Indians were another matter. This far south of the Red, an Indian campfire almost certainly meant trouble brewing for someone. His safest course would be to saddle up now and be far away by daylight.

He told himself this was none of his business either. He no longer had any ranger obligations, no oath to live up to. If the Indians moved toward the settlements, someone else would probably find their trail. Only by purest chance had he seen this fire in the first place. Had he not been obliged to leave camp he would not have traveled this far west. If he rode away now no one would be worse off than if he had never been here.

He tried to convince himself as he saddled Alamo. He mounted and turned the horse southward. He rode a hundred yards and stopped, looking back toward the fire. He felt a compulsion to know. Were they really Indians? And what could he do about it if they were?

He followed the creek westward, holding Alamo to a walk to lessen the sound of his hooves and to avoid stumbling into deadfall timber that might make a noise. When he was as near the fire as he dared ride, he dismounted and tied the horse to a tree. He moved on afoot, stopping often to listen. He smelled the smoke and meat roasting over glowing coals. He saw figures moving about.

His skin prickled. These were Indians, right enough. He counted at least eight and reasoned that others were beyond the firelight. For a moment he entertained a wild notion of firing into their camp and giving them a scare that might make them retreat to the reservation. He abandoned that as a bad idea. In all likelihood they would swarm over him like wasps disturbed in their nest. Taking his hair might only increase the warriors’ desire for more, because enemy scalps aroused a competitive spirit. Symbolizing manhood and fighting ability, they were trophies sought after and prized.

The Indians had posted no guard. This was a basic flaw in the Comanche approach to war that Rusty had never understood. He did not know if it was a sign of arrogance or simply a false sense of security. They did not normally like to fight at night, and perhaps they felt that no one else did either.

He drew away from the camp and returned to his horse. His skin still tingled with excitement. “Old feller, we wouldn’t want to run into those boys in the daylight.”

Prudence told him to head south, but he hesitated. The honorable thing—the responsible thing—would be to double back to the ranger camp and sound an alarm. Perhaps enough men remained there to head off this band as they had done the last raiding party, forcing them to retreat north of the Red before they could strike outlying farms or ranches. But he would be riding into the clutches of the conscription officers. It was a foregone conclusion that they would want him for the Southern army.