The only thing markedly different about Rusty was his reddish hair, which had gained him his nickname. Mike always said red hair went with a name like Shannon anyway; it was the Irish coming out.

Hardly anyone except Mother Dora ever called him by the only name he had brought with him: David. She clung stubbornly to it, though everyone else had long since called him Rusty.

At times, when he lay half asleep at night, Rusty could almost remember his true mother—not so much what she looked like, for he could never quite conjure up her face, but something vague about the way she felt cradling him in her arms and the sound of her voice talking and singing to him. He remembered the warm and comforting feeling of love. It was not much, but it was enough to make him wonder, to give him a sense of loss, of something missed that he would never recover. It saddened him at times, even as he remained grateful for the Shannons. Had he been able to choose his parents, he would have wanted them in the Shannon image.

Still, he often wondered who he really was.

Though he made no claim to being a tracker, the broad trail led him to guess that the Comanches must have been riding or driving seventy-five to a hundred horses and mules. A lot of people besides the Shannons had been set afoot. But he found the two Shannon horses grazing calmly a hundred yards from the river. As Mike had said, the Indians had probably overlooked them in the dark.

Rusty walked up to the gentler of the pair, a black much favored by Mike. “Easy, Alamo, easy.” He spoke softly until he could rub the animal’s shoulder; then he grabbed a handful of glossy mane and swung up bareback. He guided the horse with his knees and gentle pats on the neck. “Come on, Alamo. You too, Goliad.”

Mike Shannon was pleased as Rusty brought the two horses to the cabin and put them in the pen from which the mules had been stolen. “I was afraid we’d have to go afoot.”

That would have been futile sure enough, Rusty thought, though he did not say so. The federal army’s foot soldiers had never been able to catch up to any Indians, though they had worn out a lot of shoe leather trying.

Mother Dora left the dog run and came out, her steps careful and slow as if she were unsure of her footing. She did not often criticize her husband, however much she might deplore his fighting nature. But this time she said, “You’re goin’ off on a fool’s errand, Michael. Even if you catch up to them, what’ll you do? Get yourself killed, more than likely, and David with you.”

Mike Shannon had never admitted defeat in his life, even if it faced him nose to nose. When his time came to die, he meant to go down fighting. “We’ll come up with somethin’.”