He realized suddenly that the man was swinging a war club, and the woman was trying to avoid him. She leaned over the boy, holding her arm out to deflect the blow. He heard her scream.

Webb could not believe what he saw. The man was trying to kill the youngster.

The mare stumbled, pitching woman and child out into the grass. The warrior’s speed carried him past them. He wheeled his horse about and started back. She screamed again, trying to shield the boy with her body. She brought up a knife, brandishing it at the man.

Webb had no time to consider options. He drove his horse forward to intercept the warrior, who seemed so intent on the boy that he did not see the larger enemy until it was too late. The Comanche’s eyes met Webb’s, and he raised the club.

Momentum slammed the two horses together. Webb felt himself catapulted out of the saddle. He rolled in the dry grass and grabbed frantically at the rifle. He brought it up and pulled the trigger, but impact had spilled powder from the pan.

The Indian had managed to stay on his horse. He reined it around and came back, holding the club high. Webb instinctively raised the rifle, trying to let it take the blow. The club came down hard against his left arm. A sharp stab of pain told him the bone was broken.

Mike Shannon appeared suddenly, coming up behind the Comanche. Wild-eyed and shouting, he jammed the muzzle of his rifle against the painted body and fired. Blood spurted from the Indian’s stomach as the bullet tore through him and exited. He tumbled from his horse and writhed on the ground, pressing his hands against a huge hole that gushed red. He struggled, then lapsed into a quiet quivering as life drained away.

Broken arm throbbing, Webb turned quickly to look for the woman. He saw her on hands and knees, gasping for breath lost in the fall. The knife lay on the ground beside her right hand. The boy stood beside her, bewildered.

Only then did Webb notice that the child’s hair was red, his frightened eyes blue. He wore the homespun clothing typical in poor farm families. A white captive, Webb realized, probably taken in Victoria or Linnville. He looked as if he might be two years old, perhaps three.

“Come to me, lad,” Webb said.

The boy hesitated. The Indian woman cried something and reached toward him. Webb knew Comanches often killed their captives when they were under pressure, so he kicked the knife away. He placed himself between the child and the woman, lifted the boy with his right arm and turned to catch his horse. The youngster clung tightly to his neck.

Shannon rode in close, drawing a pistol because he had not had time to reload the rifle. He gave the woman a hard look. Webb feared for a moment that he might shoot her.

“Spare her,” Webb said.