The farmer rubbed an ash-darkened sleeve across his face. His voice became contrite. “Sorry I jumped all over you. I know it’s not your doin’ that there ain’t enough rangers. It’s the Richmond government’s fault, takin’ off so many men to fight a stupid war a thousand miles away. And the Texas government for lettin’ them get away with it. Damn them all, and double damn Jeff Davis.”

There had been a time when such words could put a man in mortal danger from rope-wielding zealots determined to rid Texas of dissidents. Rusty had helped cut down the bodies of his friend Lon Monahan and Lon’s son Billy from the limbs of a tree in the wake of the hangmen. Now and then in the dark of night the memory brought him awake, clammy with cold sweat and fighting his blanket. He had long harbored the same opinions as Haines but spoke them aloud only to friends he could trust. He had witnessed too much grief brought on by night-riding vigilantes like Colonel Caleb Dawkins who did not go to war themselves yet demanded that others do so or die.

The farmer cautioned, “There was sixteen, eighteen Indians. I don’t see but six of you.”

“We’re lucky we’ve got six.” The five who accompanied him, like Len Tanner, were men Rusty felt would stay with him if they skirted along the rim of hell. He looked again toward the bodies. He shuddered, for he had seen too many like them. “If we come across a minister, we’ll send him. You’ll want proper services for your folks.”

“Much obliged, but I can read from the Bible same as any preacher.”

The older of the two boys appeared to be around twelve, the other perhaps ten. Rusty felt sorrow for them. They would have to finish growing up without their mother. But at least they still had their father. Unlike Rusty, they had not lost all their family. Surely the war back East would sputter out before they were old enough to become soldiers.

The war here was another matter. He could see no end to it.

The farmer pointed. “I’m fearful for August Faust, my neighbor. I hope him and his family saw the smoke and forted up.”

“We’ll go see,” Rusty promised. He signaled the patrol and set off in the southeasterly direction the Indians had taken. The tracks were plain enough to follow in a lope.

He expected more smoke ahead, but he heard sporadic firing instead. Someone was still fighting at the Faust place. When the picket cabin came into full view, Rusty rough-counted eleven Indians. Most were afoot and taking cover wherever they could. It stood to reason that a few others were behind the cabin, out of his sight. Fifty or sixty yards away, two warriors held a number of horses.

It was not normally Comanche or Kiowa custom to make a frontal assault on a well-defended position. They preferred to catch their quarry by surprise with a quick, clean strike, pulling back if resistance proved stronger than expected. Evidently that had been the case here. Almost every time an Indian raised his head, fire and smoke blossomed from the doorway or a glassless window. Someone was firing from the back as well. The raiders had the cabin surrounded, but they were a long way from taking it.