Shannon rode up to the small group of Texans. “Anybody recognize this young’un?”

No one did.

“What’s your name, lad?” Webb asked.

The boy did not reply. Webb repeated the question. “What do your folks call you, your daddy and mama?”

The boy murmured, “Davy. Me Davy.”

“What do they call your mama? And your daddy?”

“Mama. Daddy.”

He saw that further questions would yield nothing. The boy was too young to know his family name.

Shannon inquired about a doctor but found there was none, at least not in this group. A young man with an upturned moustache and a German accent said, “Is best we bind that arm anyway, so it will not stay always crooked.”

Webb came near fainting as the German pulled the arm straight, then tore a long strip of blue cloth off a bolt that had fallen from a pack animal. He bound it around a temporary splint, a rough piece of live-oak limb. Webb broke out in a cold sweat, his body trembling. But he managed to keep his head as the young man hurried the task.

“August Burmeister is not doctor, but the arm will not crooked be.” Shannon was impressed. “Where’d you learn to do up a broken arm like that?”

“In the old country, in Westphalia. I was a soldier in the army.”

“How come you to be in Texas?”

“I did not like to be a soldier in the army. In the old country they tell of Texas. When they do not watch, I walk out to the niederland and the sea. On a boat I come to Galveston, to look for myself.”

“Hell of a sight you’re seein’ here.” The sounds of battle trailed away to distant spotty firing. Shannon said, “We gave them a royal whippin’, ’y God. There’ll be a trail of Comanche bones all the way to the mountains. They’ll study long before they ever come this far again.”

Evening fell. The arm throbbed, and Webb knew he was running a fever. He and Shannon shared a camp with the Blessing brothers and a small gathering of volunteer rangers in the service of the republic. Nearby, another group sang and shouted. The Tonkawa scouts who had accompanied the white men on their punitive strike were celebrating victory. Webb wondered how one tribe could be induced to aid the Texans in their fight against other Indians. The only answer he could see was that they did not consider themselves to be of the same people despite the fact that white men regarded them that way. The Tonkawas, a small and vulnerable tribe, saw the Texans as allies in their long struggle against domination by the stronger and far more numerous Comanches.

Shannon went over to watch but did not remain long. He came back, looking a little pale. “They’re roastin’ meat over yonder.”

Webb was aware of that, for it smelled good. He assumed the Tonkawas had cut up one of the horses or mules killed in the fight.