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.”

Whitfield made no comment.

Rusty said, “They’ll need law to protect them.”

Whitfield shook his head. “I’ve been the law long enough. I just want to go back to whatever’s left of my own place and enjoy some quiet for a while.”

Tanner put in, “Them’s my sentiments, too. We ought to think of our own selves for a change. All the work we done, all the ridin’ we put in, and what’s it got for us?” He held up his left arm. His bony elbow poked out through a long tear in the ragged sleeve. “Ain’t even got a decent shirt.”

So far as Rusty knew, Oscar Pickett had no home to go back to. At his age, his prospects appeared limited. Rusty took it for granted that the captain would see to the old ranger’s welfare, giving him a place to stay in return for whatever work Pickett was able to do. Otherwise Pickett was likely to end up in some demeaning job like swamping out a dramshop just to feed himself and have a roof of something more substantial than leaky canvas to turn aside the rain.