Buffalo Caller was well aware of the minutemen patrols that watched for raiding parties’ tracks. He wished for rain that would wash away all sign, but for a long time now, the skies had yielded no moisture. The winds were dry. Given time enough, wind could destroy tracks, too. If he could not have rain, then he hoped the spirits would give him wind. It might blow dust into the eyes of the rangers so they would not see what lay at their horses’ feet.

He looked critically at Broken Leg, asking how his friend was enduring the ride though he knew Broken Leg would not admit it if he were dying of pain. “Ask the young men how they are doing,” Broken Leg replied. “I have been on many long rides before.”

Too many, Buffalo Caller thought. “If you become too tired, turn back. There is no need for you to hurt yourself.”

He gave men and horses a few hours to rest, then mounted and reentered the stream that would swallow their tracks. He and the others were stripped for war, traveling light so they could move swiftly when the time came. They counted on their ability to endure hunger and live off the land. They could feast when they returned home with the prizes of war.

Buffalo Caller rode far out in the lead, where he could detect any hazards before the others were exposed. He knew the risk of traveling by day, but the party could not spare the time to move only at night. They needed the visibility of a full moon for the horse-stealing phase of the trip, and it would be gone if they tarried too long on the way.

They held up once and dismounted to make themselves less conspicuous when Buffalo Caller spotted two wagons moving in a northerly direction, directly in their path. The young warriors coveted the horses that pulled the wagons, but he pointed out again that larger rewards awaited them if they would be patient and not reveal their presence too early. Once they struck, the countryside would be alerted and their only recourse would be a fast retreat with whatever booty they had managed to take.

Their third night brought them to a valley where Buffalo Caller remembered that white farmers had plowed up much of the grass to grow corn and cotton and feed for their many horses. “This is the place,” he said. “We will go to the end, then come back up the valley and gather all the horses and mules we can find.”

Broken Leg had lagged much of the day, catching up only at nightfall when the others slowed their pace. He slumped on his horse, plainly tired but admitting nothing. “I remember this valley. Here we killed many buffalo.”