He did not see York. Perhaps the Indians had done to him what Rusty had long yearned to do.

Whitfield shouted, “Keep poundin’ them, boys. They can’t fight us and drive their horses, too.”

Rusty was uncertain for a moment which the warriors would choose. Then he knew, for they formed a long, ragged line and came forward in a run, ready for more battle. The rangers spread out to meet them. Rusty found himself at one extreme end, racing toward a Comanche who seemed to have chosen him as his specific target.

The Indian swung a war club. The stone head looked as large as both of Rusty’s fists. He knew it could crush his skull. He tried to line his pistol sights on the man’s broad, painted chest, but the motion of his running horse kept the barrel bobbing up and down.

The opposing riders were no more than ten feet apart when Rusty squeezed the trigger. He saw the other horse scotch at the flash, just enough to prevent the war club from striking Rusty’s head as it swung in a wide arc. It hit him across the shoulder so hard that it knocked him loose from the saddle. He felt himself falling. He landed on his back, jarring most of the breath from his lungs. His hat rolled away. He looked up as the Indian wheeled his horse around and came back, swinging the club again. Instinctively Rusty brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Buffalo Caller had been in high spirits over the success of the raid. Though he had been thwarted in gathering scalps—most of the farms the warriors visited were either deserted or too well defended for a frontal assault—they had done well in gathering horses. It appeared they had somehow lost the element of surprise, but most of the Texans had been more interested in saving their lives than in saving their animals. The war party had rounded up horses in more abundance than he had dared hope.

He had not been surprised when their approach to the small log cabin was greeted by gunfire. Most of the warriors had been willing to pass it by and settle for the four horses they saw in the corral, but Buffalo Caller fretted over not having taken Texan scalps. The cabin looked vulnerable, and he had led the assault.

Now they stood in danger of losing all the horses they had gathered and perhaps a few of the warriors themselves. He dreaded the blame the young men would fasten upon him. He had taken a rapid count of the horsemen approaching and had decided the whites were too outnumbered to attempt a fight. Surely they would back away. He would have to give up the attack on the cabin, but at least the raiders should be able to move on with their horses.

To his surprise, the Texans mounted a charge. There had been nothing for Buffalo Caller’s warriors to do but meet it and try to break it up. He was confident the white horsemen would disperse when they saw the superior force riding down upon them. But they did not. They kept coming.