They came at last to the river. The sign indicated that they were not far behind Pete. Horse droppings were still fresh. The rust-colored river was at low ebb, much of its water running unseen beneath the red sands. Only one narrow channel toward the center of the broad riverbed showed a current. The tracks were deep and bold.

Rusty took a deep breath, fighting back dread. He had crossed this river more than once, farther west. His experiences on the other side had invariably been unpleasant. This time, he felt, would be no different. “All right, let’s be after him.”

The horses’ feet sank deeply into the wet sand and made a sucking sound as they lifted for each next step. The tracks almost instantly filled with water behind them. The three men had crossed only a quarter of the wide riverbed when James stopped.

“Somebody’s comin’ yonder.”

On the north side of the river a rider came pushing his horse for all the speed he could summon. A dozen horsemen were in close pursuit. All seemed to be yelling.

James declared, “That’s Pete, by God.” He raised his rifle.

Bailey mused, “Looks like he’s roused up half the Nations.”

Pete plunged his horse into the shallow water. He hammered his boots against the animal’s ribs and looked back over his shoulder. Rusty knew he had taken a rifle from Bailey, but he evidently no longer had it. He must have dropped it in his panicked flight.

From across the width of the river Pete’s urgent voice rose almost into a scream. “Help me! For God’s sake, help me!”

James muttered, “I’ll help you. I’ll shoot you right where you’re at.” He brought the rifle to his shoulder.

Rusty grabbed James’s arm. “No. The Indians will think you’re shootin’ at them. There’s way too many for us to tackle.”

The Indians rode into the river after Pete, rapidly gaining on him. Pete’s pleas made Rusty’s skin go cold.

Midway across, the Indians overtook Pete and circled around him. Rusty heard one more high-pitched scream. Pete’s horse broke free and splashed toward the three men on the south edge of the river. Pete was not on him.

James said, “They’re liable to come for us next.” He raised his rifle again but did not point it.

Three men might cut down some of the Indians but could not get them all. Rusty shivered, and not from cold.

The Indians turned back toward the north bank, still yelling in triumph. Behind them, half buried in the wet sand, lay a lifeless lump. The river ran redder as it moved around and past Pete Dawkins.

The three watched in silence as the Indians moved northward. Finally Bailey said, “We promised the lieutenant we’d bring him back.”

James said, “I’m afraid there ain’t enough left of him to take back.”