Forrest’s only answer was a grunt that could mean anything or nothing. He glanced at Rusty. “You’re holdin’ the cards.”

Rusty nodded. “We’ll do what the captain said . . . back off and give them room. If that’s all right with you.”

“It’s all right with me if we don’t see Austin before next Christmas.”

They waited afoot, giving their horses a chance to rest. After a time, several warriors who had not lost their mounts returned to retrieve the man who had fallen. They lifted him and placed him belly-down on a black pony. Shortly they caught up to several who were afoot, some of them wounded. The rangers followed at a couple of hundred yards, close enough to be an irritant but not enough to present an immediate threat.

Len Tanner remarked, “To them, we must be like mosquitoes that buzz around your face but don’t bite.”

Rusty said, “We want them to know we could bite if they was to give us reason.”

It did not appear that the Indians were going to give them reason. They trudged northward at a pace slow enough to accommodate those who had to walk.

The sergeant pulled in beside Rusty. “You were unhappy about having to kill that Indian.”

“I’ve killed Indians when I had to. This time, I oughtn’t to’ve had to. If we’d made him a prisoner, I figured the others would give up the raid.”

“They gave it up anyway. It’s my feeling that you had more reason than that.”

Rusty considered before he replied. “If things had taken a different turn a long time ago, I might’ve been ridin’ with them myself.”

The sergeant’s mouth dropped open. “With the Indians? But you’re white.”

“You’ve heard of the big Comanche raid on the Gulf Coast back in 1840? I was there. Just a little tyke, not much more than walkin’ good. Best anybody could figure, the Indians killed my folks and carried me off. Intended to raise me for a warrior, I guess. Later on, when volunteers hit the Indians at Plum Creek, Mike Shannon and a preacher named Webb found me on the battleground. Mike and Dora Shannon gave me a home.”

“Do you remember anything about your real folks?”

“Just a foggy picture, is all. Never could even remember their names. And nobody ever found out who they were.”

“Tough, being left an orphan at that age.”

“The worst of it is not knowin’ who I am. By raisin’, I’m a Shannon. By blood, I have no idea. I see strangers and wonder if they might be kin. I might have kinfolks livin’ right down the road from me and I wouldn’t know it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m kin to anybody. It’s like there’s a piece of me missin’, and I’ll never find it.”