“Not much we can do about them now’.”

Tanner pointed his chin at Rusty. “He done somethin’. Shot one of them, he did.”

“By accident?”

Rusty shook his head. “I did it on purpose. Had to. But I’m hopin’ he lives.”

Tanner said, “You better hope he don’t. He may come after you someday. Even with one arm, he could still blow a hole through you.”

Whitfield frowned. “There was a time we might’ve broken up a camp like that, but I didn’t want to. Most of them were just tryin’ to stay out of the army. Now they’re not my problem anymore. As long as they don’t bother me or mine, I won’t bother them.”

Rusty asked Whitfield, “Do you think you can travel with that wounded hip, even in a wagon?”

“As long as it’s in the direction of home, I can grit my teeth and keep goin’.”

Home. The word held the warmth of spring sunshine.

“It’ll be safer, travelin’ in a bunch. Me and Tanner will wait here with you ‘I’ll Oscar Pickett gets back. Then we’ll ride along with you as far as we can.”

Rusty could see in Whitfield’s eyes that the wagon’s jolting hurt him, but the captain voiced no complaint. Rusty had once suffered through the ordeal of a long ride after a Comanche arrow had driven deeply into his leg. Tanner had cauterized the wound with a red-hot blade. It still pained him to remember, though the searing probably saved his leg. Healed now, the scar was still large and ugly, and it sometimes itched enough to drive him to distraction. He could imagine what the captain was going through.

Oscar Pickett hunched beside Whitfield, his age-spotted, arthritis-knotted hands gripping the reins. Two of Whitfield’s horses and the mule Chapultepec trotted behind, tied to the wagon by long reins. In the wagon bed were folded tents, what few supplies had remained in camp, and Whitfield’s and Pickett’s personal possessions. These were too meager to strain the capacity of the canvas war bags in which they were stowed.

Rusty and Tanner rode beside the wagon, Rusty leading the unclaimed dun horse he had used before recovering Alamo. They came to a burned-out cabin, its blackened ruins slumped in a heap near a seeping spring.

“Good place to water and rest the horses,” Rusty observed. He was more concerned with giving the captain a rest, but he knew better than to say so. Whitfield’s pride would make him insist on traveling farther.

The captain offered no complaint. He said, “I remember the folks who lived here. Jackson was their name. Indians kept wartin’ them ‘I’ll they decided to go back to East Texas. Then the Comanches came and burned the cabin. Figured that would keep the family from ever comin’ back.”

Rusty figured the Indian victory would be short-lived.

“If the Jacksons don’t,” he said, “somebody else’ll claim this land. Once the soldiers start comin’ home, this country will settle up again, heavier than it was before.”