the Captain had stated a truth. Much as he liked poking, there was that moment, afterward, when something made his spirits dip, for a time.

"I don't know why and I guess Aristotle didn't either, because he didn't say," Scull observed. "But it's not only rutting that can bring on that little gloom. Killing can do it too-- especially if you're killing something sizable, like a buffalo, or a man. Something that has a solid claim to life." He was silent for a moment, a little square cut chaw of tobacco in his hand.

"I grant that it's a curious thing," he said.

"The acts ain't much alike, and yet the gloom's alike. First excitement, then sadness.

Those red boys killed their game, and they needed to kill it, too. A buffalo is to them what a store would be to us. They have to kill the buffalo to live. And they have killed it. But now they're sad, and they don't know why." Well, I don't know why neither, Augustus thought. I wish that old man who talked about it to begin with had said why.

In a moment they turned back toward camp.

Augustus fell in behind the big horse. When they came over the first little rise they saw the camp boys, rushing around like ants, packing up.

"Where is his scalp? I don't see it," Buffalo Hump said, when Blue Duck walked up to him, dripping blood. "I thought you were going to bring me the scalp of Gun In The Water?" "He is quick," Blue Duck admitted.

"He shot me while he was shitting. I didn't know anyone could shoot straight while they were shitting." Buffalo Hump looked the boy over. He saw no wounds that looked serious.

"I had another son once," Buffalo Hump said. "Gun In The Water shot him too--shot him dead. He was almost drowned in the Brazos River but he was still quick enough to kill my son. You're lucky he didn't kill you too. Where is your horse?" The boy stood before him wearing a sullen look.

No doubt he had run across the canyon, hoping to be praised because he had gone alone against the whites and been wounded. It was a brave thing: Buffalo Hump didn't doubt the boy's courage. Blue Duck always led the charge, and could not sleep for days, from excitement, when a raid was planned.

Bravery was important in war, of course, but that did not mean that a warrior could afford to neglect the practicalities of war. The boy seemed to have rolled much of the way down the canyon and kept his weapons undamaged, which was good. On the other hand, he had lost a horse, which was not good.

Also, he had attacked a proven warrior, Gun In The Water, without being sure of his kill. Courage would not keep a warrior alive for long if courage was not backed up by judgment.

"My horse is dead," Blue Duck admitted. "Silver Hair McCrae shot him --I was running for my life. Big Horse Scull almost cut me with the long knife." Buffalo Hump motioned to Hair On The Lip, indicating that she was to tend to the boy's wounds. Slow Tree was approaching, at the head of his band, and would have to be greeted with the proper ceremony. Though Buffalo Hump would have liked to lecture the boy some more, he could not do it with Slow Tree and his warriors only half a mile from camp. He looked sternly at his young wife, Lark--he did not want her tending Blue Duck's wounds. The women made much of Blue Duck, old women and young women too.

He did not want Lark to be doctoring his handsome son. He had seen many unfortunate things happen, in his years as a chief. Sometimes young women, married to old men, could not resist coupling with the old men's sons, a thing that made bitter blood. If Lark was reckless with Blue Duck he would beat her so that she could not move for three days, and then he would drive Blue Duck out of camp, or else kill him.

"Why is Slow Tree coming?" Blue Duck asked, as Hair On The Lip began to poke at the wound in his side.

Buffalo Hump walked away without answering.

It was none of Blue Duck's business why Slow Tree had chosen to visit. Slow Tree could come and go as he pleased, as did all the Comanche. He himself was not particularly pleased to see the old man coming, though. Slow Tree was very pompous; he insisted on making long speeches that were boring to listen to. Buffalo Hump had long since heard all that Slow Tree had to say, and did not look forward to listening to him anymore.

Because he was old and lazy, Slow Tree had even begun to argue that the Comanche should live in peace with the Texans. He thought they ought to go onto reservations and learn to grow corn. He pointed out that the buffalo were no longer plentiful; soon the Comanche would have to find something else to eat. There were not enough deer and antelope to feed the tribe, nor enough wild roots and berries. The People would starve unless they made peace with the whites and learned their agriculture.

Buffalo Hump knew that on some points Slow Tree was right. He himself had ridden all the way north to the Republican River to find enough buffalo, in the fall just passed. The whites were killing more and more buffalo each year, and the People would, someday, have to find something else to eat. Such facts were plain; he did not need a long speech from Slow Tree to explain what was obvious.

What Buffalo Hump disagreed with was Slow Tree's solution. He himself did not like corn, and did not plan to grow it. Instead, since the white men were there in his land, his country, he meant to live off their animals: their horses, their pigs, and particularly their cattle. The land along the Nueces boiled with cattle. They were as plentiful as buffalo had once been. He himself preferred horsemeat to the meat of the cow, but the meat of the cow would suffice, if it proved impossible to kill enough buffalo or steal enough horses to get the band through the winter.

Some of the cattle were as wild as any buffalo, but because they were small animals the Texans seemed to think they owned them. The cattle were so numerous that the Comanches, once they practiced a little, could easily steal or kill enough of them to survive.

Buffalo Hump considered himself as wild as the buffalo or the antelope or the bear; he would not be owned by the whites and he would not tear up the grass and grow corn. But Slow Tree, evidently, was no longer too wild to be owned, so now he talked of peace with the whites, though that was not the reason for his visit. The old man knew that Buffalo Hump's band had buffalo--what he had come for was to eat.

Slow Tree was a great Comanche chief, and Buffalo Hump meant to welcome him with proper ceremony. But that did not mean that he trusted the old man. Slow Tree had been a great killer, when he was younger, and an unscrupulous killer too. Slow Tree was old; he had heard things from the old women of the tribe that the younger Comanches did not know. Long ago Buffalo Hump had been told by his grandmother that he could only die if his great hump was pierced. Old Slow Tree knew of this prophecy. Several times, over the years, in camp here and there, usually after feasting and dancing, Buffalo Hump would get an uneasy feeling. Three times he had turned and found that Slow Tree was behind him. Once Slow Tree had had a lance in his hand; another time he held a rifle, and he had had a cold look in his eye--the look of the killer. Slow Tree had long been jealous of Buffalo Hump's prowess as a raider. Once, on a raid all the way to the Great Water, Buffalo Hump had run off three thousand horses--it was a raid all the young warriors sang about and dreamed of equalling.

Slow Tree, though fierce in battle, had never made such a raid. He didn't like it when the young men sang of Buffalo Hump.

But, always, because of the uneasy feeling he got, Buffalo Hump had turned before Slow Tree could strike with the lance or fire the gun. He had saved himself, but he had never trusted Slow Tree and still didn't. The fact that the man was old did not mean he was harmless.

Buffalo Hump turned to look at his young wife, Lark; her eyes were cast down in modesty. Heavy Leg and Hair On The Lip, his other wives, had stripped the boy, Blue Duck, in order to tend his wounds. He stood naked not far from Lark, but Lark kept her eyes cast down. She was the wife of Buffalo Hump--she looked at her husband, when she wanted to look at a man.

Blue Duck became impatient with the women, who were smearing grease on his wounds.

"There are only a few whites up there," he said to his father--he pointed toward the top of the canyon. "I killed one of them last night --there are only a few left. We could kill them all if we hurry." "I imagine you scared them so badly that they are running away by now," Buffalo Hump said casually. "We would have to chase them to the Brazos to kill them, and I don't want to chase them. I have to wait for Slow Tree and listen to him tell me I should be growing corn." Blue Duck was sorry he had spoken. His father had only mocked him, when he said the whites were afraid of him. Big Horse Scull was not afraid of him, nor Gun In The Water, nor McCrae. He wanted to go back and kill the Texans, but Buffalo Hump had already turned and was walking away. Slow Tree had entered the camp and had to be shown the proper respect.

Blue Duck wasn't interested in the old chief himself, but he had heard that Slow Tree had several pretty wives. He was impatient with the women who were dressing his wounds--he wanted to go over and have a look at Slow Tree's wives.

"Hurry up," he said, to Hair On The Lip. "I have to go stand with my father. Slow Tree is here." Hair On The Lip didn't like the rude boy, whelp of a Mexican woman. Rosa, the boy's mother, had once been Buffalo Hump's favorite, but she had run away and frozen to death on the Washita River. Now Lark was his favorite--Lark was young and plump--but he still kept Hair On The Lip with him many nights, because she had the gift of stories. She told him many stories about the animal people, but not just the animal people. She knew some old Comanche women who were lustful and full of wickedness. The old women hid in the bushes, looking for young men.

Buffalo Hump had had only a few wives, unlike Slow Tree and some of the other chiefs.

He told Hair On The Lip that it would be too much trouble to have more wives. He wanted to save his strength for hunting, andfor fighting the whites. He liked to hear about women, though, particularly the old lustful women who were always in the bushes, trying to get young boys to couple with them. Many nights Hair On The Lip had lain with Buffalo Hump, while the cold wind blew around the lodges. Hair On The Lip was not pretty and she was not young--the young women of the tribe wondered why such a great chief would stay with her, when he could have the youngest and prettiest wives.

Those younger women didn't know how much he liked the stories.

Clara was unpacking some new crockery for the store when she happened to glance up and see Maggie Tilton crossing the street--Maggie, too anxious to stop herself, was coming to inquire about Woodrow Call. Every few days Maggie came on the same errand, thinking Clara might have some news of the rangers. Clara didn't--but she could well understand Maggie's anxiety--she herself grew worried when several weeks passed without news of Gus McCrae. Except for the anxiety, though, their positions in regard to the men in question were opposite: Maggie's one hope was that Woodrow Call would someday unbend enough to marry her, while Clara was doing everything she could to check her foolish passion for Gus McCrae. Clara was doing her best not to marry Gus, while Maggie pinned all her hopes on finally marrying Woodrow. Maggie and Clara talked little--theirthe respective stations didn't permit it. What little conversation they had was usually just about the small purchases Maggie made. Yet they had become, if not friends, at least women who were sympathetic to one another because of their common problem: what to do about the menfolk.

The dishes and cups Clara was unwrapping and setting on the counter were nice, serviceable brown stoneware from Pennsylvania. Only the day before she had had a bit of a tiff with her father, over the stoneware. Usually George Forsythe let Clara have her way, when it came to ordering dishware, but, in this case, he happened to look at the bill and had what for him was a fit. He took off his coat, put it back on, told Clara she was bankrupting him with her impulsive ordering, and walked out of the store, not to return for three hours. Clara was more amused than offended by her father's little fit. George Forsythe considered that he and he alone knew what was best for the solid frontier citizens who frequented their store.

Whenever Clara ordered something that appealed to her, even if it was as simple as a pewter pitcher, her father invariably concluded that it was too fancy; soon the store would fill up with things Clara liked that the customers either didn't want or couldn't afford; and ruin would follow.

"I've had a store on this street since it started being a street," he informed his daughter-- sometimes, when he was particularly exercised, he even wagged his finger at her--?and I know one thing: the people of Austin won't shell out for your fancy Eastern goods." "Now, that's not true, Pa," Clara protested. "Mrs. Scull shells out for them.

Besides, nearly all our goods are Eastern goods.

That's about the only place they make goods, seems like." "As for that woman, I consider her little better than a harlot," her father said. Most of the citizens of Austin looked up to George Forsythe; they had voted him mayor twice; but Inez Scull looked down on him, as she would on any tradesman, and she was quick to let him know it.

"Just hold off on the Philadelphia plates," her father told her, at the height of his fit, just before he walked out. "Plain plates and plain cutlery will serve around here just fine." The point of the brown stoneware, as Clara meant to tell him once he cooled down, was that it .was plain; and yet it was satisfying to look at and solid besides. Clara loved the look and feel of it; she believed her father to be wrong, in this instance.

After all, she had been working with him in the store for a decade; she felt she ought to have a right to order a little nice crockery now and then, if she took the notion. If Inez Scull happened to like it she would buy all of it anyway; Inez Scull always bought all of anything she liked, whether it was a swatch of pretty cloth or two new sidesaddles that happened to appeal to her.

George Forsythe, seeing her shaky old butler loaded down with two new sidesaddles, could not resist asking why she needed two.

"Why, one for Sunday, of course," Inez said, with a flounce. "I can't be seen in the same old saddle seven days a week." "But those two are just alike," George pointed out.

"Nonetheless, one is for Sunday--I doubt you'd understand, sir," Inez said, as she swept out of the store.

Clara loved the look and feel of the new stoneware and felt sure her father was wrong in assuming that it wouldn't appeal to local tastes.

After all, Austin was no longer just a frontier outpost, as it had been when her father and mother opened the store. There were respectable women in Austin now, even educated women, and they weren't all as high-handed as Inez Scull. Clara herself didn't care for either Scull--the famous Captain had twice taken advantage of her father's absence to attempt to be familiar with her, once even trying to look down her bodice on a hot day when she had worn a loose dress.

On that occasion Clara slapped him smartly--she considered that she had tolerated quite enough, famous man or not--but the Captain had merely bowed to her and bought himself a speckled cravat. But, like it or not, the Sculls were too wealthy to throw out entirely--had it not been for their profligate spending, her father might, at times when drought dried up the farms and sapped the resources of the local livestock men, have had to worry seriously about the bankruptcy he accused Clara of bringing upon him.

His fits, though, Clara knew, weren't really about the store, or the ordering, or the Eastern crockery; they were about the fact that she was unmarried, and getting no younger. Suitor after suitor had failed to measure up; her twenties were flying past, and yet, there she was, still on her father's hands. She ought, in his view, to have long since become a well-established wife, with a hardworking husband to support her.

Many hardworking men, solid citizens, well able to support a wife, had sat in the Forsythe parlor and made their proposals. All were refused. Some licked their wounds for a few years and came back with new proposals, only to have those rejected too. After two tries and two failures most of the local men gave up and took wives who were less exacting; only Augustus McCrae, and a man named Bob Allen, a rancher who wished to venture up to Nebraska and trade in horses, persisted year after year. In his own mind and everyone else's, Gus McCrae, the proud Texas Ranger, seemed to have the inside track; yet in Clara's mind, though she dearly loved Gus McCrae, the issues were not so clear, nor the resolution so simple.

Still, her father could not be blamed too much for worrying that she might never find--or at least might never accept--a decent mate. Her mother, so sickly that she rarely ventured downstairs, worried too, but said little. The thing they all knew was that there was hardly another respectable young woman in Austin who, at Clara's age, was still unmarried.

In fact, one of the few women Clara's age who .was still single was Maggie Tilton, the young woman who was walking slowly and a little forlornly across the dusty street toward the store. Maggie, though, could not be included in the Forsythes' reckoning, because she was not one of the respectable young women of Austin. Inez Scull might behave like a harlot, while enjoying the prestige and position of being the Captain's wife, but Maggie Tilton .was a harlot. She had survived some rough years in the tents and shacks of Austin, moved to San Antonio for a bit, and then came back to Austin. She had tried to rise but failed and had come back to be where Woodrow Call was --or at least where he was quartered when the rangers were not in the field.

Clara watched, with interest, as Maggie came up the steps and hesitated a moment, as she looked at herself in the glass window; it was as if she had to reassure herself that she looked respectable enough to enter a regular store--Maggie always stopped and looked at herself before she would venture in to buy a ribbon, or a powder for headaches, or any little article of adornment.

In Clara's view Maggie looked plenty respectable. Her clothes were simple but clean, and she was always neat to a fault, as well as being modestly dressed. Madame Scull, for one, could scarcely be bothered to conceal her ample bosom--even Clara's own father, George Forsythe, the former mayor, had trouble keeping his eyes off Inez Scull's bosom, when it was rolling like the tide practically under his nose.

Maggie, though, was always proper to a fault; there was nothing flashy about her appearance. And yet she did what she did with men, with only the sadness in her eyes to tell of it, though that sadness told of it eloquently, at least to Clara. Sometimes Clara wished she could talk to Maggie--she longed to shake her good and tell her to forget about that hardheaded Woodrow Call. In her view Maggie ought to marry some decent farmer, many of whom would have been only too pleased to have her, despite her past.

Sometimes, lying alone at night in her room above the hardware store, a room that had been hers since birth, to which, so far, she had been reluctant to admit any man--though Gus McCrae had impulsively crowded into it once or twice--Clara thought of Maggie Tilton, in her poor room down the hill. She tried, once or twice, in her restlessness, to imagine that she and Maggie had traded places; that she was what Maggie was, a whore, available to any man who paid the money. But Clara would never make the imagining work, not quite. She could picture herself down the hill, in a shack or a tent, but when it came to the business with men she was not able to picture it, not really. Though fervent in her kissing with Gus McCrae--fervent and even bold, riding alone with him into the country, to swim at a particular spring--she still stopped short, well short, of what Maggie Tilton did regularly, for money, in order to survive.

Clara stopped far shorter with Bob Allen, the large, silent horse trader, despite two years of courtship, Mr. Allen had not yet touched her hand. Augustus, who considered Mr.

Allen an ignorant fool, would never have put up with such restraints. Gus had to touch her and kiss her, to dance with her and swim with her, and was sulky and sometimes rude when she refused him more.

"It's your fault I'm a drunkard and a whorer," Gus told her, more than once. "If you'd just marry me I'd be sober forever, and I'd stay home besides." Clara didn't believe the part about staying home; Gus McCrae was by nature much too restless for her taste. The rangering was just an excuse, she felt. If there were no Indians to chase, and no bandits, Gus would still find reasons to roam. He was not a settled man, nor did she feel she could settle him. He would always be off with Woodrow Call, beyond the settlements somewhere, adventuring.

Still, she felt a little guilty, where Gus was concerned--she knew there was some justice in his complaint. Though she suffered when he was in the whore tents, somehow she could not resign herself, or commit herself, to begin the great business of married life with him. Though Gus moved her in ways no other man ever had or, she feared, ever would, something in her still refused.

Clara tried to look at life honestly, though, and when she thought closely about herself and Gus, and Maggie and Call, she could not feel that her refusals gained her any honor or moral credit. Was she any better than Maggie Tilton, who at least gave an honest service for money paid, and met an honest need?

Clara didn't think she was better, and she knew she was as hard on Gus McCrae--whom she dearly loved--z Woodrow Call was on Maggie Tilton.

Clara didn't like--indeed, couldn't abide-- Woodrow Call. His appearance, even on the mildest errand, brought out a streak of malice in her which she could not restrain. She seldom let him leave her company without cutting him with some small criticisms. Yet Woodrow Call was a much respected ranger, courageous and even in judgment, the last being a quality that Augustus McCrae could not yet lay claim to, though he was as courageous as any man. Perhaps Call even loved Maggie, in his way; he sometimes bought her small trinkets, once even a bonnet, and had twice come to fetch medicines for her, when she was poorly. There must be good in the man, else why would Maggie pine so, when he was away? She surely didn't pine for every man who paid her money and used her body.

Still, the one thing Maggie needed most was marriage; it might be the one thing Gus McCrae needed most, as well. But Call couldn't or wouldn't give it to Maggie, and she couldn't give it to Gus. It was a linkage that irked her, but that she could neither ignore or deny.

When Maggie stepped in the door, after giving herself a thorough inspection, Clara smiled at her, and Maggie, surprised as she always was by Clara's frliness, shyly smiled back.

"Why, it's you. How I wish we were sisters," Clara said, surprising herself and startling Maggie so deeply that she blushed. But the store was empty; what harm could the remark do? Besides, it was what she felt--it had always chaffed Clara that she was expected to live by rules she hadn't made; all the rules were made by men, and what dull rules they were! How much pleasanter life would be if she could treat Maggie as she would treat a sister, or, at least, as she would treat a friend.

"Oh, Miss Forsythe, thank you," Maggie said. She knew she had received a great compliment, one so unexpected that it left her abashed and silenced; for years she was to remember Clara's impulsive statement and felt happiness at the memory. She also felt a little puzzlement. Clara Forsythe was the most respected and sought after young woman in Austin. Many of her own customers, the young ones particularly, worshipped Clara; several had even proposed to her.

Maggie could not imagine why a woman in Clara's position would even want her friendship, much less want her for a sister.

Clara realized she had embarrassed her customer and tried to put her at ease by directing her attention to the stoneware.

"We just got these cups and plates from Pennsylvania," she said. "My pa thinks they're too fancy, but I think they're the very thing." Maggie agreed, but she only let her eyes linger on the nice brown crockery for a moment.

She had to be cautious when shopping, so as not to start yearning for fine things she could never afford.

She did like pretty things too much; once her fancy seized on a particular ring or dress or trinket, she could scarcely think of anything else, for days. She especially wanted to impress on Woodrow that she was a good manager. She didn't owe a cent to anyone, and had never asked Woodrow--or any man--fora cent more than she was due. She had long since stopped wanting Woodrow Call to pay her, when he came to her--but he insisted, leaving the money under a plate or a pillow if she refused to take it.

Maggie, just for a moment, wished she could be Clara Forsythe's friend. If they could talk freely she felt sure Clara would understand why she no longer wanted Woodrow's money.

Clara's smile was frank and friendly, but before Maggie could even enjoy her little fancy an old man with a stringy beard came in and stomped right between them.

"Horseshoe nails?" he asked Clara.

"Yes sir, in the back--it's the bin on the right," Clara said.

With a customer in the store Maggie didn't feel she ought to be talking to Miss Forsythe about crockery--mch less about anything else. Besides, the man was a customer of hers as well. His name was Cully Barnstone--he had visited her frequently in the last year. His presence, as he sacked up horseshoe nails, drove home a point that Maggie knew she should not, even momentarily, have forgotten. She and Clara Forsythe weren't sisters, and couldn't be friends.

Clara had never been offered money for the service of love, and never would be. She might have her own difficulties with Augustus McCrae, but she would never experience the shame of being given money by the one man in the world she wanted to give herself to.

Clara was annoyed with old Cully Barnstone, for coming in just when she might have had a ^w of conversation with Maggie; but there was nothing she could do about it. The store was open; anyone who wanted to buy something was free to come in. When Mr. Barnstone came to the counter to pay for his nails, Maggie turned away. She wandered listlessly around for a bit, keeping well to herself; she picked up a bonnet and a little hat but put both back without trying them on. In the end she merely bought a packet of darning needles and some red thread.

"Thank you," she said, when Clara gave her her change.

"There's no news from those wild ranger boys," Clara said. "I suppose they're still up on the plains, freezing their ears." "Yes, it's been sharp weather--I expect they're cold," Maggie said, as she went out the door.

When Pea Eye set out north with the rangers on his first expedition, he was as proud as he had ever been in his life. Mr. Call, who found him in a cornfield, fed him, and persuaded Captain Scull to give him a tryout as a ranger, had emphasized to him that it was just a tryout.

"We need men and I think you'll do," Call told him, rather sternly. "But you watch close and follow orders. I told the Captain I'd vouch for you--don't you disgrace me now and make me regret speaking up for you." "I won't, sir, I'll watch close," Pea Eye said, not entirely sure what he would have to be watching.

"If you get scalped, don't sit around yowling, either," Gus McCrae said. "People survive scalpings fine if they don't yowl." He said it to josh the boy a little, but Pea Eye's big solemn eyes opened a little wider.

"What's the procedure, then?" he asked.

Long Bill Coleman, an experienced man, had told him there were procedures for every eventuality, in rangering.

Pea Eye meant to do all he could to avoid a scalping, but in the event that one occurred he wanted to know what steps he should take--or not take.

"Just sit there calmly and bite a stick," Gus told him, doing his best to keep a straight face. "Somebody will come and sew up your head as soon as there's a lull in the killing." "Why'd you tell him that?" Call asked later, when he and Augustus were cleaning their weapons. "Of course he'll yowl if he gets scalped." "No he won't, because I instructed him not to," Augustus said. "But if I get scalped you'll hear some fine yowling, I bet." On the trek north Pea Eye's job was to inspect the horses' feet every night, to see that no horses had picked up thorns or small rocks that might cause lameness. In the event of a chase a lame horse would put its rider in serious jeopardy; Pea Eye inspected every hoof at night and made sure that the horses were well secured.

Then the sleet came and he had a hard time looking close. In the worst of the storm he could barely see his horse; at night he had to deal with the horses' feet mostly by feel. His hands got so cold when he worked that he was afraid he might have missed something in one hoof or another; but none of the horses went lame.

Deets, the black man, seeing Pea Eye try to inspect the hooves in the dark, brought him a light and stayed with him while he went down the line of horses, picking up their hooves one by one. It was a kind thing, which Pea Eye never forgot. Most of the men stayed as close to the fire as they could get, but Deets left the warmth and came to help him make sure that the horses' feet were sound.

On the fourth day of cold, Pea Eye began to wish Mr. Call had just left him in the cornfield. Proud as he was to be a ranger, he didn't know if he could survive the cold. He got so cold at night and in the bitter mornings that he even forgot to be afraid of scalping Indians, or even death. All he could think of was how nice it would be to be in a cabin with a big fireplace and a roaring fire. It was so cold his teeth ached--he began to try to sneak food into his mouth in small quick bites, so the cold wouldn't get in and freeze his teeth worse than they already were.

Augustus McCrae, who seemed able to ignore the cold, noticed Pea sneaking in the tiny bites and decided a little more joshing wouldn't hurt.

"You ought to duck your chin down into your shirt, if you're going to try and eat in this breeze," he said. "If you ain't careful your tongue will freeze and snap off like you'd snap a stick." "Snap off?" Pea Eye asked, horrified. "How could it snap off?" "Why, from talking," Gus said, with a grin.

"All you have to do is ask for a cup of coffee and your tongue's liable to fall right into the cup." Later Pea Eye told Deets what Mr.

McCrae had said and they debated the matter quietly. Pea was so cautious about opening his mouth that he could barely make himself heard.

"Your tongue's inside your head," Deets pointed out. "It's got protection. Ain't like your finger. Now a finger might snap off, I expect, or a toe." Pea Eye's fingers were so cold he almost wished they would snap off, to relieve the pain, but they didn't snap off. He had been blowing on his fingers, blowing and blowing, hoping to get a little warmth into them, when the Indians attacked and killed Ranger Watson. Pea Eye had been about to step right past the man, in order to take cover behind some saddles, when he heard Jimmy Watson give a small grunt--j a small quick grunt, and in that instant his life departed.

If Pea Eye had not moved just when he did, making for the saddles, the bullet might have hit him --x passed just behind his leg and went only another yard or more before striking Jim Watson dead.

No one in the troop was as glad to see the sun shine, the morning they finally headed south, as Pea Eye Parker.

"The dern old sun, it's finally come out again," he said, to Long Bill Coleman.

To Pea Eye's surprise, he almost cried, so happy was he to see the familiar sun. He had always despised cloudy weather, but he had never despised it as much as he had during the recent days of cold.

Fortunately Long Bill Coleman took no interest in Pea Eye's remark and didn't see him dash away a tear. Long Bill was attempting to shave, using a bowl of water so cold that it had a fine skim of ice on it; he considered the whole trip an intolerable waste of time--in that it was no different from most expeditions against the Comanches, only, in this instance, colder.

"Me, I'll take Mexico over these dern windy plains," he told Augustus McCrae, when the troop was on the move South.

"Me too, Billy--there's plenty of whores in Mexico, and pretty ones, too," Gus remarked.

"Now, Gus, I'm married, don't be reminding me of the temptations of the flesh," Long Bill admonished. "I got enough flesh right there at home--there's no shortage of flesh on Pearl." Augustus thought the comment dull, if not foolish.

"I know you've got a fat wife, Billy," he said. "What's your point about Mexico? I thought that was what we were talking about." "Why, the point is, it's convenient," Long Bill said. "In Mexico there's Mexicans." The remark seemed even duller to Augustus than the one before it. Since marriage to Pearl, Long Bill had lost much of his liveliness, in Gus's opinion. He had grown dull, cautious, and even pious. His wife, Pearl, was a large woman of little attraction, a bully and a nag. Had he himself been married to Pearl he would have endeavoured to spend as much time as possible in the nearest bordello.

"In Mexico there's usually someone to ask where the bandits are," Long Bill went on. "And there's trees to hang them from, once we corner them. Out here on the plains there's no one to ask directions from, and if we do see an Indian he's apt to be way down in the canyon, where you'd have to scramble to get at him." Augustus didn't answer. The fact was, he missed Clara. No amount of easily located bandits, or hanging trees, made up for that one fact. A good two-week jaunt on the prairies always lifted his spirits, but then, inevitably, there'd come a night by the campfire or a groggy morning when he'd remember his old, sweet love and wonder if he'd been foolish to let his long courtship lapse, just for the sake of adventure. Despite her standoffish ways, Augustus felt, most of the time, that there was little likelihood that Clara would actually marry anyone but himself; at other times, though, the demon of doubt seized him and he was not so sure.

Pea Eye found Mr. McCrae puzzling-- Mr. Call he was more comfortable with, because Mr.

Call only spoke to him of practical matters. Mr. McCrae sounded convincing, when he talked, but a good deal of what he said was meant in jest, like the business about his tongue snapping off.

The hardest part of Pea Eye's job, as the company farrier, was to see that the Captain's big horse, Hector, did not get anything wrong with his feet. Pea Eye had never seen an elephant, but he doubted that even an elephant had feet as heavy and hard to work with as Hector.

The Captain had to have special horseshoes forged, to fit the big horse's feet. When Pea Eye did manage to lift one of Hector's hooves the big horse would immediately let his weight sag onto Pea Eye--he could just support the weight, but it left him no strength with which to clean out the hoof. Several times Deets, seeing his plight, had come over and helped him support the big horse long enough that his feet could be properly cleaned.

"Much obliged," Pea Eye always said, when Deets helped him.

"Welcome, sir," Deets would reply.

It unnerved Pea Eye to be addressed as "sir," though he knew that was how black people normally addressed white people. He didn't know if it would be correct just to ask Deets to call him by his name; he intended to discuss the point with Mr. Call when the time was right.

Then, to his dismay, though they travelled south through a day of sunlight, the cold struck again.

On the third day of their ride south the sky turned slate black and an icy wind was soon slicing at their backs and making their hands sting.

That night Hector leaned particularly heavily on Pea Eye, and Deets was too busy preparing a meal to help him. Pressing up against the big horse caused Pea Eye to break a sweat; when he finished the sweat froze on his shirt before he could even walk back to the fire. The sun had just gone down; Pea Eye did not know how he was going to make it through the long winter night. He had only a thin coat and one blanket; few of the men had more.

Deets didn't have a coat at all, just an old quilt he kept wrapped around himself as he worked.

It was Deets who showed Pea a way to survive, as the cold deepened. Deets took a little spade and dug out one side of a small hummock of dirt; he dug it so that it formed a sort of bank. Then he made a small fire up against the bank of dirt. He brought a few coals over in a small pan, and, from the coals, made a fire near enough to the bank that the bank caught the heat and reflected it back.

"Here, sit close," Deets said, to Pea Eye. "It ain't much, but it will warm us." He was right. Pea Eye could never get close enough to the big campfire to derive more than a few moments of warmth from it. But the little fire reflected off the bank of dirt, warmed his hands and his feet. His back still froze and his ears pained him badly, but he knew he would survive.

Even with the good fire it was difficult to sleep, though; he would nod for a few minutes and then an icy curl of wind would slip under his collar and chill his very backbone.

Once, in a few minutes of sleep, Pea Eye had a terrible dream. He saw himself freeze as he was walking; he stopped and became immobile on the white plain, like a tree of ice. Pea Eye tried to call out to the rangers, but his voice could not penetrate the sheath of ice.

The rangers rode on and he was alone.

When he woke from the dream there was a red line on the eastern horizon; the sun glowed for a moment and then passed above the slatelike clouds, which reddened for a little while but did not allow the sunlight through.

"Much obliged for keeping this fire going," Pea Eye said--all night Deets had fed the fire little sticks.

"You welcome, sir," Deets said.

Pea Eye, cold but glad to be alive, could not contain himself about the "sir" any longer.

"You don't need to be sirring me, Deets," he said. "I ain't a sir, and I doubt I ever will be one." Deets was startled by the remark. He had never heard such an opinion from a white man, never once in his life. In Texas a black man who didn't call a white man "sir" could get in trouble quick.

Of course Pea Eye wasn't really a grown man yet--he was just a tall boy.

Deets supposed his youth might account for the remark.

"What'll I say?" he asked, with a puzzled look. "I got to call you something." "Why, just "Pea Eye"' will do," Pea Eye said. "I'm just plain "Pea Eye"' so far." Deets didn't think it would do, not in the hearing of the other rangers at least. He turned away and went to gather a few more sticks--the fire was burning well but he needed a little time in which to think about what Mr. Pea had just said.