Blessing seemed more amused than surprised. “Just the two of you?”

“Didn’t figure on Dora goin’.”

“Mind if we join you?”

“Me and Rusty’d be tickled for the company, long as you don’t get in our way.”

Rusty’s heart leaped with excitement at the thought of riding with the volunteer rangers. He had long wanted to, but Mike had always said he was too young. Mike easily forgot how young he had been when he set out for Texas on his own.

Preacher Webb moved forward, looking relieved. “Thank the Lord that the Indians were after stock more than scalps.”

Blessing said, “They took some scalps to the east of here, though. Killed most of a family, stole a woman and a boy.”

“A boy?” Mike Shannon said. He glanced at Rusty. Rusty guessed he was remembering Plum Creek.

Blessing said, “Last time I saw you, Mike, that leg was still in bad shape. You sure you’re ready for a long ride?”

“ ’y God I’m always ready. You never seen me lag behind like some people.” He directed his gaze to Fowler Gaskin, sitting on Mike’s mule Chapultepec.

Gaskin held a hand behind his right ear, trying to hear better. He was thin as a slab of bacon, his face ruddy with tiny red veins threaded across it, his ragged old vest spotted with tobacco juice and remnants of past meals. He took more sustenance from a jug than from a plate.

Rusty said, “Dad, there’s Chapultepec. They didn’t get him.”

Gaskin growled, “I wish they had. He’s the roughest-trottin’ mule I ever rode. Looks like you-all could keep a better one around for your neighbors to borry.”

Ordinarily Rusty was careful to speak respectfully to his elders, but he had no respect for Fowler Gaskin. Neither did anyone else around here that he knew of. “You didn’t ask, you just came and took him. We could’ve told you he’s a plow mule, not a ridin’ mule.”

He figured Gaskin would have no stomach for a close view of the Indians. At the first sign of a feather he would probably find out just how fast Chapultepec could run, in the opposite direction.

Blessing seemed to figure that way too, for he gave Gaskin a chance to turn back. He managed deference, but it was clearly a strain. “It’s apt to be a hard ride, Fowler. At your age I’m sure you’d rather be at home watchin’ over your family.”

Gaskin did not watch over his family very well under the best of circumstances. He and his wife and daughter Florey barely tolerated one another, and Gaskin did not even like his two sons much. Neither did Rusty. Eph and Luke Gaskin used to lie in ambush, waiting to chunk rocks at him when he came into range. Usually they scampered as soon as Rusty began hurling the same rocks back at them. His aim was better. The Gaskin boys were too lazy to practice, but Rusty was not. Lately the brothers had outgrown rock-throwing but still baited him and threw insults.