Whitfield gave the two culprits a long study. “I can’t say what a court might do. Stealin’ horses is a penitentiary offense.”

Dawkins looked at the floor. “No Dawkins has ever gone to the pen. We’ve always gone the last mile to uphold the law. The thought of a son of mine in that place . . .” His voice trembled.

Rusty had never thought he could feel sorry for a man like Dawkins, and he resisted it now. But a touch of sympathy came unbidden. He had a hard time putting it down.

The captain said, “I might suggest one thing. I can take him into custody and turn him over to the conscript officers. He’d do his country more good in the army than in the pen.”

Dawkins walked to the window and looked out into the yard, nervously flexing his big hands behind his back. When he turned, his mind was made up. “Son, you’ve shamed us. You’ve brought dishonor on the Dawkins family name. The army might give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

Pete protested, “Papa, a man can get killed in the army.”

“He can get himself hung for a horse thief on the outside. So you’ll go and serve your country. You too, Scully. The army’ll make men of you, or it’ll kill you.” He walked to the door through which his wife had gone. He turned. “They’re yours, Captain. Take them.”

He disappeared into the hallway. Rusty heard a door slam behind him.

Captain Whitfield motioned for Pete and Scully to stand up. “You boys are under arrest. Try to run again and we’ll shoot you.”

Pete looked toward the door where his father had disappeared. He opened his mouth as if to shout something, then changed his mind and hung his head. “We won’t run. Next time he’d hang us himself. He told us so.”

Whitfield looked back toward the house as they rode across the yard. “Shannon, if you know some way to get word to James Monahan, tell him there’s no use tryin’ anymore to kill Caleb Dawkins. Pete has already done that.”

“Colonel still looked alive the last we saw him.”

“Walkin’, breathin’, sure. But this has hurt him worse than any bullet ever could. It’ll eat on him like a cancer. It’ll kill his soul.”

In a peculiar way, Rusty felt that the Monahans had been avenged.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

HIGH PLAINS COMANCHE ENCAMPMENT, 1863

Buffalo Caller fidgeted in a vain attempt to find comfort. He had sat in the council circle so long that his arthritic joints had stiffened and were beginning to ache. A horse had stumbled and rolled over him during a buffalo hunt last fall, leaving him with chronic pains he had never felt before. If this interminable discussion ever ended, he would probably have to ask someone to help him to his feet. That was embarrassing to a man who in his prime had led ambitious raids far down into the Texas settlements and deep into Mexico. Once his war party had ridden so far that the horsemen from the open plains penetrated the edge of dark, humid forests and marveled at the excited chatter of funny-faced little people perched high up in the limbs.