They rode far into the night and made a dry camp, resuming the march at first light. The second night Rusty guessed that they were near the river, though he could not be certain of the distance. Whitfield ordered a halt.

Rusty argued, “If we keep goin’ we ought to strike the Colorado pretty soon.”

“We may do it afoot if we don’t rest these horses.”

James declared, “While we’re restin’ there’s no tellin’ what may be happenin’ to folks downriver.”

“We can’t help them if we can’t get there, and we’ll never get there on dead horses.” But Whitfield eased a bit. “We’ll let them breathe an hour or so, then we’ll see.”

The horses may have rested, but Rusty did not, nor did James. They paced back and forth until in exasperation Tanner said, “I wisht you boys’d set yourselves down awhile. You’re makin’ me tired just watchin’ you.”

James retorted, “You ain’t got folks down there to be worryin’ about.” He glanced at Rusty. “For that matter, neither do you.”

Rusty’s mind had been dwelling on Geneva since they had begun the trip. “Maybe I do. Or will have someday.”

Whitfield had been lying on his spread-out blanket. He arose and rolled it, tying it behind his saddle. He was irritatingly calm. “All right, boys, time to travel.”

Rusty sighed in relief. James was already in the saddle while Rusty tightened the girth he had loosened so Alamo could breathe easier. Rusty took up his position to point the way, though it was not necessary. They had been moving as nearly due south as the terrain would allow.

In about an hour he came upon a wagon road, visible in the light of the full moon. It ran generally east and west. “I know this one. It follows the river.”

Shortly he was on the riverbank. “There ought to be a farm on the other side, just a little ways up.”

The cabin looked black against the moonlight, and Rusty feared it had been burned. Nearing it, however, he realized he had been fooled by the deep shadow. The cabin was intact. Motioning for the others to stay a safe distance behind, he put Alamo into a walk and carefully approached the house. He listened for sounds of life, but the place was silent as a tomb.

He wished he knew how he could shout quietly. The last thing he wanted to do was make a lot of noise. “Anybody home?” he called.

No one answered. He felt a chill, fearing the worst. Perhaps the Indians had already visited. If they had been here, they almost certainly had struck other farms to the east, including his own. He moved to the door, where he found a piece of paper held down by a bent nail. He could not read it in the shadow, so he tore it off and held it up to let the moon’s light fall upon it.

It said, Indian sign. Gone to Shannon place.