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.

Rusty said, “There ain’t really that many Comanches when you spread them around over a country as big as this. And landmarks . . . ain’t many of them either. Are you sure you can really find your people?”

“They have many camping grounds. I know them all. You bet I find them.”

Andy’s use of the language had improved in the days he had spent with the Monahans. Rusty attributed that to coaching by Josie and Alice, but Andy said old Vince Purdy had shown a strong interest in him, too. He had taken the boy hunting and fishing and taught him a little about managing the garden.

“Good people,” Rusty told him. “You’d find there’s lots of fine folks like the Monahans if you’d give us a chance to show you.”

He knew he had little chance of changing the boy’s mind, but he had not given up trying. He would not give up until Andy rode off and left him. Rusty had already ridden farther than he had intended, hoping for something that might turn Andy around.

“You enjoyed yourself at the Monahans’, didn’t you?”

“Much. They make me remember more. I remember better now my mama, my daddy. The Monahans much the same my mama and daddy.”

“If your real folks could talk to you now, they’d say you belong with your own kind. They’d tell you to stay with us.”

“They come to me in a dream, but they do not talk. My brother come in same dream and say I come back to Comanches. I hear my brother.”

Andy pointed to buzzards circling far to the west. This was almost the time of year when they would begin drifting southward, but no chilly northers had prodded them yet with the first hint of winter. The buzzards were at such a distance that Rusty had not noticed them. Andy had a keener eye, or perhaps a more highly developed sensitivity to the subtle messages of nature.

“How’d you know they were there?” Rusty demanded. “I can barely see them even after you pointed them out to me.”

“The spirits, I guess. Somehow I know.”

“The spirits tellin’ you anything else?”

“They say my people somewhere over there. They kill buffalo. They say it is time you turn back, or maybe my people kill you”