The last patrol arrived about noon, bringing the company’s strength to eleven men. Captain Whitfield walked among the new arrivals. “Get yourselves some dinner as quick as you can, then saddle fresh horses.” He gave Lieutenant Billings a defiant look. “We’re goin’ after Indians.”

Billings stepped in front of him, his right hand dropping to the butt of a pistol. “The hell you are! I am taking these men to Austin.”

Whitfield spread his feet apart in a stance that said he would not be moved. Rusty had never seen him more determined. “This is my camp, Lieutenant, and you are a long way from home.”

Billings whirled around, seeking the sergeant. “Forrest, put this man under arrest.”

Forrest shook his head. “The captain makes good sense. I’d advise you to listen to him.”

The lieutenant started to draw the pistol from its holster. Rusty took a long step forward and grabbed his hand. He twisted the pistol from Billings’s grasp. The officer stared at him in fury, then turned upon the sergeant. “I’ll have you court-martialed for this.”

“Do it and be damned. I never intended to make a career out of the army anyway. Tell them anything you want to. Tell them I got drunk and dallied with lewd women, if that’s your pleasure.”

Looking around as if seeking help, Billings saw only hostile faces. He gave in grudgingly. “I won’t forget this. I could have every one of you shot.”

Forrest said, “You’re a long way from Austin. If you want to get there, you’d better talk less and listen more.” He reached for the lieutenant’s pistol. Rusty gave it to him. “I know you’ve never had to face the Yankees. You ever been in an Indian fight?”

Billings calmed a little. “No. I have been denied both pleasures.”

“I’ve done both, and there’s damned little pleasure in either one. You can go with us or stay in camp, whichever suits you best.”

“I’ll go, if only to keep some Indian from killing you before I can have you properly shot.”

Forrest handed the pistol back to the lieutenant, who recognized reality and holstered it.

Captain Whitfield said, “This is no time to fight amongst ourselves. If we can turn back a raid, we’ll save some settler families a lot of grief. That ought to count for somethin’, Lieutenant.”

Billings glared at Forrest. “We’ll see how it counts in a court-martial.”

Whitfield delegated two rangers to remain at camp. One had reported in sick. The other was the aging Oscar Pickett, exhausted by the long patrol in which he had just participated. Rusty had to leave Alamo behind, for the horse was too tired to undertake another trip. He picked a dun confiscated from a thief caught running stolen horses down from the Indian territory. The rangers had chosen to keep most of the mounts because they lacked the manpower to go looking for their rightful owners. That had been Captain Whitfield’s stated justification, at least.

The day was more than half gone. Rusty thought they would need the devil’s own luck to find the Indians before dark. He did not feel that lucky. Captain Whitfield sent him out in front to scout, though any ranger could have led the way as well. Where they might connect with the Indians was anyone’s guess.