“They not turn back.”

As the Indians came close enough, Rusty thumbed the hammer. The click seemed almost as loud as a shot.

Andy said, “Wait. They are not Comanche.”

Rusty’s lungs burned from holding his breath. He gasped for air. “Are you sure?”

“They are Kiowa.”

Rusty wiped a sweaty hand against his trouser leg. “I don’t see where that’s any improvement.” Kiowas shared the Comanches’ implacable hostility toward Texans. Rusty had seen people killed by Kiowas. They were no less dead than those who fell to Comanches.

The boy said, “Kiowas no look for me. I go talk.”

He did not ask for Rusty’s approval. He raised one hand and rode forward. Surprised, the Kiowas paused for council. Rusty quickly remounted and caught up to Andy.

“Damn it, young’un, you’re askin’ to be killed.”

The boy did not respond. Instead, he began moving his hands, talking in sign language. The motions took Rusty by surprise, but they amazed the Indians more . . . a white boy communicating in the silent language common to the plains tribes. Rusty kept a strong but nervous grip on the rifle, careful not to point it directly at the Indians. He was keenly aware that several stared at him with hating eyes that bespoke murder. It would not take much to provoke the thought into the deed.

One Kiowa responded with hand signals. A single thick braid hung down over a shoulder, past his waist, the hair augmented by horsehair and fur. The other side was cut short to show off ear pendants of bear claws and a shining silver coin. Rusty sensed a gradual easing of the Indians’ attitude. He saw grudging acceptance, though he perceived that some warriors remained in favor of hanging his scalp from a lodge pole. Red hair was a novelty to them.

He said, “They must think it’s strange to see a white Comanche boy.”

“There are others. Not just me.”

Like Andy, numbers of Texan and Mexican children had been taken captive and raised Comanche. Such forced adoption was one way the tribe offset losses caused by war and accidents of the hunt.

Andy said in a low voice, “I tell them you are my white brother. We been to trade with the Comanche.”

“Let’s bid them good-bye before their thinkin’ changes.”

The boy resumed the sign talk. The only part Rusty understood was when he pointed southeastward and indicated that to be their chosen direction. The Kiowas quarreled among themselves. Rusty could tell that a couple of the youngest favored freeing the boy but killing his white brother. Fortunately the older warriors prevailed.

Andy said, “No look back.” He set his pony to moving in a walk to demonstrate that he had no fear.

Rusty forced himself to stare ahead and not turn in the saddle. He wished he could be certain the two hotheads were not following. After a couple of hundred yards Andy let his pony move into an easy trot. Rusty sneaked a quick glance. He was relieved to see that the Kiowas were riding westward, all of them.