Webb argued, “You’d just as well try to wipe out a hornet’s nest with a sharp stick. I don’t doubt your fightin’ spirit, Mr. Blessing, but you know what happened at the Alamo.”

“Them fellers killed a heap of Mexicans.”

“But they lost the battle.”

“Me and the boys, we’ve worked hard to build what we’ve got here.” Reluctantly Blessing turned to his sons. “Tom, Bert, Jim . . . go gather the horses and mules. Them varmints may burn the house, but be damned if they’ll add our stock to their string.” The young men hastened to comply. Shannon moved to help them. Blessing said, “I hate to leave here without a fight. Where you reckon them red devils’ve been?”

Webb could only shrug. “They were comin’ from the direction of Linn-ville when we saw them.”

“Linnville.” The farmer clenched his fists, his knuckles bulging like pine knots. “I’ve got a sister there, and her family. You don’t reckon . . .”

“I don’t know.”

Misery came into the man’s blue eyes, followed by a building anger. “Everybody can’t just up and run. There’s bound to be somebody with the guts to stand and fight.”

“Maybe, if the Comanches didn’t leave everybody dead behind them.”

“Maybe me and the boys can put some fightin’ men together. There’s four of us to start.”

“Six. Mike and me, we’ll go with you.” Webb looked to Shannon for silent confirmation.

They struck southward, driving the family’s extra horses and mules several miles before they came upon a brush-lined creek. Blessing told his sons, “Scatter the stock down in there. I doubt the redskins’ll come this far off of their line of march.”

That done, he said, “Let’s be headin’ for Linnville.” He led off without waiting for argument. Webb offered none, and Shannon seemed as eager as Blessing for a fight.

They pushed their horses into a lope for short distances, then slowed to a trot to conserve the mounts’ strength. Webb could see the cloud of dust to the north, marking the location of the Comanche column.

The oldest of the Blessing boys, Tom, drew up on the reins. “Listen. I think I hear shootin’.”

Webb first thought the Indians might have caught one of the families he and Shannon had warned. But he decided that was not the case; the sound indicated many guns.

The elder Blessing said, “Somebody’s done lit into them. Come on, boys, or we’re liable to miss the fight.” He spurred off toward the dust. His sons struggled to catch up.

Webb gave Shannon a questioning glance. Shannon said, “Hell, Preacher, who wants to live to get old and decrepit?”

They never managed to close the distance between themselves and the Blessings, but presently through the dust they could see a back-and-forth surging of men and horses. Rifles and pistols snapped in a desultory manner. Webb reined up, for he wanted to grasp the full situation before riding into the middle of it. He saw a large company of white men dismounted, shooting at horseback Indians who circled them. Farther ahead, the main column of Comanches hurried away with their women and children, their horse and mule herd, while this detached set of warriors fought a delaying action.