Comanche Moon

Then, while he was pulling up a half-buried twist of sagebrush, it occurred to him that his mind had found a solution. He thought of the tall white boy as "Mr. Pea"--he would call him "Mr.

Pea." When he came back with the wood the young ranger was still holding his hands to the little fire.

"I guess I just call you "Mr. Peaea"' if it suits you," Deets said.

"Why, yes--t'll do fine," Pea Eye said. "I guess I'm a mister--I guess everybody's a mister." No, I ain't, black people ain't, Deets thought--but he didn't say it.

Famous Shoes was eating a good fat mallard duck when the Comanche boys found him. He had noticed some ducks on the south Canadian and had crept down to the water and made a clever snare, during the night. His trip to the Washita had been a disappointment. He did not find his grandmother, who had gone to live on the sweet-grass hills near the Arkansas River, but he did find his Aunt Neeta, a quarrelsome old woman who was living with some mixed-blood trapping people in a filthy little camp. The trapping people mostly trapped skunks and muskrats--there were hides everywhere, some of them pretty smelly. The minute he arrived his aunt began to upbraid him about a knife she had lent him years before which he had broken accidentally.

At the time he had been trying to remove a good length of chain from an old wagon that had fallen apart on the prairies. He thought the chain might come in handy, but all the chain did was break the tip off his aunt's knife. Only the tip was broken, most of the knife would still cut, but his Aunt Neeta considered that the knife was now useless and had never forgiven Famous Shoes for his carelessness. Famous Shoes only stayed on the Washita long enough to be courteous, before making his way back to the south Canadian, where he discovered the little flock of fat ducks.

Then the five Comanche boys showed up and began to talk about killing him. One of the boys wanted to kill him immediately, just because he was a Kickapoo, and another because he had scouted for Big Horse Scull. The rudest boy, though, was Blue Duck, who wanted to kill him just because he was there.

Famous Shoes did not think the boys would do him much harm. In any case he was hungry--he went on eating the duck while the boys walked around him, saying ugly things. They were just boys, it was normal that they would strut around and make rude remarks. The boys had been chasing a deer when they found him, but they had lost its track.

Famous Shoes had seen the deer only that morning, running east. The Comanche boys were so impatient that they had overlooked a plain track and let the deer get away. The deer had looked exhausted, too--the boys would have had it if only they had kept their minds on their business.

"That deer you were chasing got away," he told them. "There are plenty of fat ducks on this river, though." "We want to kill Big Horse today, where is he?" Blue Duck asked. "He tried to cut me with the long knife but I was too quick. A vision woman taught me how to fly, so I flew down into the canyon and got away." "You are lucky you found that vision woman," Famous Shoes said. He didn't believe that Blue Duck could fly, but the boy had such a bad reputation for killing people that he thought the best thing to do was be polite, keep eating his duck, and hope to get through the morning without being shot. Blue Duck had an old rifle and kept pointing it at him as he ate, a very rude thing.

"You come to our camp--my father might want to torture you," Blue Duck said. "He is angry because you brought Big Horse here." "Big Horse is chasing Kicking Wolf," Famous Shoes informed them. "He has given up and is on his way south by now. He is not going to bother your father." Nevertheless he was forced to humour the boys.

Instead of settling down they began to threaten him with arrows Famous Shoes decided he had better go with them--they were young boys; they might want to take a scalp just for practice. He trotted along in front of them as they made their way to the canyon. He was not worried that Buffalo Hump would torture him. Buffalo Hump owed him a debt and would never offer him violence, even though he scouted for the Texans.

The debt had come about because of Buffalo Hump's grandmother, a famous prophet woman.

One winter years before, when there were few buffalo on the prairies where the Comanche hunted, the tribe had had to move north, beyond the Arkansas.

The old woman's death was at hand; she was too weak to make the cold journey to the north. So, in the way of such things, she was left with a good fire and enough food to last her until her passing. Everyone said goodbye and the band went north to seek game.

But the old woman's time was slow in coming. When Famous Shoes chanced upon her, in her little dying place on the Quitaque, she was weak but still alive. Her fire was out and her food was gone but she was restless with visions and could not die. Famous Shoes had been in Mexico and had come back to seek advice from his grandfather; but, instead of finding his grandfather, he found Buffalo Hump's old grandmother, and struck up a friendship with her in her last days. He stayed with her for a week, keeping her fire going through the cold nights.

Famous Shoes knew that it was a delicate thing he was doing. What if the old woman got so healthy that she decided to stay alive? Then he would have an old Comanche woman on his hands, which would anger his grandfather, if he ever found him. His grandfather hated two things, rainy weather and Comanches. Besides, for a Kickapoo to attend a Comanche at such a time was not entirely proper--once an old one was left to die, and the farewells were said, it was their duty to go on and die. He was beginning to worry that he had gotten himself into a difficulty when the old woman closed her eyes and ceased to breathe. Famous Shoes saw to it that her remains were treated correctly, a thing that was the duty of any traveller; then he went on his way.

When Buffalo Hump found out that Famous Shoes had been helpful to his grandmother in her dying he told his warriors that the Kickapoo was to be left alone, and even made welcome at their campfires if he cared to visit. Famous Shoes was glad Buffalo Hump had given such an order; it had probably saved his life several times. Even so, he did not seek out Buffalo Hump, or visit Comanche campfires. He did not think it wise.

Buffalo Hump might follow the rules of courtesy, but being near him was too much like being near a bear. It was possible to come close to a bear, even a grizzly, and talk to it; the bear might allow it. But the bear was still a bear, and might stop allowing the courteous talk at any time. If the bear changed his mind about how he felt, the person trying to exchange courtesies with him might be dead. Besides, for all Famous Shoes knew, Buffalo Hump might not have liked his grandmother very much. She might have been quarrelsome, like his Aunt Neeta. Buffalo Hump's respect might have its limits.

When Famous Shoes walked into the Comanche camp Blue Duck rode right beside him, making his horse prance and jump. The boy wanted everyone to think he had brought in an important captive. Some of the young warriors rode up to Famous Shoes a few times, to taunt him, but he ignored their taunts and went on calmly through the camp.

To his surprise he saw old Slow Tree, sitting on a robe with Buffalo Hump. Slow Tree was talking, which was no surprise--Slow Tree was always talking.

Buffalo Hump looked angry--no doubt the old chief had been making boring speeches to him for a long time. Slow Tree might have been bragging to Buffalo Hump about how many times he had been with his wives; he wanted everyone to believe that he was always at his women, bringing them great pleasure. Slow Tree had always been boastful, but he had once been a terrible fighter and had to be treated respectfully, even though he was old and boring.

"What are you doing here?" Buffalo Hump asked, when Famous Shoes walked up. "Your white friends were here but now they have gone south. The Buffalo Horse was here three days ago but I don't see him today." "Your son made me come," Famous Shoes replied. "He came with these other boys and made me come. I was on the Canadian, eating a duck. I would not have bothered you if these boys had let me alone. They said you might want to torture me awhile." Buffalo Hump was amused. The Kickapoo was an eccentric person who was apt to turn up anywhere on the llano on some outlandish errand that no other Indian would bother about. The man would walk a thousand miles to listen to a certain bird whose call he might want to mimic. Most people thought Famous Shoes was crazy, but Buffalo Hump didn't. Though a Kickapoo, the man had respect for the old ways. He behaved like the old ones behaved; the old ones, too, would go to any lengths to learn some useful fact about the animals or the birds. They would figure that someone might need to know those facts; they themselves might not need to, but their children might, or their grandchildren might.

Very few Comanches would go to the trouble Famous Shoes went to, when it came to seeking useful information. It made Buffalo Hump annoyed with his own people, that this was so. The Kickapoos were a lowly people who had never been good at war. The Comanches wiped them out wherever they found them, and did this easily. Even young boys no more skilled than his son could easily slaughter Kickapoos wherever he found them. Yet it was Famous Shoes, a Kickapoo, who sought the knowledge that few Comanches were now even interested in.

Besides, the man was funny. He would just walk into an enemy camp and offer himself up for torture as if torture were a joke.

Then Slow Tree, who was rarely polite, pointed a pipe he was smoking at Famous Shoes and made an ugly speech.

"If you came into my camp I would hang you upside down and put a scorpion in your nose," he said. "When the scorpion stung you it would kill your brain. Then you could wander around eating weeds, for all I care. I don't like Kickapoos." Famous Shoes ignored the old man, though he decided on the spot to avoid the country where Slow Tree hunted until the old chief was finally dead. He had never heard that a scorpion bite could kill a brain, but it might be true, especially if the scorpion stung you inside your nose. The nose was not far from the brain--the poison of the scorpion would not have far to travel.

"I was on the Washita looking for my grandmother," Famous Shoes said, thinking it would be wise to change the subject. "There are many deer in the Washita country. If you are wanting deer, that is where I would go." Blue Duck stood nearby, strutting and playing with a hatchet he wore in his belt. He wanted the band to know that he was responsible for bringing in the Kickapoo. If his father didn't appreciate it, maybe Slow Tree would. It was clear that the great chief Slow Tree had no fondness for Kickapoos.

Buffalo Hump was engaged in the delicate task of being polite to Slow Tree, a man he neither liked nor trusted. He didn't need an irritating boy standing nearby, playing with a hatchet. Blue Duck wanted people to think he had captured someone important, but Famous Shoes wasn't important. He was just an eccentric Kickapoo.

"Why did you bring this man here?" he asked, looking at his son coldly. "You should have left him to eat his duck. If you see him again, leave him alone." He did not want to mention the fact that Famous Shoes had helped tend his grandmother while she died. The business with his grandmother was between himself and Famous Shoes; it was not a matter he wanted to discuss with everyone.

Blue Duck was shocked that his father would speak to him so, in front of Slow Tree and the worthless Kickapoo. He turned away at once and caught his horse. Then he gathered up his weapons, and a robe to protect him from the cold, and left the camp.

Buffalo Hump made no comment. Soon they saw the angry boy winding up the trail out of the canyon.

"If he was my son I would let him hang you upside down and put the scorpion in your nose," Slow Tree said to Famous Shoes.

Famous Shoes didn't answer--why respond to such a stupid comment? Blue Duck was not Slow Tree's son. He thought he would probably go up the other side of the canyon when he left, though. It would be good to have the great Palo Duro Canyon between himself and the rude, angry boy.

There was silence, for a time. Slow Tree was annoyed because Buffalo Hump was ignoring everything he said. Buffalo Hump listened in a polite manner, but he made no move to take Slow Tree's advice. He wasn't even interested in torturing a Kickapoo, which most Comanches would do immediately, without waiting for a chief's permission.

"My wives will feed you and then you can go," Buffalo Hump said, to Famous Shoes.

"I had that fat duck, I don't need to eat," Famous Shoes said. "I had better go look for Big Horse Scull before he gets lost." "Kicking Wolf is following him now too," Buffalo Hump remarked casually. "He wants to steal the Buffalo Horse." "I better go," Famous Shoes said. The news he had just heard shocked him badly. Big Horse Scull had been following Kicking Wolf, but now it was the other way around. Of course Kicking Wolf was already a famous horse thief, but stealing the Buffalo Horse would be a powerful act. If Kicking Wolf could steal the Buffalo Horse his people would sing about him for many years.

Famous Shoes changed his mind about eating, though. One fat duck wouldn't last him forever, and Buffalo Hump's wives had made a stew with a good smell to it. He squatted and ate a big bowl full, while Buffalo Hump sat patiently on his robe, listening to old Slow Tree brag about how happy he made his wives.

Jake came in the door, avoided Felice's eye, turned into the hall, and started up the stairs only to find old Ben Mickelson planted squarely in his way.

Jake despised old Ben, for being a disgusting, profane, purple-lipped old drunkard, but he .was the Sculls' butler and it was necessary to be polite to him.

It was necessary but it wasn't easy: old Ben was looking at Jake with a mean gleam in his watery blue eyes.

"Not today, you don't, you damned lout!" Ben Mickelson said.

Jake thought he must have misheard. Every day for three weeks he had hurried up to the Scull living quarters and been welcomed ardently by the lady of the house. Yesterday she had been particularly ardent--Inez Scull straddled him on the chaise longue and bounced so vigorously that the chaise broke. Then she dragged Jake onto the couch and continued no less vigorously. By the time Madame Scull quieted down, every piece of furniture that had a flat surface had been made use of in their sport.

So why was old Ben Mickelson barring his access to the stairs?

"Mind your ^ws, Ben, if you don't want a licking," Jake said--it occurred to him, for a moment, that the Captain might be back, but if the Captain was back the boys would be back too, and he hadn't seen them.

"Not today, you ain't going up, and not tomorrow and not the next day and not the next week and not the next month and not ever!" old Ben said, the ^ws bursting out of his mouth like gobbets of bile.

"But what's wrong?" Jake asked, confused.

"Nothing's wrong--y just be gone now. We don't need to be seeing the likes of you around the big house again." Jake wanted to grab the old man by his scrawny neck and shake him good, but he didn't quite dare. Something .was wrong, he just didn't know what. Yesterday Madame Scull had called him "Jakie," and could hardly wait to get out his little pricklen, as she called it. But today Ben Mickelson stood on the stairs looking at him in a gloating way.

"Begone," Ben said, again. "I'll be calling the sheriff on you if you don't. The sheriff will know what to do with a lout like you, I guess." Jake was confused and disappointed. He knew the old butler hadn't just decided to dismiss him on his own authority, because he had no authority. He might curse the kitchen girls and pinch them under the stairs, but he was only a butler.

Jake knew that if he wasn't allowed up it was because Madame Scull didn't want him up--but why? He had tried to be cooperative, no matter what wild game Inez Scull suggested; and some of her games went far beyond the bounds of anything he had ever supposed he would be doing, in his life. But he had done them, and Madame Scull had yelled and kicked with pleasure. So why was the old butler now planted in his way?

"All right, Ben," Jake said, feeling deflated. He wandered back into the kitchen, where Felice was churning butter. She didn't look up, when he came in--Felice was careful never to raise her eyes to him, anymore. But now he felt lonely--he had been turned out. He would have liked a smile from Felice; he had a sense that she felt he had treated her bad, though he had only done what he had been told to do by the Captain's wife. Felice had no cause to turn her head every time he entered the room.

"Well, I guess the Missus ain't up," he said, idling for a moment. "I'd sure like a glass of buttermilk before I go to work." Felice got up without a ^w and poured him a tumbler full of buttermilk from the big crock where they kept it. Captain Scull too liked buttermilk--he had been known to drink off a quart, on days when he came in with a thirst for buttermilk.

Jake thanked Felice, thinking it might melt her reserve, but Felice went back to her churning without even a nod.

Jake was sitting on the back step, drinking buttermilk and wondering what he could find to do all day, when Inez Scull strode out of the house. She had on her riding habit and was pulling on a glove. When she saw Jake sitting on the step with the tumbler of buttermilk she did not look pleased.

"Who told you to sit on my stoop and guzzle my buttermilk?" she asked, her black eyes snapping. Jake was taken aback by her look, which was icy, and her tone, which was hot. He jumped to his feet in embarrassment.

"I suppose you got the buttermilk from that yellow bitch," she said. "I'll quirt her soundly when I get back." "Why, the crock was full, I thought I could drink one glass," Jake said, very nervous.

"That's the Captain's buttermilk, it's not for common use," Inez said. "I instructed the butler to inform you that we didn't need you around here anymore. I suppose I'll have to whack that old sot a time or two, if he forgot to tell you." "He told me, I was just resting a minute," Jake said, confused by the coldness in Madame Scull's tone. Only yesterday she had pressed hot affections on him--td she acted as if she scarcely knew him.

"Get off my step, I told you," Inez said. "I don't want you around here--and stay away from that yellow bitch, too. I don't want you indulging in any irregularities with the servants." Madame Scull poked him, not gently, with the toe of her riding boot. Jake jumped up and hurried down the steps. Then he remembered that he still had the tumbler in his hand.

"I thought you liked me!" he blurted out.

Madame Scull's lip curled. "Like you?

A common thing such as yourself? I've stooped to many follies but I doubt I'd allow myself to like a common farm boy," she said.

Jake sat the tumbler on the step, where Felice would find it and take it in.

He was walking slowly and sadly back down the main street of Austin, trying to puzzle out why he had been welcome one day and shunned the next, when he heard a horse galloping close behind him. Madame Scull was coming, on her fine thoroughbred, Lord Nelson. The horse was worth as much as a house, some of the rangers claimed.

Two men stood guard over Lord Nelson, all night, at the Scull stables, lest Indians try to sneak in and steal him. Madame Scull raced Lord Nelson over the prairies at full speed, usually alone.

As Inez Scull came abreast of Jake she drew rein and ran her quirt lightly through his hair, which she herself had just cut, the day before, with her scissors, after their sweaty sport.

"It was the curls, Jakie," Inez said, the ice still in her voice. She flicked her quirt again through his short hair.

"The curls," she said. "I suppose I found them briefly appealing. But then I cut them off. So that's all done now, ain't it?" Then she put the spurs to Lord Nelson and went galloping straight out of town.

Kicking Wolf could move without sound. When he decided to steal the Buffalo Horse he only took Three Birds with him--except for himself, Three Birds was the quietest warrior in the band. Fast Boy and Red Badger were brave fighters, but clumsy. They could not approach a horse herd in the soundless way that was required if a tricky theft was being contemplated. Kicking Wolf prayed every night that he could keep his grace with animals--few Comanches could go into a horse herd at night without alarming the horses.

Buffalo Hump could not do such delicate work, not at all. He was a great raider, Kicking Wolf acknowledged. Buffalo Hump could run off many horses, and kill whatever white men or Mexicans got in his way. But he could not go into a horse herd at night and steal a mare or a stallion--he was too impatient, and he did not bother to disguise his smell. Mainly, he was a fighter, not a thief.

Kicking Wolf, though, was very careful about his smell, and he had instructed Three Birds how to eliminate his odor before going into a horse herd.

Kicking Wolf would eat little, for a day or two before a raid. He wanted his body to empty out its smells. Then he gathered herbs and rubbed them on himself, on his armpits, on his privates, on his feet. He chewed sweet roots to make his breath inoffensive. He prepared carefully, but mainly it was his grace, his ability to move without sound, that enabled him to go into a herd of strange horses at night and not alarm them. He wanted to be able to move close to the horses and stroke them--he wanted the stroking to begin before the horse was even aware that a man was there. Once he had the horse's trust he could move through the herd seeing that all the horses stayed calm. It was important to start with a horse that had calmness in him--often Kicking Wolf would study a horse herd for a few days, until he had selected the horse that he would approach first--it had to be a horse with calmness in it, a horse unlikely to panic.

Once Kicking Wolf had chosen the first horse, he would pray in the morning that his grace would not desert him; then he could move into the herd with confidence and stroke the lead horse. He liked a night that was cloudy but not entirely moonless, when he went to steal horses. He wanted to be able to see where the ground was--and so would the horses. In complete darkness a horse might brush up against a thornbush and panic if it rattled. A whole herd might break into a run in an instant, if they heard a strange sound.

Kicking Wolf was proud of being the best of the Comanche horse thieves--he had honed his skills for many years. Simply stealing many horses had never been enough for him; he only wanted to steal the best horses--the horses that would run the fastest, or make the best studs. He wanted to steal the horses that the Texans would miss most. Plow horses he never touched.

Invariably, when he got back to camp with the horses he had stolen, the other warriors would be jealous. Even Buffalo Hump was a little jealous, although he pretended not to notice Kicking Wolf and his horses.

The other warriors always offered to trade Kicking Wolf for his horses--they would offer him guns, or their ugly old wives, or even, occasionally, a young pretty wife; but Kicking Wolf never traded--he kept his horses and because of them was envied by every warrior in the tribe.

From the moment Kicking Wolf first saw the Buffalo Horse he wanted to steal it. The Buffalo Horse was the most famous horse in Texas. If he could steal such an animal it would make the Texans look puny. It would shame their greatest warrior, Big Horse Scull. It would bring glory back to the Comanche people--the women and the young men would all make songs about Kicking Wolf. The medicine men could take piss from the Buffalo Horse and use it in potions that would make the young men brave and the women amorous. Buffalo Hump would sulk, for he would know that Kicking Wolf had done a great thing, a thing he himself could never have done.

When he saw that the Texans were not going to go chase him to the Rio Pecos he rested for three days in a little cave he had found. He built a warm fire and feasted on the tender meat of one of the young mares he had killed. Then he heard from Red Badger that Blue Duck had attacked the Texans with a few young warriors and killed one ranger. Red Badger was so fond of one of the young women who had come to the camp with Slow Tree that he could not stay in one place. He was in love with the young woman, who was the wife of old Skinny Hand. Though old, Skinny Hand was a violent fighter; Red Badger had to be careful, for Skinny Hand would certainly shoot him if he caught him slipping out with his young wife. Red Badger said that Buffalo Hump was bored with Slow Tree but was trying to be polite.

Kicking Wolf soon got almost as bored with Red Badger as Buffalo Hump was with Slow Tree. Red Badger was a foolish person who was so crazy about women that he could not accomplish much as a warrior. He talked about women so much that everyone who had to listen to him was bored. Fast Boy was so bored that he wanted to tie Red Badger up and cut out his tongue. Everyone was almost that bored, but of course they could not simply cut out a warrior's tongue.

The fact that it was so cold made Kicking Wolf decide that it might be a good time to steal the Buffalo Horse. The Texans did not like cold. They did not know how to shelter themselves and keep themselves warm, as he was doing in his little cave.

When it was cold the Texans all huddled around fires and went to sleep. New snowflakes were falling outside his little cave--it was not going to be warm for many days. Even if the Texans went on south across the llano, the cold and sleet would follow them. With the weather so cold the Texans would not be very watchful of the horses.

At night Scull hobbled the Buffalo Horse, but did not keep it on a grazing rope. Once Kicking Wolf had called the Buffalo Horse by whistling at him--he whistled twice and the big horse came trotting right to him.

Kicking Wolf also noticed that the Buffalo Horse was very alert. If a wolf crossed the prairie, or even a coyote, the Buffalo Horse would be the first to raise its head and look.

It did not whinny, though, like some of the younger horses, who might be frightened by the smell of a wolf. The Buffalo Horse had no reason to fear wolves, or anything else on the llano.

When the morning dawned, gray as sleet, Kicking Wolf walked a mile from his cave and sat on a low hill to pray. When he had prayed some hours he went back to camp and told the few warriors there that he had decided to steal the Buffalo Horse. It was a plan he had never mentioned to anyone. The warriors were so surprised that they could not think of any ^ws to say --x was such a bold idea that everyone was a little scared, even Fast Boy. Kicking Wolf was a great horse stealer, they all knew that. But the Buffalo Horse was a special horse; he was the horse of Scull, the terrible captain with the long knife. What would Scull do if he woke up to find his great horse missing?

"We will all go with you," Red Badger said, after a few minutes' thought.

"Three Birds will go with me," Kicking Wolf said. "No one else." Red Badger wanted to go--stealing the Buffalo Horse was a great and audacious thing; any warrior would want to help do such a great thing. But the firm way Kicking Wolf had spoken caused Red Badger to swallow his protests. Kicking Wolf had spoken in a way that did not invite disagreement.

Fast Boy had meant to say something, also, but Kicking Wolf had such a cold look in his eye that Fast Boy did not speak.

"Where will you take the Buffalo Horse when you steal him?" Red Badger asked. The more he thought about what Kicking Wolf planned, the more his breath came short. It was a big thing, to steal such an animal. Many of the Comanches thought the Buffalo Horse was a witch horse--some even thought it could fly. Some of the old women claimed they had heard the whinny of a great horse, coming from high up in the sky, on dark nights when there was no moon.

"I will take him to Mexico," Kicking Wolf said. "To the Sierra Perdida." "Ah, the Sierra Perdida," Red Badger said. "I don't know if the Texans will follow you that far." "If they try to follow us past the Brazos you can shoot them," Kicking Wolf added. It was a little joke. Red Badger had a repeating rifle of which he was very proud; he cleaned it and rubbed it every night. But Red Badger had weak eyesight; he couldn't hit anything with his rifle. Once he had even missed a buffalo that had been laying down.

Red Badger's poor vision made the buffalo seem as if it were standing up, so he kept shooting over it. In battle he shot wildly, hitting no one. Some of the warriors were even afraid Red Badger might accidentally shoot one of them. He would not be the one to protect them from the Texans, if they followed past the Brazos.

Fast Boy was taken aback by Kicking Wolf's statement about the Sierra Perdida.

Those mountains were the stronghold of Ahumado, the dark-skinned bandit whom the whites called the Black Vaquero, because he was so cruel and also because he was so good at stealing cattle from the big ranches of the Texans, down below the Nueces River. Ahumado hated the Texans and killed them in many cruel ways; but what made Kicking Wolf's statement startling was that he also hated Comanches--when he caught Comanches he killed them with tortures just as bad as those he visited on the Texans.

"The Black Vaquero lives in the Sierra Perdida," Fast Boy reminded Kicking Wolf. "He is a bad old man." "That is where I am going--the Sierra Perdida," Kicking Wolf repeated, and then he was silent.

Fast Boy didn't say more, mainly because he knew that it was easy to put Kicking Wolf in a bad mood by questioning his decisions. He was far worse than Buffalo Hump in that regard.

Buffalo Hump didn't mind questions from his warriors--he wanted the men he fought with to understand what they were supposed to do. And he gave careful orders. Problems with Buffalo Hump would come only if the orders were not carried out properly.

If some warrior failed to do his part in a raid, then Buffalo Hump's anger would be terrible.

With Kicking Wolf, though, it was unwise to rush in with questions, even though what he wanted to do seemed crazy. Stealing the Buffalo Horse was a little crazy, but then Kicking Wolf was a great stealer of horses and could probably manage it; but the really crazy part of his plan was taking the horse to Ahumado's country, a thing that made no sense at all. Even Buffalo Hump was careful to avoid the Sierra Perdida when he raided into Mexico. It was not from fear--Buffalo Hump feared nothing--but from practicality. In the Sierra Perdida or the villages near it there were no captives to take, because Ahumado had already taken all the children from the villages there--if he did not keep the captives as slaves, he traded them north, to the Apaches. Some people even speculated that Ahumado himself was Apache, but Famous Shoes, the Kickapoo, who went everywhere, said no, Ahumado was not an Apache.

"Ahumado is from the south," Famous Shoes said.

When questioned about the statement Famous Shoes could not be more specific. He did not know what tribe Ahumado belonged to, only that it was from the south.

"From the south, where the jungle is," he said.

None of the Comanches knew the ^w, so Famous Shoes explained that the jungle was a forest, where it rained often and where Jaguar, the great cat, hunted. That was all Famous Shoes knew.

Fast Boy did not ask any more questions, but he thought he ought to make his views clear about the foolish thing Kicking Wolf wanted to do. Fast Boy was a warrior, a veteran of many battles with the whites andwiththe Mexicans. He had a right to speak his mind.

"If we go into the Sierra Perdida, Ahumado will kill us all," he said.

Kicking Wolf merely looked at him coldly.

"If you are afraid of him you don't have to go," Kicking Wolf said.

"I am not afraid of him and I know I don't have to go," Fast Boy said. "I don't have to go anywhere, except to look for something to eat. I wanted you to know what I think." Red Badger was of the same opinion as Fast Boy but he didn't want to state his views quite so plainly.

"Once I was in Mexico and a bad thorn stuck in my knee," he said. "It was a green thorn. It went in behind my knee and almost ate my leg off. That thorn was more poisonous than a snake." He paused. No one said anything.

"Ever since then I have not liked going to Mexico," Red Badger added.

"You don't have to go, either," Kicking Wolf said. "Once Three Birds and I have the Buffalo Horse we will go alone to Mexico." Three Birds looked at the sky. He had heard some geese and looked up to see if he could spot them. He was very fond of geese and thought that if the geese were planning to stop somewhere close by, he might go and try to snare one.

The geese were there, all right, many geese, but they would not be stopping anywhere nearby. They were very high, almost as high as the clouds. No one else had even noticed them, but Three Birds had good hearing and could always hear geese when they were passing over, even if they were high, near the clouds.

He made no comment about the business of Mexico. It seemed risky, to him, but if Kicking Wolf wanted to go, that was enough for Three Birds. When there was discussion he rarely spoke his thoughts. He liked to keep his own thoughts inside him, and not mix them up promiscuously with the thoughts of other warriors, or of women, or of anyone.

His thoughts were his; he didn't want them out in the air. Because of the firm way he stuck to his preference and kept his thoughts inside himself, some Comanches thought he was a mute. They thought he was too dumb to talk and were puzzled that Kicking Wolf put so much stock in his ability.

Sometimes even Kicking Wolf himself was annoyed by Three Birds' silence, his unwillingness to give an opinion.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked Three Birds one time. "You never speak. Where are your ^ws? Are you so ignorant that you have forgotten all your ^ws?" Three Birds had been a little offended by Kicking Wolf's rude speech. When Kicking Wolf asked him that question Three Birds got up and left the camp for a week. He saw no reason to stay around if Kicking Wolf was going to be rude to him. He had not forgotten his ^ws and would speak them when he felt like it. He did not feel he had to speak idle ^ws just because Kicking Wolf had decided that he was in a mood to hear him speak.

What Three Birds saw, when he looked in the sky, besides the geese that were not stopping, was that it was going to get even colder than it had been; it was going to stay very cold for a while yet. There would be more snow and more sleet.

"When will you steal the Buffalo Horse?" Red Badger asked. Red Badger was the opposite of Three Birds. He could not hold in his questions, or stay quiet for long. Red Badger often talked even when he had nothing to say that anyone at all would want to hear.

Kicking Wolf didn't answer the loquacious young warrior. He was thinking of the south, andof how angry Big Horse Scull would be when he woke up and discovered that his great warhorse was gone.

Maggie could tell by the footsteps that the man outside her door was drunk. The footsteps were unsteady and the man had just lurched into the wall, though it was early morning. A man so drunk at that hour of the morning that he could not walk steadily might have been drinking all night. The thought made her very apprehensive, so apprehensive that she considered not opening her door. A man that drunk might well be violent--he might beat her or tear her clothes. Maybe he would be quick and pass out--t sometimes happened with men who were very drunk--but that was about the best that she could expect, if she opened her door to a drunk. Some drunks merely wallowed on her, unable to finish; or the exertion might agitate the man's stomach--m than once men had thrown up on her or fouled her bed with vomit.

For Maggie, it had never been easy, opening her door to a man. Once the door was open she was caught; if a bad man or a cruel man was standing there, then she was in for a bad time. Sometimes, of course, the customer outside her door would just be some unhappy man whose wife had passed away.

Those men, who were just looking for a little pleasure or comfort, were not a problem. The men she feared were the men who wanted to punish women--t was the chief peril of her profession; Maggie had endured many sweaty, desperate times, dealing with such men.

She always opened the door, though; not opening it could cause consequences just as grave. The man outside might grow angry enough to break down the door, in which case the landlord might throw her out.

At the very least, she would have to pay for the door.

Besides that, the customer might go to the sheriff and complain; he might claim that she had stolen money --t or some other accusation. The ^w of any man, however dishonest, was more with a sheriff than the ^w of a whore. Or the aggrieved customer might complain to his friends and stir them up; several times gangs of men had caught her, egged on by some dissatisfied customer. Those times had been bad. Much as it might frighten her to open her door, Maggie never let herself forget that she was a whore and had to live by certain rules, one being that you opened the door to the customer before the customer got mad enough to break it down.

Still, it was her room--she felt she could at least take her time buttoning her dress. It was important to her that her dress be buttoned modestly before she let a man into her room. She knew it might seem contradictory, since the man outside was coming in to pay her to unbutton the same dress; but Maggie still buttoned up. She felt that if she ever started opening the door with her dress unbuttoned she would lose all hope for herself. There was time enough to do what she had to do when the man had paid his money.

She opened the door cautiously and received a grim shock: the person who had just lurched down the hall was the young ranger Jake Spoon, who had only been in the troop a few weeks. He was so drunk that he had dropped to his knees and was holding his stomach--but when he saw Maggie he mastered his gut and put out a hand, so she could help him up.

"Why, Mr. Spoon," Maggie said. "Are you sickly?" Instead of answering Jake Spoon crawled past her, into her room. Once inside he got to his feet and walked unsteadily across the room to her bed--then he sat down on the bed and began to pull off his boots and unbutton his shirt.

Jake Spoon looked up at her mutely--he seemed to be puzzled by the fact that she was still standing in the doorway.

"I got money," he said. "I ain't a cheat." Then he pulled his shirt off, dropped it on the floor, and stood up, holding on to a bedpost to steady himself. Without even looking at her again he opened his pants.

Maggie felt her heart sink. Jake was a Texas Ranger, although just come to the troop. In the years that Maggie had been seeing Woodrow Call it had become known to the rangers that she and Woodrow had an attachment. It was not yet the sort of attachment that Maggie yearned for; if it had been she would not have been renting a cheap room, and opening her door to drunken strangers.

But it was an attachment; she wanted it and Woodrow wanted it, though he might have been slow to admit it. Sensing the attachment, the other rangers who knew Woodrow well had gradually begun to leave Maggie alone. They soon realized that it was distasteful to her, to be selling herself to Woodrow's friends. Though Call never said anything directly, the rangers could tell that he didn't like it if one of them went with Maggie. Augustus McCrae, an indiscriminate whorer, would never think of approaching Maggie, although he had long admired her looks and her deportment. Indeed, Gus had often urged Woodrow to marry Maggie, and end her chancy life as a whore, a life that so often led to sickness or death at an early age.

Woodrow had so far declined to marry her but lately he had been more helpful, and more generous with money. Now he sometimes gave her money to buy things for her room, small conveniences that she couldn't afford. It was her deepest hope and fondest dream that Woodrow would someday forbid her to whore; maybe what they had wouldn't go as far as marriage, but at least it might remove her from the rough traffic that had been her life.

Woodrow's argument, the few times they had approached the subject, was that he was often gone for months on hazardous patrols, any one of which could result in his death. He felt Maggie ought to take care of herself and continue to earn what she could in case he was cut down in battle. Of course, Maggie knew that rangering was dangerous and that Woodrow might be killed, in which case her dream of a life with him would never be realized.

She never spoke of her life as a whore, when she was with Woodrow; in her own mind her real life was their life. The rest of it she tried to pretend was happening to someone else. But the pretense was only a lie she told herself to help her get through the days. In fact it .was her who opened her door to the men, who took their money, who inspected them to see that they were not diseased, who accepted them into her body. She had been a desperate girl, with both parents dead, when she was led into whoring in San Antonio; now she was no longer a girl, but the desperation was still with her.

She felt it even then, as Jake Spoon stood there in her room, drunk almost to the point of nausea, with his pants open, pointing himself at her and waiting sullenly.

Woodrow didn't know about her desperation-- Maggie had never told him how much she hated what she did. He might have sensed it at times, but he didn't know how hard it was, on a morning when all she wanted to do was sit quietly and sew, to have to deal with a man so drunk that he had to crawl into her room. Worse than that, he was a ranger, the same as Woodrow; he ought to have known to seek another whore.

"Why are you standing over there? I'm ready," Jake said. His pants had slipped down to his ankles; he had to bend to pull them up, so he could dig into his pocket and come out with the coins.

"But you're sickly, Mr. Spoon--y can barely stand up," Maggie said, trying to think of some stratagem that would cause him to get dressed again and go away.

"Don't need to stand up and I ain't sick," Jake said, though, to his dismay, the act of speaking almost caused his stomach to come up. He swayed for a moment but fought the nausea down. It was the whore's fault, he decided--she hadn't come over to help him with his clothes, as a whore should.

He fumbled again for the coins and finally got them out of his pocket.

Looking at the whore, who had closed the door behind her but still stood across the room, staring at him, Jake felt his anger rising. Her name was Maggie, he knew; the boys all said she was sweet on Woodrow Call, but Woodrow Call was far up the plains and the warning meant little to Jake. All whores were sweet on somebody.

"Come here--I got the money!" he demanded.

In his mind, which swirled from drink, was the recent memory of the wild games he had played with Inez Scull--acts so raw that even whores might not do them. He didn't like it that the whore he had chosen was so standoffish. What of it if she was sweet on Woodrow Call?

Maggie saw there was no way out of it, without risking the sheriff, or a worse calamity. In another minute the young ranger would start yelling, or else do her violence. She didn't want the yelling or the violence, which might lead to her having to move from the room she had tried to make into a pleasant place for Woodrow to visit when he was home.

She didn't want to get thrown out, so she went across the room and accepted Jake Spoon's money. She didn't look Jake in the eye; she tried to make herself small. Maybe, if she was lucky, the boy would just do it and go.

Maggie wasn't lucky, though. The minute she took Jake's money he drew back his hand and slapped her hard in the face.

Jake slapped the whore because he was angry with her for being so standoffish and lingering so long, but he also gave her the slap because that was how Madame Scull had started things with him. The minute he walked upstairs she would come out of the bedroom and slap his face. The next thing he knew they would be on the floor, tussling fiercely. Then they would do the raw things.

He wanted, again, what he had had with Inez Scull. He didn't understand why she had cut his hair and thrown him out. Her coldness upset him so that he stole a bottle of whiskey from a shed behind the saloon and drank the whole bottle down.

The whiskey burned at first, and then numbed him a little, but it didn't cool the fever he felt at the memory of his hot tusslings with Inez Scull. Only a woman could cool that fever, and the handiest woman happened to be Woodrow Call's whore.

She had very white skin, the whore--when he slapped her, her cheek became immediately red. But the slap didn't set things off, as it had when Madame Scull slapped him. Maggie, Call's whore, didn't utter a sound. She didn't slap him back, or grab him, or do anything wild or raw. She just put the money away, took off her dress, and lay back on the bed, waiting. She wouldn't even so much as look at him, although, in an effort to make her a little more lively, he pulled her hair. But neither the slap nor the hair pulling worked at all.

Except for flexing herself a little when he crawled on top of her, the whore didn't move a muscle, or speak or cry out or yell or bite or even sigh. She didn't scream and kick and jerk, as Madame Scull did every time they were together.

As soon as the young ranger finished--it took considerably longer than she had hoped--Maggie got off the bed and went behind a little screen, to clean herself. She meant to stay behind the screen, hiding, until Jake Spoon left. She knew she would have a bad bruise on her cheek, from the slap. She didn't want to see the young man again, if she could help it.

Again, though, Maggie was not lucky. While she was cleaning herself she heard Jake retching and went out to find him on his hands and knees again. At least he was vomiting in a basin; he had not ruined the new carpet she had saved up to buy.

Jake Spoon heaved and heaved.

Maggie saw how young he was and took a little pity.

When he finished being sick she cleaned him up a little and helped him out the door.

"Now boys, look there!" Inish Scull said, pointing westward at a small red butte.

"See that? Pretend it's your Alps." "Our what, Captain?" Long Bill inquired. It was breakfast time--Deets had just fried up some tasty bacon, and the breeze, though chilly, could be tolerated, particularly while he was sitting at the campfire holding a tin mug of scalding coffee that in texture was almost as thick as mud. All the rangers were hunched over their cups, letting the steam from the scalding coffee warm their cold faces. The exception was Woodrow Call, already saddled up and ready to ride--though even he had no notion of where they were headed, or why. They had travelled due south for a few days, but then the Captain suddenly bent to the west, toward a long empty space where, so far as any of the rangers knew, there was nothing to see or do.

The low, flat-topped hill was red in the morning sunlight.

"The Alps, Mr. Colemanffwas the Captain repeated. "If you find yourself in Switzerland or France you have to cross them before you can get to Italy and eat the tasty noodle. That was Hannibal's challenge. He had all those elephants, but the Alpine passes were deep in snow. What was he to do?" Captain Scull was drinking brandy, his morning drink and his evening drink, too, when he could have it.

One well-padded brace of saddlebags contained nothing but brandy. A tipple or swallow or two in the morning cleared his head wonderfully, when he was campaigning, and also rarely failed to put him in a pedagogical mood. History, military history in particular, was his passion.

Harvard wanted him to teach it, but he saw no reason to be teaching military history when he could go out in the field and make it, so he packed up the ardent Dolly Johnson, his Birmingham bride, and went to Texas to fight in the Mexican War, where he promptly captured three substantial towns and a number of sad villages. The air of the raw frontier so invigorated him that he gave little thought to going back to Boston, to the library and the ivied hall. Because of his long string of victories in Mexico he was soon offered the command of the disheveled but staunch band of irregulars known as the Texas Rangers.

Inish Scull was convinced, from what he knew of politics, that a great civil conflict was looming in America, but that conflict was yet some years away. When it came, Inish Scull meant to have a generalship--and what better way to capture the attention of the War Department than to whip the Comanche, the Kiowa, the Apache, the Pawnee, or any other tribe that attempted to resist the advance of Anglo-Saxon settlement?

Scull might not have broken the wild tribes yet, but he had harried them vigorously for almost ten years, while, little by little, settlement crept up the rivers and into the fertile valleys. Farms and ranches were established, burned out by the red men, and built again. Small poor townships were formed; wagon roads rutted the prairie; and the government slowly placed its line of forts along the northern and western line of settlement. All the while, Scull and his rangers ranged and ranged, hanging cattle thieves in the south and challenging the fighting Indians to the north.

Still, now and then, with a prickle of brandy in his nostrils, and a cold wind worthy of New England cooling his neck, Scull found that the professor was likely to revive in him, a little.

At moments he missed the learned talk of Cambridge; at times he grew depressed when he considered the gap in knowledge between himself and the poor dull fellows he commanded--they were brave beyond reason, but, alas, untutored. Young Call, it was true, was eager to learn, and Augustus McCrae sometimes mimicked a few lines of Latin picked up in some Tennessee school. But, the truth was, the men were ignorant, which is why, from time to time, with no immediate enemy to confront, he had started giving little impromptu lectures on the great battles of history. It was true that the little butte to the west did not look much like an Alp, but it was the only hill in sight, and would have to serve.

"No, you see, Hannibal and his elephants were on the wrong side of the hills--or at least he wanted his enemies to think so," Scull said, pacing back and forth, his brandy glass in his hand. He hated to drink brandy out of anything but glass. On every patrol he carefully wrapped and packed six brandy glasses, but, despite his caution, he would usually be reduced to taking his brandy out of a tin cup before the scout was finished.

"What was he doing with elephants if he was out there in the snows?" Augustus asked. He hated it when the Captain got in one of his lecturing moods--though, since as far as he could tell they were just wandering aimlessly now, it probably didn't much matter whether they were riding or getting a history lesson. Now there the Captain was, drunk on brandy, pointing at some dull little hill and prattling on about Hannibal and elephants and snow and Alps and Romans.

Gus could not remember ever having heard of Hannibal, and he did not expect to enjoy any lecture he might receive, mainly because one of his socks had wrinkled up inside his boot somehow and left him a painful blister on the bottom of his foot. He wanted to be back in Austin. If he limped into the Forsythe store looking pitiful enough Clara might tend to his blister and permit him a kiss besides. Instead, all he had in the way of comfort was a mug of coffee and a piece of sandy bacon, and even that comfort was ending. Deets had just confided in him that they only had bacon for one more day.

"Why, Hannibal was African," Scull said. "He was a man of Carthage, and not the only great commander to use war elephants, either.

Alexander the Great used them in India and Hannibal took his on over the Alps, snow or no snow, and fell on the Romans when they least expected it. Brilliant fighting, I call it." Call tried to imagine the scene the Captain was describing--the great beasts winding up and up, into the snowy passes--but he had never seen an elephant, just a few pictures of them in books. Though he knew most of the rangers found it boresome when the Captain started in lecturing, he himself enjoyed hearing about the battles Captain Scull described. His reading ability was slowly improving, enough so that he hoped, in time, to read about some of the battles himself.

Just as the Captain was warming to his subject, Famous Shoes suddenly appeared, almost at the Captain's elbow. As usual, all the boys gave a start; none of them had seen the tracker approach. Even Captain Scull found Famous Shoes' suddenly appearances a little unnerving.

"I was in the camp of Buffalo Hump, he has a new wife," Famous Shoes said.

"His son took me prisoner for a while--he was the one who killed Mr. Watson. They call him "Blue Duck."' His mother was a Mexican woman who froze to death trying to get away from Buffalo Hump." Inish Scull smiled.

"You'd make a fine professor, sir," he said. "You've managed to tell us more about this scamp Blue Duck than I've been able to get across about Hannibal and his elephants. What else should I know? Has Kicking Wolf crossed the Alps with those stallions yet?" His witticism was lost on Famous Shoes, who did not particularly appreciate interruptions while trying to deliver his reports.

"Slow Tree came into camp with many warriors and many women," Famous Shoes went on. "Slow Tree wanted to kill me but Buffalo Hump will not let anybody kill me." "Whoa, that's news--why not?" Scull asked.

"I helped his grandmother die," Famous Shoes said. "I do not have to worry about Buffalo Hump." "Is that all?" Scull asked.

"You do not have to worry about Buffalo Hump either," Famous Shoes said. "He is still with Slow Tree. But Kicking Wolf is following you now." "Kicking Wolf--why, the rascal!" Scull exclaimed. "A few days ago I was following him. Why would the man we were chasing want to follow us?" "He probably wants to steal more horses," Call said. "Stealing horses is what he's good at." "It could be that, or he might mean to cut our throats," Inish Scull commented. He looked at the scout, but Famous Shoes seemed to have no opinion as to Kicking Wolf's plans.

"I didn't see him," he said. "I only saw his tracks. He has Three Birds with him." "Well, that doesn't tell me much," Scull said. "I've not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Three Birds. What kind of fellow is he?" "Three Birds is quiet--he does not speak his thoughts," Famous Shoes said. "The two of them are alone. The rest of the warriors are at the feast Buffalo Hump is giving for Slow Tree." "If it's just two of them, I say let 'em come," Augustus said. "I expect we can handle two Indians, even if one of them is Kicking Wolf." Call thought the opposite. Two Indians would be harder to detect than fifteen. It struck him as peculiar that Kicking Wolf chose to follow them just then; after all, he had just escaped with three fine stallions. They were probably better horses than any the ranger troop could boast--withthe exception of Hector, of course.

Scull strode up and down for a while, looking across the plain as if he expected to see Kicking Wolf heave into sight at any moment. But, except for two hawks soaring, there was nothing to see in any direction but grass.

"I have known Three Birds for a long time," he said. "He does not hate Kickapoos.

Once I helped him track a cougar he had shot. I think that cougar might have got away if I hadn't tracked it with him." Augustus was sometimes irked by Famous Shoes' pompous way of talking.

"I expect he's forgot about that cougar by now," he said. "He might step up and cut your throat before he could call it to mind." Famous Shoes considered the remark too absurd to reply to. Three Birds would never forget that he had helped him track the cougar, any more than Buffalo Hump would forget that he had been kind to his dying grandmother.

"Want me to see if I can surprise them, Captain?" Call asked--he was impatient with the inactivity. Talk was fine at night, but it was daytime and his horse was saddled and eager.

"You can't catch them," Famous Shoes said.

"They are following you, but they are not close, and they have better horses than you do. If you chase them they will lead you so far away that you will starve before you can get back." Call ignored the scout and looked at the Captain--he saw no reason to tolerate a hostile pursuit.

Captain Scull looked at the young man with amusement--he obviously wanted to go chase Indians, despite the scout's plain warning.

"I've been out there before and I didn't starve," Call informed him.

Scull pursed his lips but said nothing. He walked over to his saddlebags and rummaged in them until he came out with a small book. Then he walked back to the campfire, settled himself comfortably on a sack of potatoes, and held up the book, which was well used.

"Xenophon," he said. "The March of the Ten Thousand. Of course, we're only twelve men, but when I read Xenophon I can imagine that we're ten thousand." Augustus had quietly saddled up--if there was a pursuit, he wanted to be part of it.

Several other rangers began to stir themselves, pulling on their boots and looking to their guns.

"Here, stop that!" Captain Scull said suddenly, looking up from his book. "I won't send you off to chase a phantom, in country this spare. Just because Mr. Call didn't starve in it on his last visit doesn't mean he couldn't starve tomorrow--andthe rest of you too.

"There's always a first time, they say," he added.

"I expect it was some smart Greek said that, or else our own Papa Franklin." Then he paused and smiled benignly at his confused and ragged men.

"Ever hear Greek read, boys?" he asked.

"It's a fine old language--the language of Homer and Thucydides, not to mention Xenophon, who's our author today. I've a fair amount of Greek still in my head. I'll read to you, if you like, about the ten thousand men who marched home in defeat." Nobody said yes, and nobody said no. The men just stood where they were, or sat if they had not yet risen. Deets put a few more sticks on the fire.

"That's fine, the ayes have it," Captain Scull said.

He looked around with a grin, and then, sitting on the sack of potatoes, and squinting in order to see the small print of his pocket Xenophon, he read to the troop in Greek.

"That was worse than listening to a bunch of Comanches gobble at one another," Long Bill said, once the reading was over and the troop once again on the move.

"I'd rather listen to pigs squeal than to hear goings-on like that," Ikey Ripple added.

Augustus had disliked the reading as much as anyone, but the fact that Long Bill had spoken out against it rubbed him the wrong way.

"That was Greek," he reminded them haughtily. "Everybody ought to hear Greek now and then, and Latin too. I could listen all day to someone read Latin." Call knew that Augustus claimed some knowledge of Latin, but he had never been convinced by the claim.

"I doubt you know a ^w of either language," Call said. "You didn't understand that reading and neither did anybody else." Unlike the rangers, Famous Shoes had been mightily impressed by the Captain's reading. He himself could speak several dialects and follow the track of any living animal; but Captain Scull had followed an even harder and more elusive track: the tiny, intricate track that ran across the pages of the book. That Big Horse Scull could follow a little track through page after page of a book and turn what he saw into sound was a feat that never ceased to amaze the Kickapoo.

"That might be the way a god talks," he commented.

"Nope, it was just some old Greek fellow who lost a war and had to tramp back home with his ten thousand men," Augustus said.

"That's a lot of men," Call said. "I wonder how many fought on the side that won." "Why would you care, Woodrow? You didn't even like hearing Greek," Augustus pointed out.

"No," Call said, "but I can still wonder about that war."

Kicking Wolf was amused by the carelessness of Big Horse Scull, who put three men at a time to guard the rangers' horses and the two pack mules, but did not bother with guards for the Buffalo Horse. The men on guard were rotated at short intervals, too--yet Scull did not seem to think the Buffalo Horse needed watching.

"He does not think anyone would try to steal the Buffalo Horse," Kicking Wolf told Three Birds, after they had watched the rangers and their horses for three nights.

"Scull is careless," he added.

Three Birds, for once, had a thought he didn't want to keep inside himself.

"Big Horse is right," Three Birds said. He pointed upward to the heavens, which were filled with bright stars.

"There are as many men as there are stars," Three Birds said. "They are not all here, but somewhere in the world there are that many men." "What are you talking about?" Kicking Wolf said.

Three Birds pointed to the North Star, a star much brighter than the little sprinkle of stars around it.

"Only one star shines to show where the north is," Three Birds said. "Only one star, of all the stars, shines for the north." Kicking Wolf was thinking it was pleasanter when Three Birds didn't try to speak his thoughts, but he tried to listen politely to Three Birds' harmless ^ws about the stars.

"You are like the North Star," Three Birds said. "Only you of all the men in the world could steal the Buffalo Horse. That horse might be a witch--some say that it can fly. It might turn and eat you, when you go up to it. Yet you are such a thief that you are going to steal it anyway.

"Big Horse doesn't know that the North Star has come to take his horse," he added.

"If he knew, he would be more careful." On the fourth night, after studying the situation well, Kicking Wolf decided it was time to approach the Buffalo Horse. The weather conditions were good: there was a three-quarter moon, and the brightness of the stars was dimmed just enough by scudding, fast-moving clouds. Kicking Wolf could see all he needed to see. He had carefully prepared himself by fasting, his bowels were empty, and he had rubbed sage all over his body. Scull even left a halter on the Buffalo Horse.

Once Kicking Wolf had reassured the big horse with his touch and his stroking, all he would have to do would be to take the halter and quietly lead the Buffalo Horse away.

As he was easing along the ground on his belly, so that the lazy guards wouldn't see him, Kicking Wolf got a big shock: suddenly the Buffalo Horse raised its ear, turned its head, and looked right at him. Kicking Wolf was close enough then that he could see the horse's breath making little white clouds in the cold night.

When he realized that the Buffalo Horse knew he was there, Kicking Wolf remembered Three Birds' warning that the horse might be a witch. For an instant, Kicking Wolf felt fear--big fear. In a second or two the big horse could be on him, trampling him or biting him before he could crawl away.

Immediately Kicking Wolf rose to a crouch, and got out of sight of the Buffalo Horse as fast as he could. He was very frightened, and he had not been frightened during the theft of a horse in many years.

The Buffalo Horse had smelled him even though he had no smell, and heard him even though he made no sound.

"I think he heard my breath," he said, when he was safely back with Three Birds. "A man cannot stop his breath." "The other horses didn't know you were there," Three Birds told him. "Only the Buffalo Horse noticed you." Though he was not ready to admit it, Kicking Wolf had begun to believe that Three Birds might be right. The Buffalo Horse might be a witch horse, a horse that could not be stolen.

"We could shoot it and see if it dies," Three Birds suggested. "If it dies it is not a witch horse." "Be quiet," Kicking Wolf said. "I don't want to shoot it. I want to steal it." "Why?" Three Birds asked. He could not quite fathom why Kicking Wolf had taken it into his head to steal the Buffalo Horse. Certainly it was a big stout horse whose theft would embarrass the Texans. But Three Birds took a practical view. If it was a witch horse, as he believed, then it could not be stolen, and if it wasn't a witch horse, then it was only another animal--an animal that would die some day, like all animals. He did not understand why Kicking Wolf wanted it so badly.

"It is the great horse of the Texans--it is the best horse in the world," Kicking Wolf said, when he saw Three Birds looking at him quizzically.

Once he calmed down he decided he had been too hasty in his judgment. Probably the Buffalo Horse wasn't a witch horse at all--probably it just had an exceptionally keen nose. He decided to follow the rangers another day or two, so he could watch the horse a little more closely.

It was aggravating to him that Famous Shoes, the Kickapoo tracker, was with the Texans. Famous Shoes was bad luck, Kicking Wolf thought.

He was a cranky man who was apt to turn up anywhere, usually just when you didn't want to see him. He enjoyed the protection of Buffalo Hump, though: otherwise some Comanche would have killed him long ago.

The old men said that Famous Shoes could talk to animals--they believed that there had been a time when all people had been able to talk freely with animals, to exchange bits of information that might be helpful, one to another. There were even a few people who supposed that Kicking Wolf himself could talk to horses--otherwise how could he persuade them to follow him quietly out of herds that were well guarded by the whites?

Kicking Wolf knew that was silly. He could not talk to horses, and he wasn't sure that anyone could talk to animals, anymore. But the old people insisted that some few humans still retained the power to talk with birds and beasts, and they thought Famous Shoes might be such a person.

Kicking Wolf doubted it, but then some of the old ones were very wise; they might know more about the matter than he did. If the Kickapoo tracker could really talk to animals, then he might have spoken to the Buffalo Horse and told him Kicking Wolf meant to steal him. Whether he could talk to animals or not, Famous Shoes was an exceptional tracker. He would certainly be aware that he and Three Birds were following the Texans. But he was a curious man. He might not have taken the trouble to mention this fact to the Texans--he might only have told the Buffalo Horse, feeling that was all that was necessary.

It was while watching the Buffalo Horse make water one evening that Kicking Wolf remembered old Queta, the grandfather of Heavy Leg, Buffalo Hump's oldest wife.

Queta, too, had been a great horse thief; he was not very free with his secrets, but once, while drunk, he had mentioned to Kicking Wolf that the way to steal difficult horses was to approach them while they were pissing. When a horse made water it had to stretch out--it could not move quickly, once its flow started.

Kicking Wolf had already noticed that the Buffalo Horse made water for an exceptionally long time. The big horse would stretch out, his legs spread and his belly close to the ground, and would pour out a hot yellow stream for several minutes.

If Big Horse Scull was mounted when this happened he sometimes took a book out of his saddlebags and read it. On one occasion, while the Buffalo Horse was pissing, Scull did something very strange, something that went with the view that the Buffalo Horse was a witch horse. Scull slipped backward onto the big horse's rump, put his head on the saddle, and raised his legs. He stood on his head in the saddle while the Buffalo Horse pissed. Of course it was not unusual for men who were good riders to do feats of horsemanship--Comanche riders, particularly young riders, did them all the time. But neither Kicking Wolf nor Three Birds had ever seen a rider stand on his head while a horse was pissing.

"I think Big Horse is crazy," Three Birds said, when he saw that. Those were his last ^ws on the subject and his only ^ws on any subject for several days. Three Birds decided he had been talking too much; he went back to his old habit of keeping his thoughts inside himself.

Kicking Wolf decided he should wait until the Buffalo Horse was pissing before he approached him again. It would require patience, because horses did not always make water at night; they were more apt to wait and relieve themselves in the early morning.

When he mentioned his intention to Three Birds, Three Birds merely made a gesture indicating that he was not in the mood to speak.

Then, that very night, opportunity came. The men who were around the campfire were all singing; the Texans sang almost every night, even if it was cold. Kicking Wolf was not far from the Buffalo Horse when the big horse began to stretch out.

As soon as the stream of piss was flowing from the horse's belly, Kicking Wolf moved, and this time the big horse did not look around. In a minute, Kicking Wolf was close to him and grasped the halter--the Buffalo Horse gave a little snort of surprise, but that was all. All the time the Buffalo Horse was pissing Kicking Wolf stroked him, as he had stroked the many horses he had stolen. When the yellow water ceased to flow Kicking Wolf pulled on the halter, and, to his relief, the big horse followed him. The great horse moved as quietly as he did, a fact that, for a moment, frightened Kicking Wolf. Maybe he was not the one playing the trick--maybe the Buffalo Horse .was a witch horse, in which case the horse might be following so quietly only in order to get him off somewhere and eat him.

Soon, though, they were almost a mile from the ranger camp, and the Buffalo Horse had not eaten him or given him any trouble at all. It was following as meekly as a donkey--or more meekly; few donkeys were meek--then Kicking Wolf felt a great surge of pride. He had done what no other Comanche warrior could have done: he had stolen the Buffalo Horse, the greatest horse that he had ever taken, the greatest horse the Texans owned.

He walked another mile, and then mounted the Buffalo Horse and rode slowly to where he had left Three Birds. He did not want to gallop, not yet. None of the rangers were alert enough to pick up a horse's gallop at that distance, but Famous Shoes was there, and he might put his ear to the ground and hear the gallop.

Three Birds was in some kind of trance when Kicking Wolf rode up to him. Three Birds had their horses ready, but he himself was sitting on a blanket, praying. The man often prayed at inconvenient times. When he looked up from his prayer and saw Kicking Wolf coming on the Buffalo Horse all he said was, "Ho!" "I have stolen the Buffalo Horse," Kicking Wolf said. "You shouldn't be sitting on that dirty blanket praying. You should be making a good song about what I have done tonight. I went to the Buffalo Horse while he was making water, and I stole him. When Big Horse Scull gets up in the morning he will be so angry he will want to make a great war on us." Three Birds thought that what Kicking Wolf said was probably true. Scull would make a great war, because his horse had been stolen. He immediately stopped praying and caught his horse.

"Let's go a long way now," he said.

"All those Texans will be chasing us, when it gets light." "We will go a long way, but don't forget to make the song," Kicking Wolf said.

"Genius! it's absolute genius!" Inish Scull said, when told that his great warhorse, Hector, had been stolen. "The man took Hector right out from under my nose. The other horses, now that took skill. But stealing Hector? That's genius!" It was hardly the reaction the rangers had expected. The four men on guard at the time-- Long Bill Coleman, Pea Eye Parker, Neely Dickens, and Finch Seeger--were lined up with hangdog looks on their faces. All of them expected the firing squad; after all, they had let the most important horse in Texas get stolen.

None of them had seen or heard a thing, either.

The big horse had been grazing peacefully the last time they had looked. They had been expecting Kicking Wolf to try for the other horses. It hadn't occurred to any of them that he might steal the big horse.

"You should have expected it!" Call told them sternly, when the theft was discovered. "He might be big, but he was still a horse, and horses are what Kicking Wolf steals." Augustus McCrae, like Captain Scull, could not suppress a sneaking admiration for Kicking Wolf's daring. It was a feat so bold it had to be credited, and he told Woodrow as much.

"I don't credit it," Call said. "It's still just a thief stealing a horse. We ought to be chasing him, instead of standing around talking about it." "We've been chasing him off and on for ten years and we ain't caught him," Gus pointed out. "The man's too fleet for us. I'd like to see you go into Buffalo Hump's camp and steal one of his horses sometime." "I don't claim to be a horse thief," Call said. "The reason we don't catch him is because we stop to sleep and he don't." Call felt a deep irritation at what had happened. The irritation was familiar; he had felt it almost every time they had gone after the Comanches. In a direct conflict they might win, if the conflict went on long enough for their superior weaponry to prevail. But few engagements with the Comanche involved direct conflict. It was chase and wait, thrust and parry--and, always, the Comanches concentrated on what they were doing while the rangers usually piddled. Their own preparations were seldom thorough, or their tactics precise--the Comanches were supposed to be primitive, yet they fought with more intelligence than the rangers were usually able to muster. It irked Call, and had always irked him. He resolved that if he ever got to be a captain he would plan better and press the enemy harder, once a battle was joined.

Of course the force they had to deploy was not large. Captain Scull, like Buffalo Hump, preferred to mount a small, quick, mobile troop. Yet in Call's view there was always something ragtag about the ranger forces he went out with. Some of the men would always be drunk, or in love with a whore, or deep into a gambling frenzy when the time came to leave; they would be left behind while men who were barely skilled enough to manage town life would join up, wanting a grand adventure. Also, the state of Texas allotted little money for the ranger force--now that the Comanches had stopped snatching children from the outskirts of Austin and San Antonio, the legislature saw no need to be generous with the rangers.

"They don't need us anymore, the damn politicians," Augustus said. He had become increasingly resentful of all forms of law and restraint. The result of the legislature's parsimonious attitude toward frontier defense meant that the rangers often had to set out on a pursuit indifferently mounted and poorly provisioned. Often, like the Indians they were pursuing they had to depend on hunting--or even fishing--in order to survive until they could get back.

Now, though, Kicking Wolf had stolen the big horse, and all Captain Scull could think of to do was call him a genius.

"What is a genius, anyway?" Augustus asked, addressing the question to the company at large.

"I guess the Captain's a genius, you ought to ask him," Call said.

The Captain, at the moment, was walking around with Famous Shoes, attempting to discover how the theft had been accomplished.

"A genius is somebody with six toes or more on one foot," Long Bill declared. "That's what I was told at home." Neely Dickens, a small, reedy man prone to quick darting motions that reminded Gus of minnows, took a different view.

"Geniuses don't have no warts," he claimed.

"In that case I'm a genius because I am rarely troubled with warts," Augustus said.

"I've heard that geniuses are desperate smart," Teddy Beatty said. "I met one once up in St. Louis and he could spell ^ws backwards and even say numbers backwards too." "Now, what would be the point of spelling backwards?" Augustus asked. "If you spell backwards you wouldn't have much of a ^w. I expect you was drunk when you met that fellow." Finch Seeger, the largest and slowest man in the company when it came to movement, was also the slowest when it came to thinking. Often Finch would devote a whole day to one thought--the thought that he wanted to go to a whorehouse, for example. He did not take much interest in the question of geniuses, but he had no trouble keeping an interest in food. Deets had informed the company that there was only a little bacon left, and yet they were a long way from home. The prospect of baconless travel bored into Finch's mind like a screwworm, so painfully that he was moved to make a comment.

"Pig," he said, to everyone's surprise.

"I wish we had us a good fat pig." "Now Finch, keep quiet," Augustus said, though the comment was the only ^w Finch Seeger had uttered in several days.

"No one was discussing swine," Gus added.

"No one was discussing anything," Call remarked. "Finch has as much right to talk as you have." Finch ignored the controversy his remark had ignited. He looked across the empty prairie and his mind made a picture of a fat pig. The pig was nosing around behind a chaparral bush, trying to root out a mouse, or perhaps a snake. He meant to be watchful during the day, so that if they came upon the pig he saw in his mind they could kill it promptly and replenish their bacon supply.

"Well, that's one less horse," Long Bill commented. "I guess one of us will have to ride a pack mule, unless the Captain intends to walk." "I doubt he intends to walk, we're a far piece out," Call said, only to be confounded a few minutes later by the Captain's announcement that he intended to do just that.

"Kicking Wolf stole Hector while Hector was pissing--it was the only time he could have approached him," Scull announced to the men.

"Famous Shoes figured it out. Took him while he was pissing. Famous Shoes thinks he might have whispered a spell into his ear, but I doubt that." While the rangers watched he began to rake around in his saddlebags, from which he extracted his big plug of tobacco, a small book, and a box of matches wrapped in oilskin. He had a great gray coat rolled up behind his saddle, but, after a moment's thought, he left it rolled up.

"Too heavy," he said. "I'll be needing to travel light. I'll just dig a hole at night, bury a few coals in it, and sleep on them if it gets nippy." Scull stuffed a coat pocket full of bullets, pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, and scanned the plain with a cheerful, excited look on his face, actions which puzzled Call and Gus in the extreme. Captain Scull seemed to be making preparations to strike out on foot, although they were far out on the llano and in the winter too. The Comanches knew where they were, Buffalo Hump and Slow Tree as well. What would induce the Captain to be making preparations for foot travel?

And what was the troop to do, while he walked?

But Scull had a cheerful grin on his bearded face.

"Opportunity, men--it knocks but once," he said. "I think it was Papa Franklin who said that--it's in Poor Richard, I believe.

Now, adversity and opportunity are kissing cousins, I say. My horse is missing but he's no dainty animal. He leaves a big track. I've always meant to study tracking--xs a skill I lack. Famous Shoes here is a great authority. He claims he can even track bugs. So we'll be leaving you now, gentlemen.

Famous Shoes is going to teach me tracking, while he follows my horse." "But Captain, what about us?" Long Bill asked, unable to suppress the question.

"Why, go home, boys, just go home," Captain Scull said. "Just go home-- no need for you to trail along while I'm having my instruction. Mr. Call and Mr.

McCrae, I'll make you co-commanders.

Take these fine men back to Austin and see that they are paid when you get there." The rangers looked at one another, mightily taken aback by this development. Famous Shoes had not returned to camp. He was waiting on the plain, near where the big horse had been taken.

Captain Scull rummaged a little more in his saddlebags but found nothing more that he needed.

"I've got to pare down to essentials, men," he said, still with his excited grin. "A knife, some tobacco, my firearms, matches--a man ought to be able to walk from Cape Cod to California with no more than that. And if he can't he deserves to die where he drops, I say." Call thought the man was mad. He was so impatient to be striking out alone, into the middle of nowhere, that he didn't even want to stop and give proper orders--he just wanted to leave.

S--suddenly and unexpectedly--he and Augustus had been thrown into a situation they had often discussed. They were in charge of a troop of rangers, if only for the course of a homeward journey. It was what they had long desired, and yet it had arrived too suddenly. It didn't seem right.

"So, we are just to go home?" Call said, to be sure he had it right.

"Yes, home," Captain Scull said.

"If you encounter any rank bandits along the way, hang them. Otherwise, get on home and wait until you hear from me." We won't hear from you, you fool, Augustus thought. But he didn't say it.

"What will we tell Mrs. Scull?" he inquired.

"Why, nothing," Scull said. "Inez ain't your concern, she's mine. If I were you I'd just try to avoid her." "Sir, she may be worried," Call said.

The Captain stopped rummaging in his saddlebags for a moment and turned his head, as if the notion that his wife might be worried about him was a novelty he had never before considered.

"Why, no, Mr. Call," he said. "Inez won't be worried. She'll just be angry." He grinned once more at the troop, waved his hand, picked up his rifle, and strode off toward Famous Shoes, who fell in with him without a ^w. The two men, both short, walked away into the empty distance.

"Well, there they go, Woodrow," Gus said.

"We're captains now, I reckon." "I reckon," Call said.

The departure of their captain was so sudden, so unexpected, and so incomprehensible to the rangers, one and all, that for a time they all stood where they were, staring at the two departing figures, who were very soon swallowed up by a dip in the prairies.

"If I wasn't awake I'd think I was asleep," Long Bill said. "I'd think I was having a dream." "Don't you be bossing me yet, Gus," he added, a moment later. "This might just be a dream." "No, it's no dream," Call said. "The Captain left, and he left on foot." "Well, the fool ought to have taken a horse, or a mule, at least," Augustus said. His thoughts were confused, from the suddenness of it. Captain Scull was gone and now he was a captain himself, or half of one, at least.

"That's my view," Neely Dickens said.

"If he didn't like none of the spare horses he could have taken the mule, at least. Then he'd have something to eat if there wasn't no game to be found." "He's with Famous Shoes," Call reminded them. "Famous Shoes travels all over this country and he don't starve." "He might find that pig before we do," Finch Seeger remarked apprehensively. The pig he had seen in his mind, rooting behind a chaparral bush, had quickly become a reality to him. He was annoyed by the thought that Captain Scull might beat him to the pig--in his mind the pig belonged to the troop--Deets could cook it up in a tasty way.

The country did not look like pig country, to Deets. "I be happy with a few prairie dogs," he whispered to Pea Eye.

Pea Eye was wishing ever more powerfully that he had not chosen to become a Texas Ranger so early in his life. His understanding of the business was that captains always stayed with their troops, yet their captain had just walked off.

It was confusing behaviour; and it was still windy, too.

He thought he might like rangering a little better if the wind would just die.

It did not take Augustus McCrae more than three minutes to adjust to his promotion to captain. He had been feeling rather gloomy, thanks to low grub and uncertain prospects, and now all of a sudden he was a captain, a thing that made him feel better almost immediately. He decided that his first act as captain would be to press for a quick return to Austin, so he could tell the news to Clara. Now that he was a captain she would have no excuse to refuse him. He meant to point that out to her plainly, as soon as they arrived.

"Now, don't you be bossing me too hard today, Gus," Long Bill said. "I've got to have a day or two to adjust to this notion that you're a captain." "That's twice you've said that. I order you to shut up about it," Gus said. "You oughtn't to be picking on me anyway. Woodrow's a captain too and he'll be a harder boss than me once he gets the hang of the job." "Hang of it? Surviving's the hang of it," Call said. "I scarcely even know where we are, and I doubt you do either." "Well, we're west, I know that," Augustus said. "Dern the Captain, why'd he take our scout?" "Scout up my fat pig, if you don't mind," Finch Seeger said. "He's behind a bush, rooting up a snake, I expect." All the rangers felt a little embarrassed by Finch's fixation on an imaginary pig. Finch Seeger was a ranger mainly because of his strength.

If a log was in the way of a wagon, Finch could dismount and remove it without assistance; but of course that skill was useless on the llano, where there were few obstructions to free travel. With no logs to clear away, Finch's usefulness as a ranger was much diminished. The fact was, Finch was not entirely right in the head. Once he formed a notion that pleased him, he wrapped his mind around it like a chain.

"Now hush about that hog, Finch," Neely Dickens said. He was a little embarrassed for his friend. Anybody could see they weren't likely to encounter a pig.

"We're in dry country," Call said. "We better decide which river to make for." "I vote for the good old Brazos," Long Bill said. "The Brazos ain't far from my home and my Pearl." Call walked off a little distance, hoping Augustus would follow. He considered Captain Scull derelict, for simply walking off from his command. The fact that he had split the command between himself and Augustus didn't seem very sensible, either. Though he and Augustus were good friends, they had a way of disagreeing about almost everything. As soon as he said they ought to make for the Brazos, Gus would argue that they were closer to the Pecos. Fear of disagreement had prompted him to walk off. He didn't want to start off his captaincy by quarrelling in front of the boys.

Augustus, though, once he came and joined Call, proved hesitant. Though he was pleased for a few minutes to be a captain, the responsibility of it quickly came to seem overwhelming. What if he gave an order and it proved to be the wrong order? All the men might die. Woodrow's first remark had been correct: surviving was what they had to think of.

They had only one day's food, and little water.

The very emptiness of the plain was daunting. One direction might be no better than another.

"Which way do you think we ought to go?" Woodrow asked--Augustus opened his mouth to answer and then realized he didn't know what to say. The weight of command had suddenly become very heavy. He had no idea which way they ought to go.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Woodrow asked.

"You've been talking ever since I've known you, why'd you suddenly dry up?" "Because I don't know how to be a captain--at least I'm man enough to admit it," Augustus said.

"What do you think we ought to do, if you know so much?" "I don't know so much," Call said.

"I've taken orders the whole time I've been a ranger. Why would I know any more than you do?" "Because you're a studier, Woodrow," Augustus said. "You've been reading in that book about Napoleon for years. Me, I'm mainly just a whorer." He took one more look at the landscape, and then turned to his friend.

"All right," he said. "I'll try to captain if you'll help. I favor trying to strike the Red River. I expect the Pecos is closer but there's little game on the Pecos.

If we go that way we'd probably have to eat the horses. We've got those extra mules. I say we eat the mules, if we have to, and make for the Red. There's plentiful deer along the Red." To Gus's relief, Woodrow Call smiled, a rare thing in general, Woodrow being mainly solemn, but especially rare considering the hard circumstances they faced.

"The Red was my thinking too," Call said.

"Is it?" Augustus said, relieved.

Usually Woodrow took the opposite view, just because it was opposite, as far as he could tell.

Both of them turned for a moment and looked at the camp, fifty yards away. All the rangers were looking at them, waiting to see if they would quarrel.

"The boys depend on us now," Call said.

"It's up to us to get them home." "I just hope we don't run into a big bunch of Comanches," Augustus said. "A big bunch of Comanches could probably finish us." "One of us will have to scout, and the other stay with the troop," Call said.

"I agree," Gus said.

"It's a big thing we're taking on," Call said. "We need to keep our heads and do it right." "We'll get these boys home," Augustus said, proud but a little nervous. He looked once more at Woodrow, to be sure they were still agreed on the directions.

"So the Red River it is?" he said.

"Yes, and let's get started," Call said.

"The Red River it is."

Famous Shoes was surprised to see that Big Horse Scull could walk so well. Usually he could easily walk off and leave any white man, but he did not walk off and leave Scull.

When they camped the first night the man did not seem tired, nor did he insist on the large wasteful fires that the whites usually made when the nights were cold. Their fire was only a few sticks, with just enough flame to singe the prairie chicken Scull had hit with a rock. The clouds blew away and the stars above them were very clear, as they divided the skinny bird, which was old and tough.

Famous Shoes had begun to realize that Scull was a very unusual man. They had walked all day at a fast clip, yet Scull did not seem tired and did not appear to want sleep.

Famous Shoes yawned and grew sleepy but Scull merely kept chewing his tobacco and spitting out the juice. Famous Shoes thought Scull might be some form of witch or possessed person. He was not a comfortable man to be with. There was something in him like the lightning, a small lightning but still apt to flash at any moment. Famous Shoes did not enjoy being with a man who flashed like lightning, causing unquiet feelings, but there was not much he could do about it.

"Do you know this Ahumado?" Scull asked.

"No," Famous Shoes said, very startled by the question. They were pursuing Kicking Wolf, not Ahumado.

"No one knows Ahumado," he added. "I only know where he lives." "Somebody must know him," Scull said. He had begun to think of walking to Mexico, to kill Ahumado, the man who had shot him and also Hector. The thought of a lone strike had only occurred to him that day. Once he had wanted to take cannons to Mexico, to blast Ahumado out of the Yellow Cliffs. But now that he was alone on the prairie, with only the tracker for company, Inish Scull felt that it was time for a turning.

Commanding men was a tiresome chore, one he had done long enough. He might do it again, once the great civil conflict came, but now he had the desire to cast off all that had gone before and go into Mexico alone. The remote parts of the world haunted him: Africa, the Arctic, the great peaks of Asia.

He didn't want merely to go back to Austin, to Inez, to the rangers. He wanted an adventure, and one he could pursue alone.

"A military unit is a fine thing when it works," he said. "But it usually don't work. A solitary feat of arms is better, if the foe is worthy. This Kicking Wolf ain't much of a foe, though I grant that he's a brilliant thief. But I doubt that he's much of a killer--the two skills don't go together." Famous Shoes didn't know what to make of that comment. There were plenty of dead Texans and Mexicans and Indians who were dead because of Kicking Wolf--theirthe families considered him killer enough. If Scull wanted to fight someone who killed better than Kicking Wolf, he should not have passed up Buffalo Hump, a man who could kill plenty well.

He didn't comment. It was night, a good time for napping. If they wanted to catch Kicking Wolf and get the Buffalo Horse back, they would need to be up walking plenty early.

"This fellow Ahumado's been a notable bandit for a long time," Scull said. "Somebody must have some information about him." Famous Shoes kept quiet. Ahumado was a bad, cruel man; even to talk of him was bad luck. Ahumado worked very bad tortures on the people he caught. In Famous Shoes' view it was unwise even to think of a man that bad. The old people of Mexico thought Ahumado could pick up thoughts out of the air. If Scull kept talking about him, or even thinking about him, Ahumado might pick the thoughts out of the air and come north looking for them.

Scull fell silent for a while. Famous Shoes was hoping he would nod, and sleep. It was better to sleep a little and then apply themselves to the pursuit of Kicking Wolf than to be talking around a campfire about Ahumado. The smoke of the fire might drift south into Mexico, carrying their thoughts with it. Perhaps Ahumado was so wise that he could find out what people were saying about him just from little whiffso of drifting smoke. It was a new thought--Famous Shoes didn't know if it was true. But it might be true, which was a good reason to stop talking about Ahumado.

"He might be a man to match me," Scull said. "Very damn few can match me. I have to seek them out, otherwise the salt might lose its savor." "We have to track Kicking Wolf first, and that will take a lot of time," Famous Shoes said.

Scull had taken his little book out of his pocket, but he didn't look into it. He merely held it in his hand, as he stared into the fire.

On the plain to the south, two wolves began to howl. One howled and then another answered, which was very disturbing to Famous Shoes. Many coyotes often spoke to one another, but it was rare for two wolves to howl. Famous Shoes didn't know what it meant, but he didn't like it. The two wolves should not be speaking to one another, not so early in the night. When he got home he meant to ask the old ones what it meant when two wolves howled early. He would have to seek the old ones--they would surely know.

When Call found the dead boy, and the tracks of twenty horses going north, he knew there would not be a simple trek back to Austin. The Indians were not far--piles of horse turds were still warm, and the blood from the boy's crushed skull had only just coagulated. Call was less than a mile ahead of the troop, scouting. The boy was no more than six years old, skinny and pale, and the raiders who killed him had only just passed.

Probably he had been too sickly to travel; they had hit him in the head with a rifle butt and left him, dead or dying.

Call pulled his rifle out of its scabbard and got down to examine the tracks. It was annoying that Scull had taken Famous Shoes--the Kickapoo could have read the tracks easily, told them what band the raiders belonged to, and, probably, how many captives they were carrying into captivity. Call was not so skilled, nor was anyone else in the troop.

He knelt by the dead boy and felt again the weariness that the sight of such quick, casual death raised in him. The boy was barefoot, and so skinny that it seemed he had never had a filling meal in his life; probably he hadn't. The likelihood was that he had been snatched off some poor farm off one of the several branches of the Brazos, the river that tempted settlement most, due to the fertility of its long, lightly wooded valleys.

When the troop came in sight and saw that Call was dismounted, the rangers spurred up and sped to him, only to stop and stare in silence at the dead boy, the thin line of blood from his broken skull streaking the gray grass.

"Lord, he was just a young 'un," Long Bill said.

"I just missed the raiding party," Call said.

"I doubt they're five miles ahead." Augustus, whose keen vision was his pride, looked far north and saw the raiding party--they were so far away that they were dots--too far away for him to make a count.

"I expect it was a hundred Indians at least, from all these tracks," Neely Dickens said, unnerved by the thought that there might be a massive army of Indians nearby.

"I can see them, you fool--there's not more than twenty," Augustus said. "And some of them are probably captives." "I ain't a fool and don't you be cussing me just because you got made a captain," Neely replied. His pride was easily wounded; when insulted he was apt to respond with a flurry of fisticuffso.

To Augustus's annoyance Neely looked as if he might be about to flare into the fistfight mode, even though they were in a chancy situation, with major decisions to be made.

"Well, you gave a high count, I'm sorry I bruised your feelings," Gus said. He realized that he had to watch his comments, now that he had risen in rank. In the old days a man who didn't appreciate his remarks could take a swing at him--several had--but now that he was a captain, a man who tried to give him a licking might have to be court-martialed, or even hung.

Though Neely's fistfights were ridiculous-- Neely was small and had never whipped anybody --Augustus thought it behooved him to be tolerant in the present situation; there were larger issues to be decided than whether Neely Dickens was a fool.

Call was glad Gus had made amends to Neely--it wouldn't do to have a big silly dispute, with Indians in sight.

"What do we do, Woodrow?" Long Bill asked. "Do we chase the rascals or do we let 'em go?" The minute he spoke Long Bill wondered if he had done wrong to call Woodrow by his first name. He had known Call for years and always called him merely by his name, but now Woodrow was a captain and Gus too. Was he expected to address both of them as "Captain"his He felt so uncertain that merely speaking to either one of them made him nervous.

"I doubt this boy was the only captive," Call said. "It's a large party. They might have his sisters and brothers, if he had any, or even his mother." "They probably stole a few horses, too," Augustus said. "I say we go after them." Call saw that Deets already had the dead boy's grave half dug. Deets had been given a sidearm, but no rifle, when they left Austin. An old pistol with a chipped sight was all he had to defend himself with--it was something Call meant to remedy, once they got home.

"Should we take all the boys, or just the best fighters?" he asked Augustus. That was the most worrisome question, in his view.

"I guess take 'em all," Gus said.

He was well aware that the men's fighting abilities varied greatly; still, it was a large party of Indians: the rangers ought to attack with a respectable force.

Call wasn't so sure. Half the men, at least, would just be in the way, in a running battle.

But the complexities of being a captain had begun to present themselves to him forcefully. If they just took the good fighters, who would take care of those who were left? As a group the less able men would be lucky to stay alive, even without Indians.

They'd get lost, or hunt badly; they might starve. But if he took them and they got killed or captured, their lives would be on his conscience, and Augustus's.

Another practical side of captaining was just beginning to worry him, and that was horses. It had been poor grazing lately, and they had had many hard days. None of the horses were in good flesh.

The skinniest had suffered as much as the men from the cold, sleety weather. Famous Shoes could have looked at the tracks and told them exactly what kind of condition the Indian horses were in, but he couldn't do that. However well or poorly the men fought, it would be the quality of their horseflesh that determined the outcome, if there was a long chase. It might be that their horses weren't a match for the Indian horses, in which case a chase would prove futile.

"What if we can't catch them? Our horses might be too poorly," Call asked.

"I don't know--but we've got to try," Augustus said. "That's a dead boy we're burying. We can't just go home and tell them we found a dead boy and didn't try to punish the killers, especially since they're in sight." "In your sight--I can't see them," Call said, but of course he agreed with the point. The boy was dead. It was the second time in his career that he had stumbled on a dead body, on the prairie--the first, long ago, had been a prospector of some kind. The chance of his finding the two bodies, on the wide plain, struck him-- if his route had varied by even fifty yards he might never have seen either body.

The boy, particularly, would have been hard to see, curled up like a young goat in some low grass. Yet Call had found him. It was curious--but there it was.

Neely Dickens, besides being quick to flare up, was also prone to attacks of severe pessimism if an undertaking of a dangerous nature was anticipated. When it became clear that they would all be required to go in pursuit of the raiding party, Neely immediately fell prey to dark forebodings.

"North--I thought we was through going north," he said. "I despise having to travel back toward the dern north, where it's so windy." "Then why'd you get in the rangers, anyway?" Teddy Beatty asked. "Rangers just go whichever direction they need to. You're in the wrong profession if you're picky about directions." "Couldn't get no other job," Neely admitted. "If I'd known I was going to have to go north I'd have tried to make it to Galveston instead." Augustus found the remark puzzling. Why would a fear of the north convince anybody that they ought to go to Galveston?

"Why Galveston, then, Neely?" he asked. The boy's grave had been hastily covered and the troop was ready to move in the direction Neely despised.

"Ships," Neely said. "If I was in Galveston I might could hide in a ship." "That don't make no sense," Long Bill observed. "Ships go north too." Neely Dickens was sorry he had ever brought the matter up. All the rangers were looking at him as if he were daft, which he wasn't. All his life he had heard stories about Comanche tortures. Several of the older rangers had described the practices to him. Comanches slit people open and poured hot coals into them while they were still alive.

"I won't have no Comanche cutting a hole in my belly and pouring in hot coals," he said, by way of explanation of his dislike of the northerly direction.

"Shut up that talk--let's go," Call said.

The men had been blue and apprehensive since Captain Scull left anyway--dwelling on the prospect of torture would only make matters worse. He knew from experience that when morale began to slip among a group of tired, ill-fed, nervous men, a whole troop could soon be put at risk, and he didn't intend to let that happen, not on his first try at being a captain.

He turned his horse and stopped the troop for a moment.

"You need to think about your horses first and foremost," he said. "Be sure their feet are sound. A lame horse will get you scalped quicker than anything in this country." "And be sure to sight your rifles every morning, too," Augustus added. "Bouncing around all day in a saddle scabbard can throw a gun off sight.

If a red warrior forty feet away is about to put an arrow in you, you don't want to have to stop and fix your sight." Teddy Beatty resented such instruction, particularly since the two captains were both younger than he was.

"I can't think about horses and guns all the time," he said, in a tone of complaint. "There's too much time for thinking out here on the plains." "Think about whores, then," Augustus said.

"Pretend you won enough money in a card game to buy fifty whores." "Buy fifty whores and do what with them?" Long Bill asked. "That's too many whores to worry with even if I wasn't a married man --and I am a married man." "It's just something to think about that's more cheerful than torture," Augustus explained.

"Survival's more cheerful than torture," Call said. "Watch your weapons and your horses and stay close to the group. That way you won't suffer nothing worse than hearing Gus McCrae talk about whores seven days out of the week." Neely Dickens heard the ^ws, but the ^ws didn't change his opinion. In his view it was hot coals in the belly for sure, if a man lingered too long in the north, in which direction, led by their young captains, they were even then tending.

Neely still thought the best plan would be to make for Galveston and hide out in a ship.

Maudy Clark only wanted to die--die and have no more freezing, no more outrage, no more having to worry about what Tana, the cruelest of her captors, would do to her at night, when they camped. Tana led the horse she was tied to himself; sometimes, even as they rode, he would drop back to pull her hair or beat her with a mesquite switch. Those torments were minor compared to what Tana and the other three Comanches did to her in camp. She had never expected to have to bear such abuse from men, and yet she still had two living children, Bessie and Dan, and could not allow herself to think too much about the luxury of death.

William, her husband, had been away, driving some stock to Victoria, when the four Comanches burst into her cabin and took her. The babe at her breast, little Sal, they had killed immediately by dashing her head against a log. Eddie, her oldest boy, hurt his leg in the first scuffle --the pain was such that he couldn't stop whimpering at night. Maudy would hear him crying even as she endured her torments. On the sixth day the Comanches lost patience with his crying and smashed his head in with a gun butt. Eddie was still breathing when they rode on--Maudy prayed someone would find Eddie and save him, but she knew it was an empty prayer. Eddie's head had been broken; no one could save him even if they found him, and who would find a small dying boy in such emptiness?

But Bessie and Dan, three and five, were still alive. They were hungry and cold, but they had not been hurt, apart from scratches received as the horses crashed through the south Texas brush.

Several times, during periods of outrage, Maudy had thought of grabbing a knife and slashing her own throat, but she could not surrender her life while her children needed her. Bessie and Dan had stopped watching what the men did to their mother. They sat with their eyes down, silent, trying to get a little warmth from the campfire. When the men let her tend them, Maudy fed them a few scraps of the deer meat she was allowed. She meant to keep them alive, if she could, until rescue came.

"Pa will be coming--he'll take us home," she told them, over and over.

Maudy knew that part was a lie. William wouldn't be the one to find them, if they were found and saved. William barely had the competence to raise a small crop and gather a few livestock; he would never be able to follow their trail from the brush country to the empty plains.

Besides, he had left home to be gone two weeks or more; he might not yet even realize that his cabin was burned, his baby dead, his pigs scattered, and his family stolen. Once he did discover it, there would be little he could do.

Yet Maudy held on to hope, for Bessie and Dan if not herself. She didn't know why the young Comanche Tana hated her so, but in his eyes she saw her death. She had seen children brought back from Comanche captivity before, and most recovered.

Bessie and Dan were sturdy children; they would recover too. But for herself she had no hope.

She and William had discussed the prospect of capture many times; everyone who farmed on the frontier knew women who had been taken. In those discussions William had always firmly instructed Maudy to kill herself rather than submit to savage outrage. There was always a loaded pistol in the cabin, just for that purpose.

William hated Indians. His parents and both his brothers had been killed in Indian raids on the Sabine River. More important to William even than the lives of his children was the knowledge that his wife, Maudy, would not be sullied by the embraces of red Comanches.

Maudy knew William was not alone in that feeling. Many men on the frontier made clear to their wives that they would not be accepted back, if they were taken and allowed themselves to survive. Of course, some men wavered and took their wives back anyway; but William Clark had nothing but scorn for such men. A woman who had lain with a Comanche, or any Indian, could not again hope to be a respectable wife.

So Maudy knew she was lost--she had been nursing little Sal when the braves burst in. It was a moment of deep peace, her last. She was caught before she could reach the pistol. That night, when Tana began his outraging, Maudy knew that her life with William Clark was lost and gone.

William would not think her worth recovery.

Even the children, if they were not brought back quickly, he might disown. But Maudy couldn't think about that; she had to concentrate on keeping her children alive.

She had to see that they got warmth, and food, and that they did not provoke their captors by lagging or crying.

At first, as they rose onto the plains and the weather grew sharp, clothes were the first worry. Their farm was in the south; the three of them were lightly clad. All that remained of the cotton dress she had been wearing was a few scraps tied around her loins. When the cold deepened, the Indians let her cover the children with a bit of old blanket at night. She herself had nothing. She had not yet recovered from the birth of little Sal, a fact lost on her captors. She awoke in the morning from her few minutes of restless sleep with blood frozen on her legs. She feared, for a time, that she might bleed to death, but she didn't, though at times she was so weak that her vision swam.

Fortunately an older man, whose name was Quick Antelope, was not so cruel as Tana. He joined in her torment, but without enthusiasm, and was kindly toward the children. When she could not interest them in taking food, Quick Antelope made a soup which tempted them. Once when Tana began to beat her with a heavy stick, murder in his eyes, Quick Antelope took the stick from him and made him calm down.

It was not until later that she learned the older warrior's name. At first the only name she knew was Tana, the young man with the deep burn of hatred in his eyes, the man who beat her hardest and devised the most intricate torments for her. It was Tana who hit her with hot sticks from the fire, who outraged her longest, and spat on her if she tried to resist.

The night after they left Eddie, Maudy began to sob and could not stop. She thought of her boy, lying in the thin grass with his broken head, dying alone, and the wall around her feelings broke.

She began to sob so loudly that all the warriors grew angry. Bessie and Dan were fearful; they tried to shush her, but Maudy could not be shushed.

Eddie was dead, little Sal was dead; tears flooded out and she could not stop them, even though Tana dragged her through the fire by one ankle and hit her so hard he knocked out one of her front teeth. But, in her bereavement, Maudy scarcely felt the beating or the burns. She cried until she had no strength left to cry. The Comanches, disgusted and fearful, finally left her alone. Snow began to fall, drifting out of the cold sky onto the dark plains.

Finally Maudy got up and pulled the scrap of blanket over Bessie and Dan; they watched the big snowflakes flutter into the campfire, causing it to make a spitting sound.

Across the campfire Tana was still looking at her, but Maudy sat close to her children and avoided his eyes.

Tana wanted Quick Antelope, Satay, and Big Neck to go on to the main camp with the captive white children and the fourteen horses they had stolen. The horses were not the skinny horses Kicking Wolf was always stealing from the poor farmers along the Brazos. These horses were used to eating good grass. They were strong fat horses, of the sort Buffalo Hump liked. Tana thought Buffalo Hump would be impressed with the horses --he wanted the other warriors to hurry and take the horses and the two children to Buffalo Hump's camp. The two children were sturdy; they had borne the trip well and could be traded, or else put to work in the camp.

What Tana wanted was to stay behind with the white woman and torture her to death, as vengeance against the whites who had killed his father. Long before, when Tana had been younger than the captive children, his father, Black Hand, had gone with many other chiefs to a big parley with the whites in a place of council. The whites had promised the chiefs safe passage--when they went into the tent to parley, the white chief had asked all the Comanche and Kiowa leaders to leave their weapons outside. Many of the chiefs, including Black Hand, had been reluctant to do this, but the whites made them strong promises and some chiefs agreed, though they were wary. They had no reason to trust the whites, and they didn't trust them.

Some of chiefs concealed at least a knife, when they went into the tent.

They were right to be wary, for the whites immediately tried to place all the chiefs under arrest, claiming that the chiefs had not returned all the white captives they were supposed to return.

Tana's father, Black Hand, protested that he had never agreed to return any captives, but the whites were arrogant and told the chiefs they would all be put in chains. The chiefs with knives immediately drew them and stabbed a few of the whites.

Then they cut their way out of the tent, but the tent had been surrounded by riflemen and all but four of the chiefs were immediately cut down, or captured. Black Hand was shot in the hip and taken prisoner. That night the white soldiers tormented him with hot bayonets and, in the morning they hung him, not with a rope but with a fine chain, so that he was a long time dying. Then, because Black Hand had been the most important chief to attend the parley, the whites cut off his head and kept it in a sack. They said they would return the head only when all the remaining white captives had been returned to Austin.

But it was too late to return any captives. The four chiefs who escaped told all the tribes about the dishonesty and treachery of the whites. The few captives held by the tribes at that time were immediately tortured to death.

Tana's own mother went to Austin to beg for the head of her husband. She wanted to put it with his body, so his spirit would be at rest. But the whites merely laughed at her and chased her out of town. One white man cut her legs with a whip--cut them so deeply that she still bore the scars.

Tana was young, but he had waited all his life to capture a white person, someone he could torture to avenge his father, whose head the whites had never returned. They had even lost the sack it was kept in; no one knew where the head of Black Hand was.

Though he had abused and beaten the white woman, what he had done was nothing compared to what he intended to do, once Quick Antelope and the others took the horses and left. Because of the whites and their treachery he had had no father to instruct him as he was growing up. He had yearned bitterly for his father; the torture of the skinny white woman would not make up for his loss, but it would help.

Quick Antelope, though, would not agree to go.

"We have to take all the captives to Buffalo Hump," he insisted. "Then if he says you can have the woman, you can have her. The women will help you with what you want to do." "I do not need any women to help me," Tana said. "I want to do it here and I want to do it now. Take the horses and go." Big Neck, though he had known Black Hand and understood the reasons why Tana wanted to torture the woman himself, agreed with Quick Antelope. Tana was only one raider, and a young one. The woman did not belong to him alone.

Satay did not take part in the argument with Tana. He made it his business to see that the stolen horses did not stray. Satay thought the white woman would die anyway, soon. Her breasts were swollen with the milk she had been feeding the infant they killed. Her breasts dripped milk all day and her legs were bloody. She had made a big fuss in the night, crying for dead children, who could not come back. Though Quick Antelope and Big Neck were right to point out to Tana that the woman did not belong to him alone, Satay would have let him have her. She would only last a few hours at most. Even if she did survive until they reached the big camp, the women would make short work of her. They made short work of white women stronger than this one.

Satay thought it was foolish to argue so much about one woman. The sun had been up for some time.

They needed to be on the move. But Tana was a stubborn young warrior; he would not stop arguing.

Quick Antelope and Big Neck were firm with him, though. He could prance up and down and make threats, but they were not going to let him have the woman.

Tana was very angry at the two men who opposed him. He felt like fighting them both.

Quick Antelope had never been much of a fighter, but Big Neck was different. Though he looked old he moved quickly and was almost as strong as Buffalo Hump. The only way to beat him would be to kill him with an arrow, or shoot him, and Tana, though very angry, knew he would not be welcomed in the tribe if he killed Big Neck over a white woman.

"Put her on the horse," Quick Antelope said. "You can beat her some more tonight." But Tana's rage was too great. He would not do as he was told. If he could not be left to torture the woman, at least he could kill her. It was what his father would want. He watched her, as she cowered under the little blanket with her children --he wanted her death and he wanted her to know it was coming.

"You can put the children on the horse," he told Big Neck. "I am going to kill the woman." Tana took out his knife and began to sing a death cry. He looked at the woman and waved the knife at her. He wanted her to know he would step across the fire soon, and cut her throat.

Satay began to feel uneasy, and it was not because Tana was so determined to kill the woman. He looked around. Big Neck and Quick Antelope felt the uneasiness too. They picked up their weapons and looked around. Though no one could see any danger, they all felt that something was not right--all except Tana, who was advancing on the terrified white woman, waving his knife and singing a loud death cry.

Tana jumped across the campfire and grabbed the white woman by her long hair. He pulled her up, away from her children, so she would know a lot of fear before he put the knife to her throat. He dragged her through the fire again and lifted her up so that he could cut her throat, but Quick Antelope suddenly ran past him, bumping him a little.

The bullet hit Tana and knocked him clear of the woman before he saw the horsemen, racing toward them. He rolled over and saw that Quick Antelope had fallen too. Several horsemen were coming and coming fast. Big Neck was among the horses. Tana wanted to reach his gun, but his gun was several yards away. The horsemen were racing down a little slope toward the camp. Tana saw Big Neck leap on a horse and turn to flee, but before he was even out of camp a bullet knocked him off his horse. Tana was almost to his gun when another bullet hit him. It caused him to row over. The ground where he fell was sandy-- he wanted to reach for his gun, but he could not see.

It was as if the sand was pouring over his eyelids, so heavy that he could not open his eyes. He heard the horsemen, racing closer, but the sand was so heavy on his eyes that he let it bury him--he had ceased to worry about the horsemen, he only wanted to sleep.

The plan, hastily established, was for eight rangers to charge the four Comanche braves, mainly to distract them. Deets was to watch the spare horses. Call and Augustus dismounted and crawled to within one hundred yards of the camp while the Comanches argued about the woman. When the young brave raised his knife to the woman, Augustus shot him; when the boy got up, he shot him a second time. Call shot the two braves standing by the weapons; one he had to shoot three times.

By this time the racing rangers were almost in the camp, led by Teddy Beatty. Several of them shot at the large warrior who mounted and was about to escape, but it was a snap shot from Gus McCrae that killed him.

Call hurried down into the camp and made sure that all four Comanches were dead. Most of the men, Augustus included, were stunned to find that the battle was over so quickly.

"They're dead, Woodrow--they're dead," Augustus assured him.

All of them were surprised that the victory had been so easy.

"I guess we'll be promoted when we get home," Gus said, reloading his rifle.

"There ain't nothing to promote us to, we're already captains," Call reminded him. "If that ain't high enough for you, then I guess you'll just have to run for governor." "He'd never get elected, he's done too much whoring," Long Bill said.

Gus knelt by the young Indian boy, to see where he had hit him. Deets came up, leading the extra horses, and went to help the two children.

Call pulled a slicker off his saddle and gave it to the woman, who was almost naked. She took the slicker but didn't say thank you and didn't look at them. She was staring away.

Of course, he realized, she had been only a moment from death--perh she couldn't yet comprehend that she was saved. Perhaps in her blind stare she still saw the knife poised above her.

"You're saved, ma'am--we got here just in time," Call said, before backing away. He didn't think it wise to say more, or to try and rush the woman back from the place she had gone in her mind. It was a place she had had to go to survive, as much as she had survived, he felt sure. If she was let alone she might come back, although he realized there was a chance she wouldn't come back. What was sure was that the men who would have killed her were dead.

"You made a fine shot to keep that young one from killing her--he was ready," Call said to Gus.

"They're all four dead and we got the woman and the children back, and some horses besides. We've been fair captains, so far." Augustus was thinking how quick it had been--a few seconds of action and four men dead.

Deets was talking to the two children, while the other rangers milled. Neely Dickens was becoming more and more exhilarated by the knowledge that he was alive. Long Bill busied himself counting the horses they had recovered, fourteen in all.

"I guess we won't starve now, boys, even if we get plumb lost," he said. "We got horsemeat now--horsemeat on the hoof." Pea Eye had charged down on the Indians with the rest of the men, but had not fired his gun--he thought he would be unlikely to hit anybody, while running at such a speed. Pea Eye had heard so many tales about how devilishly accurate Indians were with tomahawks and clubs that he had kept as low on his horse's neck as possible, as he raced, hoping to avoid the tomahawks and maybe the arrows too. But then it turned out they were charging only four men, all of whom were dead by the time he reached the camp. Only one of the men had a tomahawk, and the rifles they were equipped with looked older and less reliable even than his own. Pea Eye went over to hold the horses, while Deets tended to the frightened children.

He felt weak, so weak that he thought he might have to sit down. Even so he did better than Neely Dickens, who passed through his phase of exhilaration, grew weak suddenly, and fainted.

Neely flopped down as if dead, but, since none of the Comanches had so much as fired a gun, no one supposed Neely to be dead. Teddy Beatty fanned him with a hat a few times and then paid him no more attention.

"He ain't hurt, the little rascal," Teddy said. "Let him nap, I say." Call noticed that the woman had a lot of blood on her legs--the travelling must have been rough.

"We need to go," he said to Augustus. "These four are dead, but there could be forty more not far away." "Or four hundred more--how would that be?" Augustus said. The fight had left him feeling a little distanced from himself, all the men seemed to feel that way, even Call. But it wasn't a condition they could afford to indulge, not with Buffalo Hump's camp just to the north.

"Do we bury them, Woodrow?" he asked, no.ing toward the dead warriors.

It was a question Call had not had to consider before.

There were four dead Comanches. Did they bury them, or leave them as they had fallen?

"I'm told the Comanches bury their own," he said, uncertain as to what was right in such a case.

"I expect they would if they were here," Gus said. "But these men are dead--they can't bury themselves, and I expect they'll be bad torn up by the time a Comanche finds them." "I'm worried about that woman," Call said.

"I think she's about lost her mind." Deets boiled a little coffee over the Comanche campfire and fed the children a little bacon; the woman would take none. The men dug a grave and put the four dead warriors in it. While they were filling it in the woman began to shriek.

"He won't want me! I can't go home!" she shrieked. Then she ran away, out onto the prairie, shrieking, as she ran.

"I was afraid of this," Call said. The children were crying, though Deets tried to shush them. The men all stood, numb and confused, listening to the woman scream. Augustus mounted his horse.

"I'll get her," he said. He touched his horse with the spur and went loping after the woman.

"I was afraid of this," Call said again, looking at the stunned men.

Maudy Clark ran away several times a day, every day, of the two weeks it took the rangers to reach Austin. Another sleet storm delayed them, and then heavy rains, which made the rivers high and treacherous. Three horses bogged in the swollen Red River and drowned.

Still, whatever the weather, Maudy Clark ran away. Once caught, she was docile--she seemed to mind Deets less than the other men, so Deets was assigned the task of seeing that she didn't escape or hurt herself. It was Deets, too, who cared for her children; she seemed not to recognize them as her children now.

"Something's broke in her, Woodrow," Gus said. "She won't even help her own young 'uns, anymore." All the men were careful not to let Mrs. Clark snatch a knife or a gun; Call instructed them to be especially watchful. He did not want the woman to grab a weapon and kill herself.

"Bodies can heal--I expect minds can too," he said.

At night they had taken to tying Maudy's ankles with a soft cotton rope, hobbling her like a horse.

"If I were to break my whiskey jug I expect I could glue it so it would look like a fine jug," Augustus replied. "But it would still be leaky and let the whiskey run out. That's the way it is with her, Woodrow. They might get her back in church and sing hymns at her till she stops screaming them screams. But she'll always be leaky. She won't never be right." "I can't judge it," Call said. "It's our job to bring her home. Then the doctors can judge it." Finally they breasted all the rivers and came to the limestone country west of Austin.

"We're coming back with a passel of extra horses," Long Bill pointed out. "I expect we'll be heroes to the crowd." Just then, Maudy Clark started screaming. She ran right through the campfire. Neely Dickens made a grab for her, but missed. Deets, who had been cooking, got up without a ^w and followed her into the darkness.

"Hurry up, Deets, there's bluffso out here she might fall off of," Augustus said.

"I don't know how anybody could feel like a hero with that poor woman running around out of her mind," Call said.

"Well, but she might have been dead," Long Bill said. "That brave had a knife at her throat." "She might prefer to be dead," Call replied. "I expect she would prefer it." Just then Deets came back, leading Maudy, talking to her softly; all the men became silent.

The woman's despair dampened all their moods. They had not even had a lively card game on the trip south.

"I'm longing to see my Clara," Augustus said--they were in country that was familiar, where they had patrolled often; the familiar hills and streams made him think of his many picnics with Clara, the laughter and the kissing he had enjoyed throughout his long courtship. Surely, now that he had been promoted to captain, Clara wouldn't make him wait any longer. Surely she would marry him now.

"I hope we can find this woman's husband," Call said.

"You better hope he'll take her back, while you're hoping," Gus said.

"That's right, Woodrow," Long Bill said.

"Some men won't have their wives back, once they've been with the Comanches." "That's wrong," Call said. "It wasn't her fault she got taken. He oughtn't to have gone off and left her unguarded." "Sing to us, Deets," Augustus said. "It's too boresome at night, without no singing." Deets had been singing to the two little children at night, to quiet them and put them to sleep. Without his singing they grew restless and fearful; their mother rarely came near them now. Deets had a low soothing voice, and knew many melodies, hymns mostly, and a few songs of the field; it was not only the children that were soothed by his singing. Long Bill was able to accompany Deets on his harmonica, most of the time.

Though the men were calmed by the singing, Call wasn't. Usually, after listening a few minutes, he took his rifle and went off to stand guard.

What rested him, after a day of contending with the circumstances of travel--the girth on the pack mule might break, or they might strike a creek that looked dangerous to cross--was to be by himself, a hundred yards or so from camp. Whereas guard duty seemed to make most of the rangers sleepy--there being nothing to do but sit and stare--it made Call feel at his most alert. He had a keen ear for night sounds--the rustling of varmints, the cries of owls and bullbats, deer nibbling leaves, the death squeak of a rabbit when a coyote or bobcat caught it. He listened for variations in the regular sounds, variations that could mean Indians were near; or, if not Indians, then some rarely encountered animal, like a bear.

Often he would sit all night at his guard post, refusing to change guards even when it was time.

From time to time in the night, Maudy Clark shrieked--j two or three shrieks, sounds that seemed to be jerked out of her. Call wondered if it might be dreams that called up the shrieks.

He doubted the poor woman would live long enough for the violent memories to fade.

When he came back to camp, a little before dawn, only Deets and Maudy were awake. The woman was fiddling with the buttons of an old shirt Long Bill had given her. She looked wild in her eyes, as if she might be getting ready to make one of her dashes out of camp. There was gray mist rising, making it hard to see more than a few feet. If the woman got away, with it so foggy, there might be a long delay while they located her.

Deets anticipated the very thing that Call feared.

"Don't you be running now, ma'am," he said.

"You'll get thorns in your feet if you do.

Prickly pear all over the ground. You'll be picking them little fine stickers out all day, if you go running off now." She had untied the cotton rope that he bound her ankles with. Gently, Deets retied it, and Maudy Clark made no protest.

"Just till breakfast," Deets assured her.

"Then I'll let you go."

They brought the horses and the rescued captives into Austin on a fine sunny morning. Nothing prompted a crowd like the rangers' return, whether they had been patrolling north or south.

Folks that had been dawdling in stores came into the street to ask questions. The blacksmith neglected his tasks until he heard the report. The barber left customers half shaven. The dentist ceased pulling teeth.

Somebody ran to alert the Governor and the legislators, though most of the latter were drunk or in bordellos and thus not easily rounded up.

The first thing everybody noticed was that no short man on a big horse was leading the troop back home: where was the great Captain Scull?

"Tracking a horse thief, that's where," Augustus said, a little annoyed that most of the questions were about the captain who had cavalierly deserted them while they were doing brave work. Gus saw Jake Spoon lurking over by the blacksmith's and waved at him to come help with the horses. He was anxious to get on to a barroom and sample some whiskey, quick.

"Don't get too drunk," Call said, when he saw where Gus was heading. "The Governor will be wanting a report." "Well, you report," Augustus said. "If the both of us go we'll just confuse the old fool." "We're both captains, we both should go," Call insisted.

"I despise governors, and besides, I need to see my girl before I get into business like that," Gus said. One of the reasons he was feeling a little grim was that there was, as yet, no sign of Clara. Usually, when he rode in with the boys, she came running out of the store to give him a big kiss--it was something he would begin to look forward to while still fifty miles away.

But today, though the street was thronged, there was no Clara.

Call spotted Maggie, watching their return from a discreet spot in the shade of a building; he nodded and tipped his hat to her, an act that didn't escape the attention of Augustus McCrae. The other rangers had just penned the horses; Long Bill Coleman immediately headed for a saloon, to fortify himself a little before heading home to Pearl, his large, enthusiastic wife.

"This is a damn disgrace," Augustus muttered. "Your girl's here to smile at you and Billy has Pearl to go home to, but Clara's lagging, if she's home." "I expect she's just running errands," Call said. "It's a passel of work, running a store that size." Augustus, though, was growing steadily more annoyed, and also more agitated. In his mind Clara's absence could mean only one of two things: she had died, or else she'd married.

What if the big horse trader Bob Allen had showed up while he was away; what if Clara had lost her head and married the man? The thought disturbed him so that he turned his horse and went full tilt back up the street toward the Forsythe store, almost colliding with a buggy as he raced.

He jumped off his horse, not even bothering to hitch him, and plunged into the store, only to see old Mr. Forsythe, Clara's father, unpacking a box of women's shoes.

"Hello, Clara ain't sick, is she?" he asked at once.

Mr. Forsythe was startled by Augustus's sudden appearance.

"Who, Clara?--I'm trying to count these shoes and see that they're properly paired up," the old man said, a little nervously, it seemed to Gus.

Normally George Forsythe was loquacious to a fault; he would pat Gus's shoulder and talk his arm off about any number of topics that held no interest for him, but this morning he seemed annoyed by Gus's question.

"Sorry to disturb you, I just wondered if Clara was sick--I had the fear that she might have taken ill while we were gone," Gus said.

"Oh no, Clara's healthy as a horse," Mr. Forsythe said. "Clara's never been sick a day in her life." Where is she, then, you old fool? Gus thought, but he held his tongue.

"Is she out? I'd like to greet her," he said.

"We travelled nearly to the North Pole and back since I was here." "No, she's not here," Mr. Forsythe said, glancing at the back of the store, as if he feared Clara might pop out from behind a pile of dry goods. Then he went back to counting shoes.

Augustus was taken aback--Mr. Forsythe had always been friendly to him, and had seemed to encourage his suit. Why was he so standoffish suddenly?

"I expect she's just making deliveries," Gus said. "I hope you'll tell her I stopped in." "Yes sir, I'll tell her," Mr.

Forsythe said.

Augustus turned toward the door, feeling close to panic. What could have happened to make George Forsythe so closemouthed with him?

Then, just as Gus was about to go out the door, Mr.

Forsythe put down a pair of shoes and turned to him with a question.

"Lose any men, this trip?" he asked.

"Just Jimmy Watson," Gus said.

"Jimmy had fatal bad luck. We brought back three captives, though. One of them's a woman who's out of her mind." Jake Spoon was waiting in the street, eager to tag along with him like a puppy dog, but Augustus was in no mood to be tagged--not then.

"Hello, Mr. McCrae, did you kill any Indians?" Jake asked, an eager look on his young face.

"Two. Now don't tag me, Jake, I have to report to the Governor," Gus said. "Neely will tell you all about the Indian fighting." "Oh," Jake said, his face falling. Mr.

McCrae had always been friendly with him; never before had he been so brusque.

Augustus felt guilty for being short with young Jake, but the fact was he could think of nothing but Clara--not at the moment. They had been gone for weeks: perhaps she had married. The thought stirred his mind to such a frenzy that the last thing he needed was to have to be gabbing about rangering with a green boy.

"Woodrow Call and me got made captains," he said, trying to soothe the boy's feelings a little. "Being a captain is just one duty after another, which is why I have to go see the Governor right now. He wants a report." "Yes, we all want one," Jake said.

"You may want it, but he's the governor and you ain't," Gus said, as he prepared to mount. His mind was in such an agitated state that--z young Jake watched in astonishment--he put the wrong foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse facing backward.

It was only when Gus leaned forward to pick up his bridle reins and saw that in fact he was looking at his horse's rump that he realized what he had done. To make matters worse, most of the rangers, having stabled their horses, were walking toward the saloon, to join Long Bill, and saw him do it. They immediately started laughing and pointing, assuming Gus was so happy to be home that he had decided to ride his horse backward, as some sort of prank.

Augustus was so stunned by what he had done that for a moment he was paralyzed. "Well, I swear," he said, unable to believe that he had accidentally done such an absurd thing. He was about to swing down and try to pretend it only had been a prank when he happened to look up the road that led into Austin, down a long slope.

There was a buggy coming, a buggy with two people in it--it seemed to him that the two people were holding hands, though he couldn't be sure. The woman in the buggy was Clara Forsythe, and the man looked from a distance like Bob Allen, the Nebraska horse trader.

One look was all it took to propel Gus off the horse. He didn't intend to be sitting in front of the Forsythe store, looking backward off a horse, when Clara arrived with big dumb Bob.

He swung to the ground so quickly that he almost kicked young Jake Spoon in the face with his boot.

"Go put this horse in the stable," he said, handing Jake the reins. "If Captain Call needs me, tell him I'll be in the saloon. And if he wants me to visit that governor, he better come quick." "Why, are you leaving again?" Jake asked, surprised.

"That's right, leaving--I'll be departing from my right mind," Augustus told him. Then he hurried across the street and strode into the saloon so fast that he almost knocked over a customer who stood a little too close to the swinging door.

"Why, hello, Captain," Long Bill said, when Gus burst in and strode to the bar. Without a ^w to anyone, including the bartender, Augustus reached for a full bottle of whiskey and immediately yanked out the cork. Then he threw his hat at the hat rack, but missed. His hat landed behind the bar.

"Don't call me "Captainea"' I'm plain Gus McCrae," he said. He raised the whiskey bottle to his mouth and--ffthe astonishment of the patrons--drank nearly a third of it straight off.

Long Bill, perceiving that his old compa@nero, now his captain, was a little disturbed, said nothing. In times of disturbance, silence seemed to him the best policy. The other rangers began to file into the saloon just then, all of them eager to wet their whistles.

"You better grab your liquor if you want any, boys," Long Bill said. "Gus means to drink the place dry and he's off to a fine start." Augustus ignored the tedious palaver that ensued. All he could think about was Clara--he had by then convinced himself that she had unquestionably been holding hands with dull Bob. Instead of getting the homecoming kiss he had yearned for for several days, what did he see but the love of his life holding hands with another man! No disappointment had ever been as keen. It was worse than disappointment, it was agony, and all he could do was dull it a little with the whiskey. He took another long draw, scarcely feeling the fire of the liquor in his belly.

Quietly the rangers took their seats; quietly they ordered their own drinks.

"Gus, why did you get on your horse backward?" Neely Dickens asked. "Did you just happen to put your off foot in the stirrup, or what?" Augustus ignored the question. He decided to refuse all discussion, of the horse incident or anything. The boys, Neely especially, would have to make of it what they could.

"It's bad table manners to drink out of the bottle," Neely observed. "The polite thing is to drink out of a glass." Long Bill could scarcely believe his ears.

Why would Neely Dickens care what Gus drank out of, and, even if he did care, why bring it up when Gus was clearly more than drunk?

"Now, Neely, I've seen men drink liquor out of saucers--there ain't just one right way," he said, nervous about what Augustus might do.

"I would not be caught dead drinking no whiskey out of a saucer," Neely said firmly. "Coffee I might drink out of a saucer, if it was too hot to sip from a cup." Augustus got up, went behind the bar, took the largest glass he could find back to his table, filled the glass, and drank it.

"Does that suit you?" he asked, looking at Neely.

"Yes, but you never told me why you got on your horse backward," Neely said. "I don't sleep good when people won't answer my questions." Just then Call stepped into the saloon. He saw that the whiskey bottle in front of him was half empty.

"Let's go before you get any drunker," he said. "The Governor sent his buggy for us." "I see," Augustus said. "Did the buggy just come by itself, or is somebody driving it?" "His man Bingham is driving it," Call said. "Bingham always drives it. Hurry up." "I wish you'd just let me be, Woodrow," Augustus said. "I ain't in the mood for a governor today, even if he did send Bingham to fetch us." Bingham was a very large black man who rarely spoke--he saw to it that the Governor came to no bodily harm.

"Your mood don't matter," Call said.

"We're captains now, and we're due at the Governor's." "Captaining's the wrong business for me, I expect," Augustus said. "I think I'll resign right now." "What?" Call said. "You've been talking about being a captain for years. Why would you resign now?" Without a ^w Augustus corked the whiskey bottle, retrieved his hat, and went outside.

"I may resign and I may not," he said.

The buggy he had seen Clara riding in was parked by the Forsythe store, with no one in it, and the Governor's buggy, with Bingham in it, stood beside it.

"Dern, Bingham, you're nearly as wide as this buggy," Augustus observed. "The man who rides behind you won't have much of a view." "No sir," Bingham said. "Mostly get a view of me." "I'm surprised you'd drink like that before you say hello to Clara," Call said.

"Why would I say hello to her?" Gus asked. "I saw her taking a buggy ride with that dumb horse trader." "No she wasn't, that was her uncle," Call told him. "Her ma's poorly and he's come for a visit." Augustus, who had just climbed in the buggy, was so startled he nearly fell out. It had not occurred to him that Clara could be with a relative, when he saw her come down the hill.

"Oh Lord--y mean she's in the store?" he asked.

"Why, yes, I suppose so," Call said.

"Were you so drunk you got on your horse backward? That's what the boys are saying." Augustus ignored the inquiry.

"Hold this buggy, Binghamffwas he demanded.

"I've got to pay a short visit--then I'll report to the Governor until he's sick of listening." "But the Governor's waiting," Call protested.

"It don't take long to kiss a girl," Gus said, jumping out of the buggy and running into the store.

Clara had her back to him when he rushed in-- he had her in his arms before she even got a good look at him. But the color came up in her cheeks and the happy light into her eyes.

"Why, it's my ranger," she said, and gave him the kiss he had been yearning for.

"Yep, I'm a captain now, Clara-- Woodrow's one too. We're off to see the Governor on urgent business." "The Governor? My goodness," Clara said.

"Yes, and I'll have to hurry or Bingham might lose his job," Gus said. "The Governor expects us to report." Clara didn't try to stop him but she followed him out the door and watched him as he vaulted into the Governor's buggy and straightened his hat.

Clara felt an old confusion, the feelings that had so often filled her when Gus came: relief that he was safe, excitement when he kissed her, joy that he still rushed in to see her first, disappointment that he left before she could even take a good look at him.

Just a kiss and then he's gone--t's my ranger, she thought. Just a kiss and then he's gone.

Governor e. m. Pease, whose campaign slogan had been "Pease and Prosperity," did not like surprises. With surprises came disorder, and he hated disorder. His firm belief was that good administration, like human happiness itself, depended on planning that was careful, intelligent, and firm. Of course, as an experienced man, he had long since been forced to recognize that life, like the state of Texas, was never going to be perfectly manageable, despite the most thorough planning. People dropped dead, fires broke out, storms flooded the land, foolish marriages were made, and the criminal element would never be entirely subdued or eliminated. Nonetheless the duty of honest men and competent state officials was to plan and plan seriously, so as to keep the element of surprise to a workable minimum.

Now two dusty young rangers stood in his office with news that he found to be nearly incredible: Inish Scull, the brilliant hero of the Mexican War, the most experienced military man in the state, had left his command and walked away on foot, merely to reclaim a stolen horse.

The Governor had a map of the western regions spread out on his desk and was attempting to get the young rangers to pinpoint the area where Captain Scull had left the troop, but it was fast becoming apparent to him that they couldn't.

"We were east of the Pecos and some ways north of the Red River," Call said.

"Way north of the Red," Augustus said.

"We were several days getting down to the Red." The Governor, whose spectacles had been unaccountably mislaid, had to squint to make out many details; but when he did squint he discovered what he already suspected, which was that there was no way of deducing where Inish Scull might be.

"Why, there's nothing there, not even a creek," the Governor said. "Inish has lost himself, and over a goddamn horse." "Well, it was his warhorse, Governor," Gus remarked. "He held that horse in high regard." "Yes, and what about his duty to the state of Texas?" Governor Pease said. "Did he hold that in high regard, sir?" Call and Gus had no idea what to say.

They had never met a governor before. Call thought they ought to talk as little as possible, but Augustus, as usual, found it hard to keep quiet.

"He made us both captains, before he went," he said. "I guess he thought we could get the boys home safe, and we done it, and recovered those captives too." "Yes, though I doubt the woman will recover --they rarely do," the Governor said. "I'll endorse your promotions--the state can use a pair of competent young captains like yourselves. What stumps me is Inish. How did he expect to catch up with Kicking Wolf on foot when he had already failed to catch him horseback?" The Governor went to the window and looked out.

Far to the west huge white thunderheads floated like warships across a blue sky.

"Inish Scull is a rich man," he said.

"He's always been a rich man. He could buy and sell me ten times over, and I'm no pauper.

He don't need the job. He was only rangering because it interested him, and now it's stopped interesting him, I guess.

"So away he went," he added, turning back to the young men. "Away he went. He might be off to California to prospect for gold, for all we know. Meanwhile we've still got several thousand hostile Indians to contend with, and a whole nation to the south that don't like us one bit. It's a poor performance, I say." "At least he was with Famous Shoes," Gus pointed out. "I expect Famous Shoes will guide him home." Governor Pease was staring out the window at the Scull mansion, its strange turrets just visible above the trees along Shoal Creek.

"I'm the governor, but the rich Yankee son-of-a-bitch has never answered to me, that I recall," the Governor said. "Every time I call him in for a report, that Yankee nose of his goes up--but that ain't the worst of it. The worst is that he's left us Inez. I expect we can hold our own with the Comanches and I believe we can whip back the Mexicans, but the heavens are going to ring when Inez Scull finds out that her husband didn't care to come home." Neither Call nor Augustus knew what to say about that.

"She's richer than Inish, you know," Governor Pease said. "They're quite a couple, the Sculls. A Yankee snob and a Southern slut. They're hell to manage, both of them." The Governor stared glumly out the window for a while. The fact that the two young rangers were still in his office seemed to slip his mind. Below him he could see Bingham sitting in the buggy, waiting to take someone somewhere; but it was not until his reverie ended and he saw the two dusty young rangers standing by his desk that he realized Bingham was waiting for them.

"Why, gentlemen, excuse me--y'll think I'm daft," Governor Pease said. "Inish Scull used good judgment in making you captains, and I'll second it. You've both got a bright future, if you can keep your hair." He had given the young rangers a careful looking over. They were polite in deportment, unlike their commander, the wild millionaire soldier who had just marched off into the wilderness for reasons of his own. Governor Pease was suddenly moved to emotion, at the sight of such sturdy, upright young fellows.

"You're the future of Texas, fine young men like yourselves," he said. "Why, either of you could wind up governor, before you're done, if you apply yourselves diligently and keep to the straight and narrow." He patted them both on the shoulder and gave them a warm handshake before sending them away-- Augustus claimed the man had even had tears in his eyes.

"I didn't see any tears," Call said, when they were in the buggy again, heading back down the hill toward the ranger corrals. "Why would he cry if he likes us so much?" "I don't know and it don't matter --we're captains now, Woodrow," Augustus said. "You heard the Governor. He said we're the future of Texas." "I heard him," Call said. "I just don't know what he meant." "Why, it means we're fine fellows," Augustus said.

"How would he know that?" Call asked. "He's never even seen us before today." "Now, Woodrow--don't be contrary," Gus said. "He's the governor, and a governor can figure things out quicker than other folks. If he says we're the future of Texas, then I expect it's so." "I ain't being contrary," Call said. "But I still don't know what he meant."

When Slipping Weasel came racing into camp with the news that Kicking Wolf had stolen the Buffalo Horse, there was an uproar at what a big joke it was on the Texans. Old Slow Tree was still there, talking to anyone who would listen about how the time for war with the Texans was over, how it was time for the People to grow corn, how the buffalo would soon disappear, so that the People would starve if they did not soon learn the ways of the whites and plant and reap.

Buffalo Hump had started avoiding the old chief whenever he could do so without giving offense.

When Slipping Weasel came into camp Buffalo Hump was boiling a buffalo skull in a big pot he had taken from a white farm on the Trinity River.

Boiling the skull was taking a long time-- Buffalo Hump had to send Lark off several times to gather more firewood. He was boiling the skull because he wanted to make himself a new shield and he needed the thickest part of the bone for the center of his shield. Very few warriors bothered to make bone shields anymore; it was slow work.

And yet only the thickest part of the buffalo skull would turn back a rifle bullet. He had been fortunate enough to kill a bull buffalo with an exceptionally large head. The buffalo had been watering in the Blue River when Buffalo Hump saw him. He had driven the bull into deep water and killed him with an arrow; then he took the head and carried it all the way back to Texas, despite the flies and the smell, so he could boil it properly and make his shield. The skull was the thickest Buffalo Hump had seen in a long life of hunting--it was so thick that it would turn away any bullet, even one fired at point-blank range. It was important to him that he make the shield correctly. It would not be a very large shield, but it would protect him during the years he had left to raid.

All over camp the warriors were whooping and dancing because of the news Slipping Weasel had brought. It had been poor hunting lately, mainly because old Slow Tree was too lazy to go back to his own hunting ground--the game in the big canyon was exhausted. Naturally the news about Kicking Wolf's audacious theft cheered the young men up. Many of them wondered why it had not occurred to them to steal the Buffalo Horse. If they ate him they would not have to hunt so hard for a while.

Buffalo Hump thought it was a good joke too, but he did not allow the news to distract him from the task at hand, which was to fashion the best possible shield from the great head he had taken on the Blue River, far north of his usual hunting range.

When Slipping Weasel came over to sit with Buffalo Hump for a while Buffalo Hump was skimming the broth from the boiling pot and drinking it.

In the broth as in the shield was the strength of the buffalo people. He gave Slipping Weasel a cup of the broth, but Slipping Weasel, a poor hunter and indifferent fighter, did not like it much.

"It has too many hairs in it," he told Buffalo Hump, who thought the comment ridiculous.

It was the skull of a buffalo; of course the broth had hairs in it.

"Where is he taking the Buffalo Horse?" he asked. "Why didn't he bring him here, so we could eat him?" Slipping Weasel was silent for a while, mainly because he didn't know what to answer. He had met a Kiowa medicine man on his ride back, and the Kiowa told him that the news was that Kicking Wolf meant to take the big horse to Mexico and sell him to the Black Vaquero.

Slipping Weasel did not really believe such a tale, since the Black Vaquero hated all Indians, as Kicking Wolf well knew. Buffalo Hump might not believe the story either, but it was the only explanation Slipping Weasel had to offer.

"They say he is taking the horse to Mexico --he wants to sell him to the Black Vaquero," he said finally.

Buffalo Hump didn't take that information very seriously.

"If he gets there Ahumado will boil him like I am boiling this skull," he said.

Then Slipping Weasel remembered an even more surprising thing he had heard from Straight Elbow, the old Kiowa. Straight Elbow got his name because he had never been able to bend his right arm, as a consequence of which he could not hunt well.

Straight Elbow had to live on roots and acorns, like a squirrel--he searched constantly for herbs or medicines that might allow him to bend his arm, but he never found the right medicine.

"Old Straight Elbow told me something else," Slipping Weasel admitted. "He said Big Horse Scull is following Kicking Wolf. Famous Shoes is with him, and they are both walking." Buffalo Hump agreed that that was out of the ordinary. Once there had been whites who walked everywhere, but most of the old walking whites were dead.

Now the soldiers and rangers were always mounted. He went on boiling his skull. What he heard seemed like a crazy business--Kicking Wolf and Scull were both doing crazy things. Of course, old Straight Elbow was crazy himself, there might be no truth in what he said.

Buffalo Hump, though, made no comment. He had reached the age where time was beginning to seem short. He wanted to devote all his thought to his own plans, and plans he thought he should make for his people. A few years before, when the shitting sickness struck the P--the cholera--the Comanches had died so fast that he thought the end of the People had come. Then the smallpox came and killed more people, sometimes half the people in a given band. These plagues came from the air; none of the medicine men were wise enough to cure them. He himself had gone on several vigils, but his vigils had had no effect on the plague.

Still, though many died, some lived. The Comanches were not as powerful a tribe as they had been, but there was still no one on the plains who could oppose them.

They could still beat the whites back, slipping between the forts to attack farms and ranches. The white soldiers were not yet bold enough to attack them on the llano, where they lived.

Slow Tree, though boring, was not foolish; he saw what any man of sense could see: that it was the whites, not the People, who were growing more numerous. It would take many years for the young women to bear enough babies to bring the strength of the People back to what it had been before the coming of the plagues.

But the whites had not suffered much from the plagues. For every white that died, three arrived to take his place. The whites came from far places, from lands no Comanche had ever seen. Like ants they worked their way up the rivers, into the Comanche lands. Soon there would be so many that no chief could hope to kill them all in war, or drive them away.

Slow Tree was right about the buffalo, too. Every year there were fewer of them. Each fall the hunters had to range farther, and, even so, they came back with less.

Now there were signs that the bluecoat soldiers meant to come into the field against them. Soon an army might come, not just the few rangers who followed them and tried to take back captives or stolen horses. The rangers were too few to attack them in their camps; but the soldiers were not too few. For now the soldiers were only parading, but someday they would come.

Buffalo Hump saw what Slow Tree saw, but he did not intend to let the whites control him. He had never broken the earth to raise anything, and he did not intend to. It was fine for Kicking Wolf to steal the Buffalo Horse, but that was only a joke, though a bold joke.

What Buffalo Hump wanted was a great raid--a great raid, such as there had been in the past, when warriors went into even the largest towns and stole captives, or burned buildings, or ran off all the horses and livestock that they wanted. Once he himself had raided all the way to the Great Water, coming back with so many horses that they filled the plains like buffalo.

The great raids had scared the Texans so badly that they were eager for councils and treaties --they made the Comanches many promises and gave them small gifts, in hopes that they would not raid all the towns and scare the new white people away.

Buffalo Hump wanted to launch a great raid again; a raid with hundreds of warriors, into Austin and San Antonio. They would kill many Texans, take many captives, and take what booty they wanted. Such a raid would show the Texans that the Comanches were still a people to be feared. Again, they would call for councils and treaties. He himself did not believe in councils or treaties, but old Slow Tree could go. He loved to parley with the whites; he would sit under a tent for weeks, boring the whites with his long speeches.

Meanwhile, on the plains, the young women would be having babies, bringing a new generation of warriors, to replace the ones lost to the plagues.

A great raid would remind the Texans that the Comanches were a people still; they could not be turned into farmers just because the whites wanted their land.

Buffalo Hump wanted to launch such a great raid, and he wanted to do it soon, with all the warriors he could persuade to accompany him, from his band and Slow Tree's and the others. He wanted to make the raid soon, while the north wind was still sharp as a knife--while the snows fell and the sleet cut down. Never before had the Comanches made a raid in the coldest month of the winter.

Whites and Mexicans both--but particularly Mexicans--had come to fear the fall, when the great yellow harvest moon shone. Along the old war trail the moon of the fall was called the "Comanche moon"be for longer than anyone could remember it had been under the generous light of the fall moon that the Comanches had struck deep into Mexico, to kill and loot and bring back captives.

For most of his life Buffalo Hump had kept to the traditional ways--like his father and grandfather before him he had followed the great Comanche war trail into Mexico in the fall. When he first raided to the Great Water his ferocity had driven whole villages to throw themselves into the sea--^th who could not drown themselves were pulled out like fishes for rape or torture. The captives he had taken would fill a town, and, for every captive taken, two or three Mexicans lay dead in their villages or fields.

But, since the plagues struck, Buffalo Hump had not raided much. With the game so thin it was hard work just to keep food in the cook pots. He had not had time to follow the great yellow moon into Mexico.

Now the Mexicans were better armed than they had ever been; often they fought back, and it was pointless to go into the territory of Ahumado; he was indio too and could not be cowed. Besides, he had drained the villages of their wealth and himself had taken all the captives worth having.

Often now at night Buffalo Hump climbed up high, onto a spur of rock near the edge of the great canyon, to sing and pray and seek instruction from the spirits. With his heavy hump it was hard to climb the spur, but Buffalo Hump did it, night after night, for the matters he prayed about were serious. He felt it was time to raid. The high cold moon that sailed over the canyon in February was as much a Comanche moon as the fat moon of the fall. He knew that most warriors, and many chiefs too, would want to wait until fall to start the great raid, but Buffalo Hump felt strongly that the raid ought to be pressed now, as soon as stores could be got ready. South of them, in the forts along the rivers, bluecoat soldiers were training. There were many of them near the Phantom Hill. In the spring the soldiers might do what they had not yet done: come north and attack them in their camps. If the soldiers fought well and killed too many warriors, the Comanches' pride might be broken forever. Instead of following the way of free Comanches, the way of the arrow and the lance, they might begin to accept the counsel of Slow Tree, which was the counsel of defeat.

Buffalo Hump wanted to strike before any of that happened--he did not want to wait, in the hope that the white soldiers would leave them alone for another season. The People had never waited to be led into war by the whites--alw they had taken war to the whites, and they would do so again.

So, night after night, Buffalo Hump climbed to the high rock and prayed for instruction.

He was not a fool. He knew that the whites were stronger now; they were more numerous than the Comanche, and better armed. That was why he wanted to strike in winter. The soldiers were inside their forts, trying to keep warm. So were the farmers, and the people of the towns.

They would not expect hundreds of warriors to slash down on them like sleet.

Yet he knew that, even so, the whites might win. Every time he went into the Brazos country he was shocked to see the whites filling it in such numbers. Always, too, their guns improved.

They had rifles now that could spit many bullets and strike warriors fatally at ranges well beyond that of any arrow. Armed with their new guns, the whites might win; he and all the chiefs might fall in battle, in which case the day of the Comanche people would be over. If the great raid failed and the strongest chiefs were killed, then there would be no recovery for the People, and the wisdom of Slow Tree would be the wisdom that would have to prevail.

Sitting on the rock every night, in wind or sleet or snow, Buffalo Hump did not see defeat in his visions. Instead he saw the houses of the white men burning, their women killed, their children taken from them. He saw himself as he had been when young, leading his warriors into towns and villages, bursting into farmhouses and killing the whites where they stood. He saw his warriors coming back north with a great herd of livestock, enough to cover the plains where the buffalo had been.

He had not yet called a council of the braves, because, every night, his vision grew stronger.

In his vision he saw a thousand warriors riding together, in war paint, wearing all the finery they could assemble, sweeping down on the white towns, singing their war songs, killing whites, and burning settlements all the way to the Great Water.

Slipping Weasel was disappointed by Buffalo Hump's casual response to his news. The whole camp was excited about it, but Buffalo Hump was barely moved to comment. Of course, Buffalo Hump and Kicking Wolf were old rivals, and often quarrelled. Maybe Buffalo Hump was glad that Kicking Wolf had left.

"You could go catch Scull," Slipping Weasel suggested. "He is walking not far from the Pecos. You could catch him in a few days." "Am I a rabbit hunter?" Buffalo Hump said. "Scull is just a rabbit. Let him hop down to Mexico. The Black Vaquero will catch him and make a tree grow through him." He was referring to a strange torture that the Black Vaquero sometimes inflicted on his enemies, if he caught them alive. He would trim the leaves and limbs off a small, slim tree and then sharpen the boll to a fine point. Then he would strip his enemy and lift him up and lower him onto the sharp point of the skinned tree. The man's weight would carry him downward, so that the tree went higher and higher into his body.

Ahumado was an expert at the torture. He would spend an hour or more sitting a man on the sharp tree, so that as the tree passed through his body it would not pierce any vital organs and allow the man to die too easily.

Sometimes the slim trees would pass all the way through the captive's body and poke out behind his body, and yet he would still be living and suffering.

Once Slipping Weasel and Buffalo Hump and a few warriors had come upon a little forest of such trees, with men stuck on them like rotting fruit.

There were more than ten in all, and two of the men were still alive, panting hoarsely and crying for water. It had been a startling sight, the little forest of trees with men hanging on them like fruit. The Comanches had lingered by the forest of tree-stuck men for half a day, studying the dead men and the living. The living men were in such agony that even the slightest touch made them scream with pain. Buffalo Hump and the other Comanches were surprised by the sight. They did not often see tortures that were worse than their own-- all the way back to the plains they talked about the torture of the little trees. On the way home they surprised a few Texans driving a horse herd west. They wanted to catch one of the Texans and stick him on a little tree, to learn the technique, but the Texans fought so fiercely that they had to kill them all and did not get to practice the little-tree torture. Those who had seen the forest of dead and dying men did not forget it, though--none of them, after that, were eager to go into Ahumado's country.

Slipping Weasel finally got up and left Buffalo Hump alone, since the chief seemed to be in a bad mood and had little to say. More and more Buffalo Hump spent his days with his young wife, Lark. Once when they were engaged with one another they forgot themselves to such an extent that they rolled out from under their tent and coupled, for a brief time in full view of some old women who were scraping a buffalo hide. The old women were agitated by the sight; they tittered about it for days. Buffalo Hump's other wives did not appreciate the tittering. A day or two later they found an excuse to beat Lark, and they beat her soundly.

Slipping Weasel thought he could find a few warriors who would want to go catch Big Horse Scull; but when he tried to talk some warriors into going they all made excuses and put him off.

The reason was Buffalo Hump. Everyone knew that the chief was planning something. They saw him leave the camp night after night, to climb a rock far up the canyon, where he prayed and sang. Except for Lark he paid little attention to anyone--he only wanted to copulate with Lark or sit on his rock praying--everyone knew that he was seeking visions. Old Slow Tree had finally left the camp in annoyance because Buffalo Hump was so uninterested in his notions of how to get along with the whites.

What the warriors thought was that Buffalo Hump would soon find his vision and call them all to war.

Earlier, they would have been glad to track down Big Horse Scull and take revenge on him, but now they were afraid to leave, for fear that they would not be there when Buffalo Hump called them to the war trail. Old Slow Tree's warriors did not much want to go away with him; they didn't share his peaceful views and were eager to fight the whites again.

Though it annoyed him, Slipping Weasel had to abandon his plan for catching Big Horse Scull. He waited, as the others waited, doing a little hunting, but mainly looking to his weapons.

He and the other warriors spent many days making arrows, sharpening their points, smoothing their stems.

They rewrapped the heads of their lances and made sure their buffalo-skin shields were taut.

Then one day Buffalo Hump finished boiling the great skull he had brought back from the Blue River. All day he worked to make the hard part into a small heavy shield, much heavier than the skin shields the other warriors carried. At dusk, when he finished the shield, he went out to the horse herd and brought back the strong white gelding he rode when he went raiding. That night he kept the horse tethered behind his tent. It was late in the night when he came out of his tent and walked back up the canyon to the high rock.

He wore nothing that night but a loincloth, and he carried his bow and his new shield.

All night they heard Buffalo Hump praying. Once the sun edged into the sky, and light came to the canyon, Buffalo Hump was still sitting on the high rock, with his bow and his thick shield. When he walked back into camp, with the sun well up, there was a hush in the camp. The women didn't talk of copulating as they worked at the cooking pots, as was common in the morning.

The hush silenced the children; they didn't run and play. The dogs ceased barking. Everyone knew that Buffalo Hump had found his vision.

When he sat down in front of his tent and began to paint himself for war there was joy throughout the camp.

Within a few minutes he sent runners to call the warriors from the other bands. Solemnly but gladly all the warriors began to do as their chief was doing. They began to put on war paint. No one asked Buffalo Hump what he was planning; no one needed to. There would be a great raid on the whites--Comanche warriors would be proud men again. The endless talk about whether to grow corn was over. Their greatest chief had found a vision, and it was not a vision of peace.

By afternoon, warriors from the nearby bands began to ride in, painted and ready. There was much selecting of horses and packing of stores. The women worked hard, but their voices were hushed. They did not want to be joking when their men were going on a raid that might mean glory or might mean death.

Finally one old warrior, old Crooked Hock, known for his great curiosity but not for his good judgment, had the temerity to ask Buffalo Hump how far he planned to raid.

Buffalo Hump did not look at the old man. He wanted to concentrate on his vision of burning houses. Anyway, he did not know how far he planned to raid--he would raid until it was time to quit. But, as he was about to answer the old man brusquely, he saw in his mind another vision, this one of the sea. The Great Water rolled toward the land and spat from its depths the bodies of whites. The vision of the sea with the white bodies bobbing in it was so powerful that Buffalo Hump realized he ought to be grateful to Crooked Hock for asking the question that had enabled him to see the final part of his vision--the vision of rolling waves spitting white bodies onto beaches of sand. The vision was so strong that Buffalo Hump stood up and yelled at the warriors loudly, his voice echoing off the canyon.

"The Great Waterffwas he yelled. "We are going to the Great Water, and we are going now!" Six hundred braves rode out of the canyon behind him, the sun glinting on their lances. When sound came back to the camp it was the sound women make, talking to one another as they cooked and did chores. A few babies cried, a few dogs barked, the old men smoked. By the time the moon rose Buffalo Hump and his warriors were already miles to the south.

"Hector leaves a damn large track," Scull said to Famous Shoes, after they had been walking for four days. "If we had some form of torch I believe I could track him at night." "We don't have a torch," Famous Shoes pointed out. They were in country where there was little wood. When they made little fires to cook the game they killed, jackrabbits mostly, they had to use the branches of creosote bushes or chaparral.

"Hector will probably be slimmed down a little when I catch him," Scull said. "There's not much fodder out here." "They may have to eat him soon," Famous Shoes warned.

"I doubt that," Scull said. "I don't think Kicking Wolf stole him to eat. I expect he stole him mainly to embarrass me.

I'm for walking all night if you think we can stay with the track." Famous Shoes thought Scull was crazy. The man wanted to walk forever, without sleep. Kicking Wolf, the man they were following, was crazy too.

He was taking the horse straight to Mexico, which made no sense--Kicking Wolf's people did not live in Mexico. They lived in the other direction.

He himself was growing tired of being a scout for the whites. One crazy man was chasing another crazy man, with his help. Famous Shoes decided it must be the tobacco Scull chewed all day that made him able to walk so far. He did not want to sleep long at night, and grew restless when there were clouds over the moon, so Famous Shoes could not track. On those nights Scull sat by the fire and talked for hours. He said there were forests to the south so thick that little beasts called monkeys could live their whole lives in the trees, never touching the ground. Famous Shoes didn't believe the story--he had never seen trees that thick. He had begun to think of walking away some night, leaving Scull while he napped. After all, he had not yet got to visit his grandmother in her new home on the Arkansas.

He could understand Scull's anger at Kicking Wolf for stealing his horse, but the decision to follow on foot was more evidence of Scull's insanity. Kicking Wolf travelled hard. They were not going to catch him on foot, not unless he got sick and had to stop for a few days.

The evidence of the tracks was plain. Kicking Wolf and Three Birds would soon be in Mexico. Though he and Scull were walking exceptionally fast, they only had two legs, whereas the horses they were following had four.

Famous Shoes told Scull as much, but Scull would not give up, not even when they reached the desolate country where the Pecos angled toward the Rio Grande. In that country the water was so bitter from the white soil that one's turds came out white--a very bad thing. White turds meant that they were in the wrong place, that was how Famous Shoes felt. He was thinking more about walking off, but Scull had quickly mastered tracking and might follow him and shoot him if he left. He did not want to get shot by Scull's big rifle. He had begun to hope they would run into some bandits or some Indians, anything that might distract Scull long enough that he could slip away. But even if there was a fight, escape would still be risky. Who knew what a crazy man such as Big Horse Scull might do?

When they were only a day away from the Rio Grande, Famous Shoes noticed a curious thing about the tracks they were following. He did not mention it at first, but he might as well have mentioned it because Scull was such a good tracker now that he noticed it too. Scull stopped and squatted down, so as to study the tracks better. When he spat tobacco juice he spat it carefully to the side, so as not to blur the message of the tracks.

"By God, he knows we're following him," Scull said. "He's sent Mr. Three Birds back, to spy on us--now Three Birds has marked us and gone back to report.

Am I right, Professor?" That was exactly correct, so correct that Famous Shoes did not feel the need to reply.

Three Birds had come back and spied on them.

"He marked us and he's gone," Scull said.

"I expect he's reported to his boss by now." "Kicking Wolf is not his boss," Famous Shoes corrected. "Three Birds travels where he pleases." Scull got up and walked around for a few minutes, thinking.

"I wonder if there's a big camp of Indians down there somewhere that he's taking my horse to," he said.

"No, there is no camp," Famous Shoes assured him. "Comanches won't camp where their shit is white." "I don't care for this country much myself," Scull said. "Let's get out of it." The next day, at a winter sunset, they came to the Rio Grande. Scull stopped for a minute, to look north toward a long curve of the river. The water was gold with the thin sunset. There was no sign of Hector or the two Indians, but to his surprise he saw an old man, walking slowly along the riverbank, going south.

A large dog walked beside him.

"Now there's somebody--who would it be, walking this river alone this time of year?" he asked.

When Famous Shoes saw the old man coming he gave a start; though he had never seen the old man before he knew who he was.

"He is the Old One Who Walks By The River," Famous Shoes said. "He lives in a cave where the river is born. The river is his child. Every year he walks with it down to its home in the Great Water. Then he goes back to his cave, where the river is born, high in the Sierra. His wolf walks with him and kills his food." "His wolf?" Scull said, looking more closely. "I took it for a dog." "He has been here forever," Famous Shoes said. "The Apaches believe that if you see him you will die." "Well, I've seen him and I ain't dead," Scull commented. "I just hope that wolf don't bite." "If I had known I would see the Old One I would not have come with you," Famous Shoes said.

"I need to see my grandmother, but now I don't know if I will be living long enough to find her." Scull had to admit that the sight of the lone figure coming along the river at dusk was a little eerie. Certainly it was not an ordinary thing.

They went on to the river and waited for the old man to come. When he appeared the wolf had vanished. The old man came slowly.

His white hair hung to his waist and he wore buckskin clothing.

"I think he has stopped speaking because he is so old," Famous Shoes said.

"I'll try him with a little Yankee English-- he might want to stop and sup with us," Scull said. Earlier in the day he had shot a small owl --his plan for dinner was to have owl soup.

"Hello, sir, this is a welcome surprise," Inish said, when the old man came to where they waited. "My name is Inish Scull-- I'm a Bostoner--and this is Famous Shoes, the great professor of tracking. If you'd care to join us in a meal, we're having owl soup." The old man fixed Scull with a lively blue eye.

"You've spit tobaccy juice up and down the front of yourself," the old man said, in a voice far from weak. "I'll have a chaw of tobaccy if you've any left after all your wasteful spitting." Scull reached in his pocket and pulled out his plug, by then so diminished that he simply handed it to the old man, who had spoken as matter-of-factly as if they had met on Boston Common.

"It's true I'm reckless with my spittles," Scull said. "You're welcome to this tobacco--how about the owl soup?" "I'll pass--c't digest owls," the old man said. He carried a long rifle, the stock of which he set against the ground; then he leaned comfortably on his own weapon.

"I fear it's a weak offering but we have nothing else," Scull admitted.

"Don't need it--my wolf will bring me a varmint," the old man said. He lifted one leg and rested it against the other thigh.

"I'm Inish Scull and I'm in pursuit of a horse thief," Scull said. "It's my warhorse that was taken, and I want him back.

Who might you be, if I may ask?" "I'm Ephaniah, the Lord of the Last Day," the old man said. From down the river there was the howl of a wolf.

"Excuse me, you're what?" Scull asked.

"I'm the Lord of the Last Day," the old man said. "That's my wolf, howling to let me know he's caught a tasty varmint." He put down his other foot and without another ^w or gesture began moving on down the river.

Famous Shoes gestured--on a rise still lit by the last of the afterglow, the wolf waited. The old man was soon lost in the deepening dusk.

"Now that's curious," Scull said. "I'm out my tobacco, and I don't know a thing more than I did. Why would he call himself the "Lord of the Last Day"'? What does it mean?" "The Apaches may be right," Famous Shoes said. "When you see the Old One your last day may be close." "If mine's close I'd like to have a good feed first," Scull commented. "But I won't, not unless the hunting improves." "We don't have to eat the owl--I hear ducks," Famous Shoes said.

Scull heard them too and looked around in time to see a large flock of teal curve over the river and come back to settle on the water.

"When it's dark I will go down and catch some," Famous Shoes said.

"Help yourself, but I plan to scorch this owl anyway," Scull said. "I won't have provender going to waste."

When Three Birds caught up with Kicking Wolf he was walking out of a gully dragging a small antelope he had just killed. The antelope was only a fawn but Three Birds was excited anyway. They had had little meat since stealing the Buffalo Horse. The sight of the dead fawn made Three Birds so hungry he forgot his news.

"Let's cook it now," he said. "Why didn't you shoot its mother?" "Why didn't you kill her?" Kicking Wolf asked. "Where have you been?" "I had to go a long way to find Scull," Three Birds said. "He is following us but he is walking." At first Kicking Wolf did not believe it.

Three Birds often lived in his own dream time for days at a stretch. Often he would ride around so long, dreaming, that he would forget what errand he had been sent on. When someone reminded him that he had been supposed to secure a particular piece of information he would often just make up whatever came into his head, which is what he was probably doing when he claimed that Scull was following them on foot. Kicking Wolf had expected pursuit and kept up a fast pace to elude it.

How could Scull expect to catch him if he was on foot? He sent Three Birds back to investigate, thinking that perhaps Buffalo Hump or some other warriors had fallen on Scull and killed him.

Now, though, Three Birds had come back with a farfetched tale that no sensible person could believe. Three Birds was just trying to explain why he had been gone four days. Now all he could think about was eating the little antelope.

"I don't believe you--Scull had several horses," Kicking Wolf said. "Why would he follow us on foot?" Three Birds was offended. He had ridden for days, with little food, into the country of the enemy, to find out what Kicking Wolf wanted to know. He had found it out, and now Kicking Wolf didn't believe him.

"He is following us on foot and the Kickapoo is with him," he said. "Scull is four days behind but he walks fast and does not sleep much. If we wait we can kill him, and the Kickapoo too." Kicking Wolf gave the matter a little more thought, as he skinned the young antelope. Three Birds usually abandoned his lies if questioned closely, but he was not abandoning this lie, which might mean that it wasn't a lie. Big Horse Scull was known to do strange things. Often he would skin little birds that were much too small to eat; then he would throw the birds away and pack their skins with salt. When he travelled he would sometimes pick up beetles and other bugs and put them in small jars. Once he even sacked up some bats that flew out of a cave--what such activities added up to was some kind of witchery, that was plain. That he had chosen to follow them on foot was just more evidence that he was some kind of a witch man. Lots of Indians were out on the plains hunting--if they had seen Scull they would have killed him, yet he was still alive, which suggested more witchery.

"Famous Shoes would like to sleep but Scull wakes him up and makes him walk," Three Birds said. "When there is no moon they burn sticks to help them find the tracks." Kicking Wolf decided Three Birds was being truthful. He gave him the best parts of the fawn, for travelling fast to bring him the information.

"We will soon be in the Sierra," Kicking Wolf said. "Ahumado will find us. I don't know what he will do. I think he will like the Buffalo Horse, but I don't know. Maybe he won't like it that we have come." Three Birds was eating so fast that he could not figure out what Kicking Wolf was getting at.

Of course no one knew what Ahumado would like, or what he would do. He was the Black Vaquero. He had killed so many people that everyone had lost count. Sometimes he killed whole villages, throwing all the people in a well and letting them drown--or he might make the villagers dig a pit and then bury them alive.