Rusty rode out to intercept Pete’s horse and lead it to the south bank. It belonged to the army. “We’ll need it for Scully.” He did not look again at whatever remained of Pete Dawkins.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Lieutenant Ames walked fifty yards out to meet them as they rode up to the Monahan farm. He gave Scully only a quick glance. “I don’t see Dawkins. Did he get away?”

Rusty said, “No, he didn’t get away.”

“You killed him, then?”

“We didn’t. He ran into some old Indian acquaintances. They saved the army some time and money.” He glanced toward James. “May have kept some other folks out of trouble, too.”

Ames gave Scully a second look. “At least you brought back this one.”

“We’ll want to talk to you about him, but we can do that later.” Rusty looked beyond the officer, toward the two houses. “Everything been all right here while we were gone?”

“Fine. Your Comanche boy is a lot stronger. Evan Gifford was out of bed this morning, walking around. And it appears there is to be a wedding in the family.”

Rusty blinked. “A weddin’?” Alice was too young. And Josie? Surely not Josie.

“Clemmie and your minister Webb have decided to throw in their lot together.”

Rusty smiled. “Been awhile comin’.”

James said, “Everybody’s known it for a long time, everybody but them’’

They unsaddled the horses and walked to the house. Andy stood just past the dog run, Josie a step behind him. Andy came down to meet Rusty halfway across the yard. He barely showed a limp.

“I am strong now, Rusty. I am ready to go.”

Rusty wished he could think of a new argument against it, but they had already talked the subject to death without any weakening that he could see on Andy’s part. Regretfully he said, “All right. Tomorrow, then.”

Josie caught Rusty’s hands. “Tomorrow?”

“I’ve argued myself hoarse, but a promise is a promise.”

“I thought you were goin’ to stay a few days.”

“Pete Dawkins spoiled that. Maybe when I come back.”

“If you come back.”

“I will, I promise. I wouldn’t want to miss seein’ Preacher and Clemmie get married.”

“Maybe that’ll give you some notions of your own.”

It was time to change the subject. “I’m dry to my toes. Reckon there’s some coffee in the kitchen?”

“If there isn’t, I’ll make some. Come on in the house.”

Directly across the Red River lay the Indian reservations, but Rusty knew Andy’s band was unlikely to be there, submitting themselves to military supervision and agency regulations. They would range free farther west on the Texas plains, wherever the buffalo grazed. Time had come for the autumn hunt to lay in meat for the long winter ahead.

Rusty and Andy were three days out from the Monahan farm. Andy had left his white-man clothing behind. He was back in his Comanche breech-cloth as he had been when Rusty first saw him, bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. The two had taken their time, sparing the horses and watching for sign of hunting activity. They had begun encountering buffalo in scattered herds, but they saw no indications of slaughter. Though Indians typically utilized virtually all of a carcass, they left enough remnants on the killing and skinning ground to show they had been there.