He knew he was within range even of the rangers’ pistols, but he had made a display of courage and would not compromise it by turning and running away. He was close enough to see that the rider’s whiskers and shaggy hair were red.

That shook him a little. More than once, his father had told him of a troubling vision about a red-haired man. The day Buffalo Caller was killed, he had been in a close fight with a ranger whose hair was the color of rusted metal. Though someone else fired the fatal bullet, Steals the Ponies had always felt that the redhead’s strong medicine was somehow responsible for his father’s death.

This might not be the same man. Then again, it might. Steals the Ponies shuddered, but pride would not allow him to run. He turned slowly away from the white men, letting them know he was not afraid though they could easily kill him. For a time he held his pony to an easy pace that kept him within range if they should choose to shoot. They did not. He supposed their forbearance was a tribute of sorts to his valor. He stopped again to deliver a loud, defiant whoop, then moved on to rejoin the others.

He hoped Buffalo Caller might be watching from the spirit land to which he had gone. His father would be proud. He wished his foster brother could be here to see this, but Badger Boy was too young to ride on such an expedition. He would hear of it, though, and perhaps he would be inspired to become the greatest fighter of them all.

The warriors gave Steals the Ponies their silent approval, all except Tall Eagle. Tall Eagle rebuked him with a scowl. Steals the Ponies smiled inside, knowing the leader was jealous. The older warrior could have made the same gesture but had not chosen to do so. Perhaps he had not even thought of it. Word of Steals the Ponies’ exploits would spread among The People. They would say he was a son worthy of his father and a model for his younger brother to emulate.

He had shown the teibos his courage. Perhaps the next white men to see him would remember and be afraid.

CHAPTER

TWO

Rusty raised his rifle to bring down the Indian who taunted him. He held the bead a moment, then lowered the weapon across the pommel of his badly worn saddle.

Len Tanner drew in closer. “You’re the best shot in the outfit. You couldn’t miss.”

“He’s got guts, paradin’ himself that way.”

“Ain’t your fault he’s got more guts than good sense. Shoot him.”

“Too easy. I’d take no honor in it.”

“Honor, hell! There wasn’t no honor in them killin’ that woman and little girl.”

The warrior brought his pony a little closer. Tanner became more agitated. “Looks to me like he’s askin’ for you to do it.”

“He’s darin’ me to come out and meet him in the middle ground. I’m not a schoolboy. The only dares I pay attention to are the ones I give myself.” He knew if he killed the young Comanche the others would turn back and do their damndest to kill him. They would stand a good chance of getting it done. The price would be one ranger for one Indian. There were already so many Indians, and so pitifully few rangers.