He had no interest in wounded Texans. The more of them, the better. Dead ones would please him most of all.

For a fleeting moment he considered the possibility that the Texans had found Badger Boy and carried him away. He dismissed the notion immediately. It was the way of the Texans to kill any Comanche where they found him and leave him lying where he fell, meat for the scavengers.

The sun touched fire to thin clouds stretched along the western horizon. Steals the Ponies realized darkness would be upon him soon. He urged his horse into a faster trot, tugging sternly at the rein by which he led the roan. Somewhere his brother lay injured, perhaps even dead. Steals the Ponies had to find him.

But he did not. He spent a sleepless night beside a small seep and at first light was up again, searching in ever-widening circles. For two full days he rode back and forth, looking for tracks, watching for Texans.

Not until late evening of the third day did he yield to the inevitable. Badger Boy was almost certainly dead. Otherwise Steals the Ponies would have found him by now.

It was painful to think of his brother’s body being set upon by wolves or by the buzzards that seemed to await patiently the death of every living thing. But he did not know what more he could do. He felt he had searched every piece of ground where the warriors and the Texans had ridden.

Shoulders hunched, his head low, he turned northward. It was a long way to the Red River, and beyond it to where the encampment lay. He would think of Badger Boy every step of the way.

It was good that his father Buffalo Caller was not here to witness his failure. He would be ashamed, as Steals the Ponies was ashamed. Stronger even than the shame was grief for a brother lost.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Rusty knew the jolting of the wagon must cause the boy intense pain, and he imagined he could feel it himself. He turned in the seat. “Grit your teeth, Andy Pickard. We’ll be home after a while.” Jaw clenched, the boy stared up at the sky and made not a whimper. The Comanches had taught him stoicism. Rusty wondered what else they had taught him.

Because so many men had sent their families to Tom Blessing’s place for mutual defense, it was agreed that the procession would go there first. The Texans drove before them those stolen horses they had managed to recover. The ones lost would have to be regarded as a tax of sorts, payment for living where Indian raids had to be accepted as a cost of business.

From a distance Rusty could see no one at Blessing’s. Then, as the inhabitants recognized that the oncoming horsemen were not Indians, they began emerging into the open. Several riders spurred ahead, anxious to see about the women and children they had sent or left there for safety.