Later, Andy stared into the small blaze of the campfire. Rusty and Webb had finally prevailed on him to eat a small supper. “This place . . . they stop here with us. They eat a horse. Then they take Mama . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Many times she screams. I try to go to her, but they whip me. Long time . . . no more screams. I cry, they whip me. I make myself not cry. They don’t whip me no more.”

Rusty said, “At least now you remember who you are.”

“I am Andy Pickard. All the same I am Badger Boy. How can I be two people?”

Rusty had no answer.

Webb said, “I knew your mother, Andy. She was a good woman. Your daddy was a good man, too.”

“Not same as uncle?”

“Not the same as your uncle.”

“Good. Damn uncle. No like.”

Before they left camp the next morning they stood beside the grave. Rains had caused some of the rocks to roll away, and Rusty had replaced them neatly.

Badger Boy was solemn. “My mother. . . why my people do this to her? Why they kill her but keep me?”

Rusty shook his head. “They’re different from us. There’s a lot us white people will never understand.”

“I am white, but I am Comanche also. Why I not understand?”

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

They were a couple of hours short of the Monahan farm when Andy said, “Something moves, there.” He pointed to the west.

Rusty could not see anything. “Where?”

Andy pointed again. “Somewhere there. I feel it.”

“Feel it? You sure it’s not your imagination?”

Then Rusty saw horsemen straggle from a ragged row of trees a few hundred yards away. He reined up. “He’s right, Preacher. See them?”

Webb had his own reins drawn tight. “Not until just now.” He glanced at Andy with wonder. “Son, you’ve sure got sharp eyes.”

“Not see.” He touched his hand to his chest. “Feel it here.”

Rusty asked, “Indians?”

Webb frowned. “Can’t be sure at the distance.”

Andy said, “Not Indians. White.”

“If it’s holdup artists, we haven’t got much worth stealin’.”

Webb said, “We have three horses and a mule. For some, that would be enough.”

Rusty studied the terrain. It was open in all directions out to the trees. “If they come at us, this is a good place as any to stand them off.” He dismounted. “Come on, Andy, I’ll help you down.”

The boy seemed unperturbed. “We fight?”

“Not unless they bring a fight to us.” Rusty checked his rifle. Webb stood behind his horse, resting his own rifle across the saddle.

The horsemen hesitated briefly, perhaps discussing the situation, then moved cautiously across the open prairie. Rusty counted five. As they closed the distance he could see three blue uniforms. He lowered his rifle. “Soldiers. One’s hunched over like he’s hurt.”