“A long time ago,” Buffalo Caller said. “Now there are no buffalo, only spotted cattle.” Perhaps if the white men’s war continued long enough, the teibos would kill off one another and the buffalo would return. He had eaten flesh of cattle but found it not so strong or so rich with flavor as that of the buffalo. To his taste, even mule meat was better.

He looked up. The moon was in its brightest phase. They would need all of its light to see by as they swept the farms clean of their riding and draft stock.

Past the last farm, where the valley flattened out into a long and gentle downward slope toward a distant river, he halted and reined his pony around. “Let us gather horses.” The warriors spread out in an irregular line and started back in the direction they had come. In a short time they were pushing ahead of them more horses and mules than he could count on his fingers four times over, and much of the valley still lay ahead.

This, he thought, was going to be one of the greatest raids of his life. He put aside the pain which had invaded his joints. Exhilaration overwhelmed any feeling of fatigue. He looked for his son and was pleased to see Jackrabbit riding ahead of the other young men. His gaze sought out Broken Leg, who appeared as invigorated as Buffalo Caller felt. Perhaps it was right after all that he had brought his friend.

They came to a farm where half a dozen horses and mules stood inside a closed pen. When one of the young men tried to open the gate, a rifle blasted, and for a second or two the burning of gunpowder lighted an open area between two sections of a cabin. Yelping like coyotes, two of the young men rushed the rifleman and struck him down before he had time to reload. They burst through a door. Buffalo Caller heard a woman scream in fear, then cry out again in agony. The cry was cut short.

Buffalo Caller rushed to the cabin and pushed through the door in time to see Jackrabbit dragging live coals out of a fireplace and spreading them across the rough wood floor. Buffalo Caller quickly raked the coals back onto the hearth. “White men farther up the valley might see the fire. They would know we are coming.”

“I did not consider such a thing, Father,” the young warrior said ruefully.

“You must learn to think, or you will not live to be an elder.”

On the dog run, the other warrior was taking the fallen rifleman’s scalp. He held it up for Buffalo Caller to see, along with the longer hair of the woman.

“She was with child,” the warrior said. “So we have killed three.”