“Money is one thing I don’t joke about. I’ve never had enough that it ever got funny.”

Burmeister’s gaze sought out Rusty. “Haskins was to be on patrol today. David Shannon, you will take his place.”

Rusty was not certain of the proper response, so he made an effort at a salute. He said, “You bet.”

Burmeister winced.

Rusty whispered to Tanner, “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“I think you’re supposed to say, ’You bet, sir “

The patrol moved northward toward the Red River. At first Alamo looked back, wanting to travel southward toward home. But after a half mile or so he reconciled with reality and plodded along, keeping good pace with the other horses. Rusty studied the riders around him. They had little of a military look about them. Their clothing was a rainbow of colors and a random mix of homespun cotton, wool, and buckskin, most of it showing the effects of rough use.

He remembered what Tom Blessing had called the volunteer patrols along the frontier: the buckskin line.

Tanner asked Rusty, “You any good at followin’ tracks?”

“I’ve trailed deer. Followed a wolf one time for two miles ‘til I found its den.”

“This ought not to be too tough, then. We’ll be watchin’ for horse tracks that don’t belong.”

“How do you know which ones don’t belong?”

“When the hair raises up on the back of your neck.”

Sergeant Whitfield was in charge of the patrol. He seemed a man not given to smiling easily, for Rusty had seen no sign of levity about him. Nor did he have much to say beyond the orders necessary to get the patrol under way. Despite his considerable size, Whitfield seemed to sit easy in the saddle. He set the pace, an easy trot the horses could maintain for long stretches of time.

Rusty soon saw that the sergeant had a way of watching the ground without missing anything that happened around him. Once, seeing distant dark objects that aroused his suspicion, he detailed Rusty and Tanner to ride out and investigate. “Don’t get too close ‘til you’re sure it’s not Indians. I don’t want to explain to the captain why I let a couple of chuckleheaded boys get themselves killed.”

Tanner assured him, “I’ve already laid out my plans for the day, and gettin’ killed ain’t on the list.” He made a halfhearted attempt to laugh but dropped it when he received no response from Whitfield. The sergeant was all business.

Rusty noted that though Tanner seemed on the surface to shrug off the notion of danger, he was cautious in his approach to the dark specks Whitfield had seen in the tall grass. Tanner carried his rifle across the pommel of his saddle, his right hand nervously rubbing the wooden stock.