A milk-pen calf was kept confined so its mother would come to the barn twice a day to be milked and to let the calf suck. Rusty turned the calf out to find her so it would not starve in case he was gone for several days. It stared in bovine confusion at the unaccustomed freedom and nosed at the closed gate, trying to get back in.

Shanty observed, “Freedom can be a hard thing to get used to. But it’s harder yet to give up, once you’ve had it.”

As he rode, Blessing explained that a farmer farther west had come upon an Indian and fired at him with a shotgun. He was too excited to aim straight.

Rusty asked, “was he sure it was an Indian?”

“Said he wasn’t wearin’ much but breechcloth and moccasins, and he had a bow slung across his shoulder. Afterward some of the neighbors went scoutin’ and found tracks. Looked like there might’ve been twenty or thirty passed by, goin’ east.”

“Goin’ for where they expect to find the most horses,” Rusty guessed. The invaders might be disappointed, for the war had taken away large numbers. Years would pass before they could be bred back up to earlier levels. “Any notion where the Indians have got to?”

“Somewhere east. We’ll keep ridin’ ‘til we run into them.”

That happened sooner than Rusty expected. A farmer came toward them, vigorously kicking a saddle mule’s ribs, pushing for all the speed the animal could muster. The man waved his hat and shouted. Foam formed around the bridle bits, and the brown hide glistened with sweat.

“Comanches! Must be a hundred of them!” The farmer’s eyes seemed to bulge. He turned halfway around in the saddle, pointing behind him. “Drivin’ a bunch of horses. Must be a hundred of those, too.”

From past experience Rusty suspected that the man’s excitement caused gross exaggeration in the numbers, both of Indians and of horses. The earlier report had indicated there might be twenty or thirty Indians.

Blessing wasted no time on foolish questions. “How far?”

“Two, maybe three miles behind me. They been killin’ folks right and left. Must’ve killed a hundred by now.”

Blessing’s expression indicated that he too, suspected the account was exaggerated. “We’ll see if we can head them off. You want to go with us?”

The farmer looked over the group. Blessing had picked up several men, bringing the number to eighteen. “There ain’t near enough of you. There’s a hundred of them, maybe two hundred.”

Blessing nodded as if he believed. “Tell you what do: you keep ridin’, spread the word so nobody gets caught unawares.”

The farmer needed no further encouragement to set the mule into a run again. He was quickly gone, dust rising behind him. Blessing turned to the men. “You heard what he said. I don’t think there’s near as many Indians as he claimed, but anybody who wants to turn back is free to do it.”

Rusty looked at Preacher Webb, hoping he might, for the minister was obviously weary. But neither Webb nor anyone else showed an inclination to leave.