Rusty asked no foolish questions. He preferred to figure things out for himself or leave them alone. He handed Mike the cut string. “Look at the moccasin tracks.”

Mike said, “Them thievin’ rascals.” A hint of admiration crept into his voice. “Snuck up here in the night, ’y God, and got off with them mules without us hearin’ a thing.” He squinted at Rusty. “You didn’t hear anything, did you?”

“No, sir. I’d’ve raised a holler.” For a fleeting moment Rusty wondered if Mike might think he heard but was scared to do anything about it. Mike should know him better than that. Rusty never went looking for a fight but did not run from one if it came looking for him. He had learned from Mike that skinned knuckles heal, but wounded pride just festers.

It struck Rusty that the family’s brown dog should have raised a ruckus. It never let so much as a raccoon approach the place at night without sounding an alarm. Sometimes, lacking anything else to bark at, it just barked at the moon. He found the dog lying in the grass, an arrow driven deeply into its body. It might have barked a little before it was struck, but no one in the cabin would have paid attention if the racket stopped quickly.

Mike tugged at the arrow. It was too deeply embedded to be pulled out easily. He examined the shaft. “Comanche.”

Comanche was a word that sent a chill up a man’s back. It traveled up Rusty’s and down again.

Mike grumbled, “A fool dog he was, but good company.” He wasted but a moment in regret. “We’re not rich enough that we can afford to furnish work stock to the Comanche nation. Ain’t but one thing to do, and that’s go after them, ’y God.”

“Afoot?” Rusty asked.

“I saw our horses grazin’ down by the river just at sundown. Maybe them redskin thieves missed them in the dark. You go see.”

Rusty had trotted a hundred yards before it dawned on him that he was not armed. But it was unlikely the Indians still lingered. On a horse-stealing raid they tended to strike hard and get away fast.

He thought the chance of getting the mules back was about the same as finding a pot of gold down by the river. But he would not tell Mike so. He was as conservative with words as he was with the little bit of money that ever came into his hands. Visitors had spent the night at the Shannon farm and left the next day believing Rusty was deaf and dumb.

People not well acquainted with the family often assumed that Rusty had been born to it. Many did not know that Mike Shannon and Preacher Webb had taken him from the Comanches on the battlefield at Plum Creek. The minister had ridden many long miles and made a lot of inquiries before abandoning hope of identifying the boy. Mike and Mother Dora had regarded him as their own and gave him their family name, for he had none of his own.