“Nothing is better than a good cavalry charge to throw a scare into your adversaries.”

Whitfield turned to his rangers. “Check your cinches. You wouldn’t want your saddle to turn.”

The men dismounted and drew their girths up tight. Rusty glanced toward Billings. The lieutenant appeared to have taken ill.

Forrest noticed it, too. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Pretend they’re Yankees.”

Billings made no reply. He wiped a sweaty hand on the gray leg of his trousers. Austin must have been looking like paradise to him.

Whitfield removed his hat and bowed his head. “Lord, we’re fixin’ to get ourselves into a right smart of a fight. We hope you’re on our side in this, but if you can’t be, please don’t be helpin’ them Indians. A-men.”

Forming a line, the rangers and two conscription officers put their horses into a long trot. After a hundred yards they spurred into a run. The Indians shouted defiance, waving bows and the few rifles they had. Wind roared in Rusty’s ears. The Comanche line began to waver as the rangers neared. Rusty sensed the Indians’ confusion. Captain Whitfield had called it right; they had not expected a determined charge by an outnumbered enemy.

The rangers were fifty yards away when the Indian line split apart. A few warriors fired rifles or launched arrows wildly, then followed the others in disorganized retreat. The ranger line swept through the opening. Pistols and rifles cracked. The rangers pulled their horses around. Whitfield stood in his stirrups and shouted, “We can whip them. Give them another run, boys!”

This time there was no Indian line. Warriors were scattered, addled by the audacity of the inferior force. Three lay on the ground. A fourth was afoot, chasing his runaway horse.

Whitfield ordered, “Keep them broke up. Don’t let them get back together.”

The rangers themselves broke up, pursuing small groups of Indians in various directions. From the first, Rusty had concentrated on one warrior he surmised might be the party leader. He brought his horse to a quick stop, stepped to the ground, and squeezed off a shot. Through the smoke he saw the Indian jerk, then tumble from his horse.

Rusty started to reload. Billings spurred past him, shouting, “I’ll finish him!”

The Indian was not ready to be finished. He rose up on shaky legs and fired a rifle. Billings’s horse plunged headlong to the ground. Billings lay pinned, a leg caught beneath the struggling animal. Pressing one bloody hand against a wound in his side, the Indian limped toward him. He held a knife.

Billings cried out for help.

Rusty finished reloading, then remounted and put the dun horse into a run. The Comanche saw him coming and moved faster. Billings’s voice lifted almost to a scream. “For God’s sake, somebody!”

Rusty knew a running shot was chancy, but if not stopped the warrior would reach the lieutenant ahead of him. He brought the stock to his shoulder and braced the heavy rifle with his left hand. The recoil almost unseated him. The powder smoke burned in his nostrils.