“It’d serve him right. I’m strikin’ off west, across the country.”

“I’ll stay with him, at least ‘I’ll I can turn him over to somebody who’ll see that he gets to Belknap.” Purdy pulled his horse in close and embraced his grandson. “You’ve done wrong, but you’re still family. You’re still ours.”

“Tell Mama . . . well, hell, you’ll know what to tell her.” James’s voice broke. “It won’t be safe to write to you, but I’ll let Preacher Webb know where I’m at. He can pass the word. Maybe when this damned war is over. . .”

“I may not still be here.”

“Sure you’ll be here. You’ll never die, you’ll just turn into an old gray mule and keep on kickin’.” James gripped his grandfather’s thin shoulders, handed him Rusty’s pistol, then turned quickly away.

The old man watched him a long time in silence. Rusty could not see his face, but he could see Purdy’s body shake.

Rusty said, “There’s a lot of Indians the direction he’s goin’.”

Purdy wiped a sleeve across his eyes and cleared his throat. “There’s worse the other way.” He faced around to Rusty. “I’d best be takin’ you someplace.”

“I’m not as helpless as I may look.”

“The hell you’re not. You’ll never make it to the ranger camp by yourself.”

Rusty lacked the strength or the will to put up more of an argument.

They rode without talking for what must have been a couple of hours before Purdy said, “I see a wagon yonder, headin’ in the right direction. Hang on tight, because we’re fixin’ to lope and catch up.”

Rusty gripped the saddle horn. He saw the wagon ahead. It appeared to be loaded with freight. Purdy shouted, and the driver sawed on the reins, halting his mules. A black man beside him reached beneath the seat and brought up a rifle, which he held defensively in front of him. Wind lifted his torn, unbuttoned jacket.

Purdy asked, “You-all goin’ to Belknap?”

The driver was dressed no better than the black man beside him. He gave the horsemen a long appraisal, slowly satisfying his suspicion. “Yep. Got a load of goods to deliver.”

“I’ve got somethin’ else for you to take there. This man belongs to the ranger camp.”

The driver was a middle-aged man with a sun-browned face dark as an Indian’s where his salt-and-pepper beard did not cover it. He gave Rusty a second close inspection. “Looks like he’s got somethin’ wrong with him. Ain’t no catchin’ sickness, I hope.”

“He took an arrow in his leg awhile back. Keeps agitatin’ it to where it ain’t healed good.”

The freighter regarded Rusty with sympathy. “At least he’s still got all his hair on. Mose, spread my blanket roll on top of the load back there so he can lay down.”

Purdy supported Rusty as he dismounted, then helped the black man boost him up over the wagon wheel. Rusty settled onto the blankets that covered several wooden crates. Purdy tied Alamo behind the wagon.