Buffalo Caller wondered what manner of madmen he was dealing with. The Texans’ failure to be intimidated left him rattled, unsure what he should do.

The young warriors made the decision for him. They would try to save the horses. Surely the inferior band of Texans would realize they were too outnumbered to take the horses back. Surely they would pull aside and let the warriors pass.

But it quickly became evident that the teibos had no such intention. Buffalo Caller had no choice but to lead another charge. It was poorly organized and quickly began disintegrating as the opposing bodies neared one another. He looked around desperately for his son Steals the Ponies. He could not see him in the confusion of running horses and shouting men.

Buffalo Caller found himself facing a single rider. He had fired his rifle in the first charge and had not had a chance to reload. He did not trust his aim with an arrow from the back of a running horse against another moving horseman. He chose to use the war club.

He was almost blinded by the flash of the rider’s pistol. The bullet missed him, but the blazing powder set his face afire. He felt his club connect with the white man’s shoulder so hard that it would have been jarred from his grasp but for the leather thong that bound it to his wrist. The rider fell from his horse and landed on his back.

Buffalo Caller quickly brought his horse around for another run, determined this time to crush the teibo’s head. Blinking, trying to see through the lingering brightness of the flash, he raised the club, then stopped. He looked down in surprise and growing horror, for he saw what he had seen in his dream. The white man’s hair was red.

Buffalo Caller burned all over. Instinct told him to smash this man quickly, for the red-hair was evil medicine. But his hand seemed paralyzed. He felt a struggle of opposing powers, his own against that of the red-haired Texan. He tried to bring down the club but could not move it.

He heard a shout and saw another white man bearing down upon him. As Buffalo Caller turned to meet the new threat, he felt a renewal of power. He swung the club back for momentum, then felt a terrible blow to his side even as he heard the shot fired. He once had been kicked by a mule, but that was nothing compared with the impact of the bullet. He almost fell from the horse. He managed to grasp a handful of mane, but he could not see to guide the animal. He could feel that it was still running, but he had no idea where it was going.

It did not seem to matter. A slow paralysis came over him. His hand loosed its grip on the mane. He knew the sensation of falling, of pain when he struck the ground. Then he was lying on his back, sunlight filtering through tree branches above and burning through the lids of his closed eyes. He felt himself drifting away as if floating in the river.