The young men yelped and shouted and charged wildly toward the Texans. Buffalo Caller thought he saw confusion in the ranks of the whites. He hoped they would scatter and run. If they did, the fight would degenerate into a race, and death would come swiftly for those whites who rode slow horses.

To his dismay, the white men stepped down from their saddles, dropped to their knees, and aimed their rifles at the warriors who bore down upon them. A quick rattle of gunfire left two horses riderless and a third horse down. Buffalo Caller saw Jackrabbit still astride and was thankful he was not one of the fallen.

He hoped the warriors could overwhelm the Texans while they paused to reload their rifles, but it quickly became evident that some had held their fire to avoid such a calamity. They spaced their shots so their line would not have all its rifles empty at one time. Buffalo Caller felt sure then that these were rangers.

The Comanche charge broke up, the warriors reeling back uncertainly. The rangers immediately remounted their horses and made a charge of their own.

A ranger spurred straight toward him, rifle in his hands. Buffalo Caller strung an arrow in his bow. The ranger’s hat blew off, and Buffalo Caller was startled to see that his hair was red. Old dreams, long pushed aside but never forgotten, flashed in his mind like a flare of gunpowder. Even as he released the string and let the arrow fly he knew it would miss.

The ranger fired the rifle, but the motion of his horse spoiled his aim. Buffalo Caller heard and felt the impact of the bullet striking his pony in the chest. Before he could jump free, he was slammed against the ground. The crushing weight of the pony rolled over him, pressing him hard into the dirt. He tried to crawl free, but his leg was pinned.

He grasped desperately for the bow that had fallen in front of him. He clawed at the ground but could not quite reach the bow. He strained to pull himself forward. His heart pounded hard as he tried again to reach the bow and failed though he stretched every muscle in the effort. He felt that his medicine had soured. Helpless, he steeled himself to receive the bullet that would kill him.

The ranger’s black horse was wild-eyed, nostrils flaring in excitement. In the saddle, the ranger seemed to tower above Buffalo Caller like the high walls of The People’s winter encampment. Numb, suddenly cold, Buffalo Caller saw that the man was young, like the warriors in the raiding party. The black horse danced nervously, threatening to run away. The ranger drew a pistol from its holster and tried to bring the horse under control.

Buffalo Caller spoke to his spirits, asking them to be ready to receive him, for the ranger was too close. He could not miss.