Rusty felt a catch in his throat. He had not been here long enough to know the captain beyond a modest surface acquaintance, yet in a strange way he felt he had known him always. He lent his voice to those of the men, who all shouted their individual good-byes.

As Burmeister rode away, leading a pack mule, Rusty heard a man behind him say, “The captain was a foreigner when he came here, and he was still a foreigner when he left. He never was a real Texan.”

Angrily Whitfield turned on him. “He’s a hell of a good man, and as good a Texan as you’ll ever see. I’ll not have you or anybody else speak ill of him.”

The man’s voice indicated no backing down. “What about you, Whitfield? You for the union or the Confederacy?”

Whitfield looked at Rusty before he answered. “I stand with Texas.”

CHAPTER

TEN

RED RIVER, FALL 1862

Buffalo Caller had left his horse and the rest of his raiding party in the cover of timber while he walked to the edge of the muddy river for a careful look at the other side. To his right, the sun had descended almost to the horizon and was reflected in brilliant colors against a few flat clouds barren of rain. It had been a dry summer and fall. The horses had not fattened as he would have liked for the journey, but a full moon was near. If the enterprise was to be undertaken at all, it must be done now. Shorter days promised that winter’s bitter breath would soon blow across the land. No Comanche liked to travel when snow lay heavy on the ground and ice crusted the edges of every stream. That was a time to hover near the lodge center’s fire and recount the glory deeds of olden days.

Buffalo Caller paused at the edge of the brush that lined the upper bank. His gaze searched the far side. He had no reason to fear the bluecoat soldiers, for most had gone away to fight a white man’s war somewhere to the east. He knew that on the Texas side of the river, the bluecoats were regarded as an enemy just as the Comanches themselves were.