“Shanty was out there keepin’ an eye on the children. He put himself and his rifle between the Indians and the young’uns ‘til they got back in the cabin. Like as not he kept some of them from bein’ killed or carried off.”

Rusty did not know what to say. Shanty seemed struck dumb, too. He made a slight grin and shrugged his shoulders.

Fowler Gaskin had waited out the Indian danger with the women and children. He listened in angry disbelief. “What he done wasn’t so much. I’d’ve done the same thing.”

Hoskins turned on him. “You was here. Why didn’t you?”

Gaskin stammered. “I . . . I didn’t have no rifle.”

“There was rifles around. You could’ve got you one. But they say you hunkered down in a corner and covered your head.” Hoskins turned to the larger group of men. “I want everybody to understand: from now on, anybody who bothers this boy”—he pointed at Shanty—”has got me to whip.” He turned a fierce face toward Fowler Gaskin.

Rusty thought it ironic that old Shanty was being called boy. But it was the way of the times. He voiced agreement with Hoskins. “What he said goes for me, too.”

Shanty seemed embarrassed by the attention. He looked at the ground. Rusty told him, “That means you can go home if you want to, but you’re welcome to keep stayin’ at my place. Me and you have worked right good together.”

Shanty welcomed the offer. “I reckon I’ll stay at least ‘til we get the crops in. Looks to me like you’ll need help takin’ care of that Indian boy.” He pointed his chin toward the wagon.

“He’s not Indian.”

“But he thinks he is.”

“He’s liable to be a handful, sure enough.”

Shanty held up both palms. “I’ve got two hands, both of them strong.”

Preacher Webb said, “I’d better stay with you too, at least a couple of days. Got to watch that youngster’s broken leg.”

It was in Rusty’s mind that the Comanches might set enough store in the boy to come looking for him. “The more of us the better.” Himself, Shanty, Webb, and Tanner . . . they could make a good showing should it come to that.

Crowd opinion was that the Indians were unlikely to return, but it seemed the better part of valor to be prepared. Trying to outguess Comanche tactics was risky. Most agreed it was wise to remain at the Blessing farm overnight and not begin scattering until morning. No one wanted darkness to catch him halfway home.

That gave Webb plenty of time to remove the makeshift splint. He returned the rifle to Rusty, replacing it with two thin strips of pine. The Pickard boy bore the treatment in sullen silence.

Webb said, “The leg’s swollen and hot. Goin’ to be right painful for a while. Got a black bruise on one shoulder, too. Probably from the fall.”

Everyone, particularly the children, showed a strong curiosity about the boy. They clustered around, studying him, commenting at length. The youngster tried to show them a fierce face, but his eyes betrayed fear and pain.