Tom Blessing trotted ahead. The other man hauled up on the lines and stopped a team of mules that pulled his wagon. Blessing dismounted to greet his longtime friends first, then turned to Badger Boy. “Got somebody who’s traveled a long ways to see you. Andy Pickard, this here is your Uncle Jim, come to fetch you home.”

It was the white man’s way to shake hands, but Badger Boy did not want to. He did not want anyone to see how his hands were shaking. He managed a noncommittal nod to the man who climbed down from the wagon and approached him.

Uncle Jim stopped a bit short to give Badger Boy a critical study. He did not speak directly to his nephew. “Can’t say I see much of my brother in him. Maybe a little around the eyes. I’m afraid he’s taken after his mother a right smart more.”

Preacher Webb offered, “I remember his mother. She was a handsome woman.” Most women looked handsome to old bachelor Webb.

“If you like them skinny. I always liked to see a good stout corn-fed woman myself. They can usually outwork a skinny woman two to one.”

Webb seemed a little put off. “If a workhorse is all you’re lookin’ for.”

“Just bein’ practical, Preacher. Life is hard in this country, and a weak woman can’t tote her share of the load. Good looks wear off pretty soon. Strong hands and a strong back, that’s what a Texas woman needs.”

Badger Boy listened intently, trying to understand. He stared at Pickard’s face, hoping to see something that would bring back a memory of his father. The voice had a faintly familiar quality, but he saw nothing in the face to bring patchy old images back into focus. He gathered that his uncle was saying something unfavorable about his mother. Though he barely remembered her, he felt a rise of indignation.

No Comanche would insult his own mother or allow anyone else to do so. His face warming, Badger Boy tried to think of the Texan words to express his disapproval. All that came to him was Comanche, and he used that in an angry voice.

Pickard narrowed his eyes in disapproval. “He’s speakin’ Comanche. How come you-all ain’t taught him to talk civilized?”

Rusty’s voice was sharp. “It’s comin’ back to him a little at a time. He can talk some when he wants to.”

“And how come he’s still got those Indian braids in his hair? I’d cut them off first thing. He may still be a heathen, but he don’t have to look like one.”

Webb said, “We’ve tried to cut his hair. He won’t let us.”

“Since when do you let young’uns set the rules? If he gave me any sass I’d quirt the heathen out of him. And I’d start with that hair.” He stepped closer to Badger Boy and pulled a skinning knife from a scabbard on his belt.

Badger Boy feared his uncle meant to stab him. He recoiled, wishing for a weapon. Pickard caught one of the braids. Badger Boy realized he meant to cut it off. He jerked free, then lunged at Pickard’s throat. He knocked Pickard’s hat off before the splinted leg betrayed him. He fell forward, his hands striking the ground first, his chin following an instant later. He was stunned.