Rusty’s spine tingled. “You’re a white boy!”

He stepped down from Alamo. Again the boy jabbed at him with the knife, but Rusty remained out of reach. He waited until the arm was extended full length, then grabbed the wrist. Twisting hard, he took the knife from the lad’s hand and broke off the arrow.

“Boy, who are you? And how come you ridin’ with Comanches?”

The youngster shouted harshly, the words alien to Rusty.

Hoskins trudged through the dry grass, his legs moving heavily. Sweat rolled down his face. “You got you one, Shannon. How come you ain’t killed him yet?”

“Look at him. He’s no Comanche.”

Hoskins leaned over for a close look. The boy struck at him with his fist. The farmer stepped back. “He’s got a white skin sure enough, but underneath it he’s pure Comanche.”

Rusty tried again. “You got a name, boy?”

The lad made no sign that he understood.

A wisp of faint memory touched Rusty like the brush of a transient breeze. “Comanches stole me from my real folks a long time ago. Like as not, that’s what happened to him.”

“Maybe so, but raise a dog pup with wolves and you can never get the wolf out of him. Better if he was to die right now.”

“But he won’t, not unless a broken leg can kill him.”

“They’ve turned him into a savage.”

Sympathy welled up in Rusty, deep enough that pain came with it. “I could’ve been where he is if Mike Shannon and the preacher hadn’t grabbed me.”

“The way I heard it, the Comanches didn’t keep you long enough to hurt you much. Looks like they had this young’un long enough to ruin him for life.”

Rusty heard horses and looked up, hand tightening on his rifle until he recognized Preacher Webb and Tom Blessing. Blessing leaned partway out of the saddle for a better view of the boy. “Looks like you’ve caught yourself a bear cub.”

“Take a close look at him. He’s white.”

Preacher Webb dismounted heavily, fatigue pressing down on his thin shoulders. The boy stared up at him with frightened eyes that no longer tried to show fight. Plainly, he expected to be killed.

Rusty asked, “Remind you of anything?”

“Reminds me of you, a long time ago back at Plum Creek. But you were a lot younger than this.” Webb knelt over the youngster. “Do you speak English, son?”

The boy did not reply.

Webb tried again. “Do you have a name? Do you remember your mother and father?”

The blue eyes flickered. Rusty thought the words might have registered, at least a little.

Webb pressed, “Your mother? Do you remember your mother?”

The boy’s lips tried to form the word, though no sound came.

Webb looked up. “I believe he understands the word mother. Maybe he can remember more if we keep at it.”

Tom Blessing dismounted, excitement rising in his face. “I think maybe I know who he is. Remember the time, Preacher—you were there too, Rusty—when we trailed after Comanches who had taken a woman and a boy? That was before the war started. We found the woman dead, but we never did find the boy.”