He grasped his pony’s mane and pulled himself up onto its back. Of late he had become aware that his knees no longer had the spring he remembered from his youth. Exertion that never used to bother him would set his heart to pounding. But though the body had slowed and gray was invading his once-black hair, the mind had gained in wisdom. Among the People, age was accorded respect. Lessons taught by experience offset the weight of years. He paused at the riverbank to take a final look, then put the pony into the water. He did not have to look back to know that his warriors followed. He could hear their horses splashing.

They were good men—young, of course, except for his friend Broken Leg, who was perhaps becoming too old for the kind of fast travel that would be expected of him the next few days and nights. Buffalo Caller had been hesitant about allowing him to come along, but Broken Leg had pointed out that they were the same age, born the same winter in a tribal encampment sheltered by high walls of the caprock. Buffalo Caller had reluctantly accepted him, though he feared his friend might handicap the party in an emergency. He hoped some young warrior would not die because of the old one.

Especially his own son Jackrabbit, still unseasoned but eager to learn. Whippoorwill had finally presented him with a son after he had given up on his wives having anything but daughters. This was to be Jackrabbit’s first major raid.

They traveled rapidly once they had put the river behind them. At one point they saw a distant campfire, and some of the young men wanted to investigate. Buffalo Caller dissuaded them. The fire might belong to a few hunters, and a hunter camp was unlikely to yield as many horses as could be expected deeper in the white men’s country. Or it might belong to the Texan warrior society, in which case an attack would only stir up an unnecessary fight and gain few, if any, horses. The rangers seldom took with them more than one mount per man, and they did not easily give them up.

He knew the way well, for he had hunted buffalo all over this region south of the Clay-Colored River in the time before the white men had come to dominance. He took precautions to travel as much as possible on hard ground where tracks would not be obvious, though there was no way to avoid them altogether. When the riders came to a narrow stream that flowed in the general direction he wanted to travel, he had them put their horses into it and avoid the muddy banks, which would preserve sign of their passage. They rode until sunrise, then pulled out onto a gravel bed and took shelter in a heavy stand of scrub oak.