The main body of warriors crossed the creek and emerged on the other side, beyond the protective timber. They retreated northward, pursued by three rangers who were no match for them in numbers should they decide to turn and counterattack. Rusty reined up, knowing he was unlikely to catch the fugitives. He was not sure he even wanted to. They seemed to be retreating back toward the reservation, taking with them a dozen stolen horses. Even in the unlikely event that the patrol caught up and killed them all, it would make little difference in terms of the larger war between white men and red. There would still be enough to keep the fight going . . . Comanche, Kiowa, sometimes Cheyenne and others.

The black horse’s hide glistened with sweat. Rusty slowed him, then brought him to a stop. The three rangers who had pursued the main group abandoned the chase and turned back. Two more Comanches left the creek and circled around them, striking out northwestward across the prairie in the wake of the others. Rusty stopped and drew his rifle but knew his shot would be wasted. A snowball in hell stood a better chance.

A single rider crossed the creek and took after the pair. Rusty recognized Tanner’s lean form. He waved his hat and shouted, “Len, get the hell back here!”

He feared the Indians would lead the reckless Tanner off by himself, then turn and kill him. Fortunately the wind was in the right direction to carry his voice. The ranger drew rein and reluctantly returned.

“Damn it, Rusty, they’ll keep splittin’ off in little bunches, and first thing you know we’ll be wonderin’ where they went.”

Rusty was aware of that. He had seen similar escapes in the four years he had served a frontier company. It was a familiar Comanche tactic to divide up, knowing the pursuers were seldom able to follow them all. The last small bunch, though closely trailed, would somehow manage to disappear like a puff of smoke.

Shortly he looked back over his shoulder and saw three more warriors on open ground north of the creek, racing away. They had concealed themselves in the timber until the pursuit had passed.

Tanner argued, “There ain’t all that many of them. What say we show them who’s the boss?”

Rusty considered his choices. “The odds are too long. We’ll just keep trailin’ after them so they won’t turn and come back. Maybe we can crowd them into settin’ the stolen horses loose.”

Moving into a stiff trot, he gathered the patrol and half a dozen loose horses the Indians had taken, then abandoned under pressure. Rusty hoped these were the ones stolen from Faust and perhaps the Haines’s farm.

He picked out the oldest man, whose thin shoulders were pinched, his face weary. “Mr. Pickett, if you don’t mind, I wish you’d take these horses back to the Faust place. The rest of us’ll pester the hostiles all the way to the river.”