Rusty had no idea where Vienna was. Probably not in Texas, or he would have heard about it.

He noticed that Isaac York kept pacing back and forth atop the creek bank, staring toward the north. Blessing called, “Isaac, you’d better get some rest while you can.”

York’s voice was harsh. “I doubt that woman and boy they stole are gettin’ any rest.”

“You can’t do them any good if you’re too worn out to keep up.”

“Moon’s risin’. Plain as the tracks are, we ought to be able to follow them pretty soon.”

“We’ll never catch up on dead horses. Come on down.” Blessing poured a tin cup almost to the brim with steaming coffee and held it high as enticement. York descended from the bank. A black man who always accompanied him took the coffee Blessing offered and handed it to him as if it were his place, and his only, to serve York.

York said, “Go get you some sleep, Shanty.” He squatted near the fire, a towering man with a slight hunch to his broad shoulders. Rusty studied the brooding face, made bloodred and fearsome by the flickering reflection of the coals. He knew the man mostly by reputation. He was said to be a ferocious fighter in any scrap with Indians. Mike had fought side by side with him in the Mexican War. He said York seemed to take that conflict as a personal crusade and killing as many enemies as possible a personal obligation. Back home, York was known as a heavy drinker and dramshop brawler always looking for a new war to fight.

Though Mike Shannon was a good scrapper himself, he gave York room except when duty called them together.

Rusty was intrigued by the man’s intensity. He eased himself down at Preacher Webb’s side and asked, “What do you think of Isaac York?”

Webb considered the question gravely. “He’s been to the edge of the pit and looked down into the fires of hell. He’s a good man to have at your side in a fight, but some dark day the fire will draw him in. You’d not want to be at his side then.”

Rusty stared at the troubled face and shivered.

It seemed he had barely gone to sleep when Mike shook his shoulder. “Time to saddle up and go, young’un. Tom Blessing’s given the word.”

Rusty’s body resisted at first. He was painfully stiff from lying on the ground, and his stomach was uneasy because of the need for more sleep. But he felt a renewal of yesterday’s excitement at riding with these men. Moreover, he was ashamed to lag when he saw that the minister, much older than he, was up and moving. So was Mike, limping heavily as he saddled his horse. Looking to the east, Rusty saw no sign of sunrise.

Webb seemed to read his thoughts. “Moon’s still up. The Lord has given us light enough that we should be able to follow the trail, plain as it is.”