Rusty heard distant gunfire. The York place was under siege.

His first thought was that the Comanches would do for him what he had not been able to do for himself: administer justice to Isaac York. He took quick satisfaction in the thought, then lost it. He felt shame for letting himself harbor such an unworthy sentiment.

No comment was necessary, and Whitfield made none. He signaled for an advance and set his dun horse into a run. James spurred up beside him. “You promised me my gun, remember?”

Whitfield reached into his saddlebag and brought out the pistol he had taken when he placed James under arrest. “I’ll want that back.”

James made no promise.

Rusty pushed Alamo hard, trying to keep up. He suffered a confusing ebb and flow of conflicting emotions pulling him forward yet trying to hold him back. He was tempted to drop behind and leave the rescue of Isaac York to the others, but he could not bring himself to draw on the reins. Outnumbered, the rangers needed every man they had, and more. His feeling of duty to them was stronger than his hatred for York.

The cabin came into view on a slope easy water-carrying distance up from the river. The Comanches were circling it on horseback, loosing arrows at the windows and a broken door that sagged half open. A dead horse lay at the doorstep. Rusty guessed that a warrior had tried to smash the door by backing his horse into it. The rider evidently had escaped, but his mount had not.

White smoke arose from the two windows and around the door as defenders inside fired sporadically at the attackers.

The Indians spotted the incoming riders and broke their circle. They quickly formed into a group, then surged toward the rangers.

Oh, hell, Rusty thought. They’re fixing to meet us head-on.

The sight of the oncoming Comanches, stripped down to little more than breechcloths and warpaint, shouting in defiance, set Rusty to shivering. His blood was like ice. But Whitfield did not temper his speed, nor did the other rangers. They plunged headlong toward the mass of warriors. Some of the men raised an exuberant yell to match that of the Indians.

Whitfield shouted, “Chastise them, boys! Hip and thigh!”

The Comanches split suddenly, avoiding an actual collision. They swept around the rangers, who struggled to circle about and give chase. Rusty heard the whisper of arrows and instinctively dropped down on the side of his horse. He saw a minuteman tumble from the saddle, an arrow in his shoulder. A horse fell, hit in the chest.

So far as he could see in the wild chaos of the moment, only two Comanches had rifles. One rifle fell to the ground as ranger pistols barked.

He glimpsed a large gathering of horses farther down the river, prizes of the Comanche raid.

The Indians regrouped and made a wide circle back toward the horses. They did not intend to give up their booty without a fight. The cabin door was forced open, and three men stepped out to fire at the Comanches as they passed. Rusty recognized Preacher Webb, Tom Blessing, and the slave Shanty.