Rusty had no clear recollection of ever having seen a Comanche close up, though faint and confusing fragments of memory sometimes came to him unbidden, so elusive he could never grab hold of them. He knew Indians had carried him away from his original home, and he was aware that he had stayed with them a short while. Mostly he remembered being bewildered and frightened, not able to understand.

Mike checked the rifle and the shot pouch that went with it. “Mother, we’ll drag that dog off before we leave. He’ll be stinkin’ before long.”

The dark circles beneath her eyes seemed heavier this morning, and her hair had never looked quite so gray. “I wish you wouldn’t go. You’re not as young as you think you are. How far do you think you can travel?”

“I rode many a mile and crossed many a river durin’ the war.”

“That was ten years ago, before a Comanche bullet ruined your leg. There are lots of things you used to do that you can’t anymore.”

Fearing the two were about to plunge into a full-blown argument, Rusty stepped out onto the dog run to avoid being a witness. He saw riders approaching and shouted, “Company comin’.”

Mike hobbled out with the rifle cradled in his arms, ready for use. “Hard to believe they’d come back for more. They already took more than enough.”

“It’s white men,” Rusty said. “Looks like Tom Blessing in the lead.”

Mike squinted, uncertain. His eyesight was not as keen as it used to be.

Blessing had often served as a captain when the state treasury got a few dollars ahead and the governor called ranger companies into service. Several times Rusty had watched Mike ride away with Blessing and others in search of Indians or bandits or to put down one of the foolish but bloody feuds that seemed always brewing in the older settlements of Texas. A year ago Mike had gone off under command of Captain John S. “Rip” Ford on an expedition against hostiles. The rangers and federal troops had been aided by friendly Indians to whom the Comanches were longtime enemies. They had devastated a large village, but Mike had come home with a wounded leg that would have been amputated had he not resisted with his shotgun and threatened to shoot anyone who touched him.

Rusty was aware, from stories he had heard, that Blessing had been present when he was recovered from the Comanches at Plum Creek. He had always felt that he owed his life to Tom Blessing, Mike Shannon, and Preacher Webb. He was pleased to see Preacher Webb riding just behind Blessing. Every man was armed. It was plain that they were trailing the Indians.

Blessing’s pale blue eyes were a major contrast to his fierce black beard speckled with gray. He had a deep, booming voice that bespoke authority. “Mike, I judge by the tracks that you-all had visitors last night.”

“We sure enough did. Tried to clean us out of horse and mule flesh, ’y God. Me and Rusty was fixin’ to take up their trail.”