Oscar Pickett seemed relieved. He was too old for such rigorous duty, but he would die before he would admit it aloud. “What do you want me to do afterward?”

Even men twice Rusty’s age readily took his directions. He tried to give them in a manner that sounded like friendly suggestions rather than commands. “Stay at the Haines’s place awhile. Your horse needs a rest. You can come up to Belknap tomorrow.” The rider appeared more tired than the horse, but Rusty wanted to spare the older man’s pride.

He turned to the rest of his rangers. “What do you say we go aggravate those Comanches?”

Steals the Ponies was his name. He had stolen several this time, only to be forced to abandon some under pressure of the Texan war party that had dogged the raiders so closely. The loss nettled like prickly pear spines digging under his skin. He had contended all along that the white horsemen were too few for real warriors to run from. But Tall Eagle had assembled this raiding party, and it was for Tall Eagle to say whether they fought or retreated. The older warrior had decided at the first cabin that their medicine had gone bad because one of his followers was wounded by the opening shot. The feeling had been reinforced when they failed to take the second cabin by surprise and the teibo horsemen interrupted their siege.

Next time, or the time after, it would be different. The younger, more eager warriors would sooner or later pull away from Tall Eagle, for he was beginning to lose the nerve he needed for leadership. Steals the Ponies would organize his own raiding party as his father, Buffalo Caller, had frequently done before him. Then he would be the one to decide whether to attack or pull away.

His father’s forays had not always been successful, but he had never turned and run like a frightened dog. Buffalo Caller had eventually died in a raid on a white settlement. His was a fitting death for a warrior.

Frustration prompted Steals the Ponies to stop for a show of defiance. Tall Eagle shouted for him to keep up, but Steals the Ponies defied him. He turned back toward the little group of white horsemen who trailed behind. They made no effort to close the distance but acted as an annoyance, like so many heelflies. They must belong to the formidable Texan warrior society known as rangers, he thought. Rangers stuck like cockle-burrs.

He doubted that the white men could understand his words, but they would understand his gestures well enough. He crisscrossed his war pony back and forth in front of them, shouting insults, waving his bow over his head.

One of the white men rode a little ahead of the others. His face was dark with several days’ whiskers, but he sat erect in the saddle, a young man’s way. Steals the Ponies decided on a challenge. He raced toward him, waving the bow, drawing an arrow from his quiver. The other rangers quickly moved up to flank the leader. Steals the Ponies saw that the young Texan had no intention of answering the challenge.