Blessing was pleased. “Then let’s go find us some Comanches.”

They were easily found. Rusty saw the horse herd first. A rough count showed him about twenty head, a fraction of the farmer’s wild estimate. For the Comanches, this raid had been slim pickings. Moreover, only half a dozen Indians rode with the horses. Rusty suspected the raiding party consisted of considerably more, but the others were probably away looking for additional horses.

Blessing said, “I don’t believe they’ve seen us yet. Let’s don’t give them time to think about it.” With a wave of his hand, he led the charge.

Rusty took a quick look around to locate Preacher Webb. He wanted to keep the minister in sight, lest he get off to himself and end up in trouble.

The Indian horse guards were taken by surprise. They tried to come together, but the Texans were among them too quickly. To one side a small rider on a roan horse tried to join his companions. He was cut off by Jed Hoskins, who gave chase. The rider loosed an arrow at Hoskins but missed. Hoskins in turn fired his rifle but without effect. A second Indian cut in from behind, swinging a war club. Rusty gave chase, hoping to ward off the warrior, but he was too late. The club struck the farmer and knocked him off his horse. The Indian whirled about to finish the job but saw Rusty coming and changed his course.

The fallen Hoskins pushed shakily to his feet.

Rusty shouted, “You all right?”

Hoskins waved Rusty on. “Go get them!”

The farmer might have lacked tolerance, but he had nerve. Rusty continued the pursuit. The smaller Indian, out in front, turned to loose another arrow. His horse tried to jump a fallen tree but did not quite clear it. The roan went down, tumbling over its rider. It got up, shook itself and ran on, limping a little.

The second Indian paused a moment, leaning toward the one who had fallen. Rusty thought for a moment that he tried to strike the one who had fallen, but that made no sense. The warrior rode away, abandoning his companion.

Hell of a friend, Rusty thought. Usually Comanches did everything they could to rescue their own.

The downed Indian tried to crawl away, dragging a broken leg. A quiver had spilled most of its arrows in the fall, but the Indian grabbed at one, then felt around desperately for his bow. Not finding it, he flopped over on his back, grasping a knife in one hand and an arrow in the other. He jabbed them threateningly at Rusty.

“Figure on goin’ out fightin’, do you?” Rusty said, knowing it was unlikely the warrior understood him. Then, in surprise, “You’re nothin’ but a shirttail kid.”

The Comanches trained them early, but this one appeared too young to be out on a raid. The boy’s skin was lighter in color than most Comanches. Wide blue eyes tried to show defiance but betrayed mortal fear.