Rusty said, “I’d like to go and say howdy. I’ve known him as far back as I can remember.”

Whitfield shook his head. “I don’t doubt your friend’s honesty, but he might say somethin’ to flush our quail. Last thing we want to do is to attract undue attention. We’re out here lookin’ for Indians, remember?”

The following day Rusty saw a cloud of dust. Lack of rain had left the grass short, the surface dry. Anywhere an animal walked, it left a tiny dust trail slow to settle behind it. The size of this cloud indicated many animals. He limped to the captain’s tent to let Whitfield know, but the officer had already seen. He held a spyglass to his eye and focused it.

“Looks like twenty horses, give or take a few.” He folded the glass, a transient smile lifting his moustache. He was not given to smiling often. “We’ll wait ‘I’ll they get them penned, then mosey down for a look.”

The captain seemed cool and calm. Rusty was not. Whitfield moved slowly and deliberately, as if he had all day. Rusty felt his stomach tightening with tension. Whitfield admonished him, “Never get in a hurry when you don’t have to. A man in too big a hurry makes mistakes he can’t afford. Let the other man be the one who makes mistakes.”

‘The volunteers had their mounts saddled and were sitting on them, waiting, when Whitfield finally got ready. He nodded. “Leave us go and look at some horses.”

Their approach went unnoticed until they had almost reached the corral. Tom Blessing had his back turned. He was examining a gray horse’s teeth and asking about the animal’s age. When the man beside him answered, Tom said, “His teeth tell it different. He’s a sight older than that.”

Tanner’s horse took a notion to neigh at those in the corral. Blessing turned, eyes widening in surprise, then smiling as he recognized Rusty. “Rusty Shannon, you’re about the last man I expected to see here so far from home.”

The man beside him turned. Rusty recognized Pete Dawkins and

somehow felt no surprise. Dawkins’s face fell as his gaze swept over the rangers. Nearby, a rope in his hand, stood another man Rusty was sure had been with Pete the day they were trying to escape with the stolen Tonkawa horses.

Rusty said, “Howdy, Tom.” He left it to Whitfield to advance the conversation.

Whitfield looked straight at Pete. “You are Colonel Dawkins’s son, aren’t you?”

Pete’s only answer was an affirmative nod. He had the look of a coyote with his foot caught in a trap.

“I would assume these are some of the colonel’s horses you’ve brought to sell?” A few bore the Dawkins brand.

Pete managed a weak “Yeah, part of them. Bought the rest from farmers around.”

“I assume you have bills of sale.”

Pete looked toward his horse. The man with the rope began walking toward the fence where his and Pete’s mounts were tied outside. Pete said, “Got the papers in my saddlebag. I’ll fetch them for you.”