He recognized a chance that these might be outlaws. Defeat of the Confederacy had left legal authority badly diminished at state and local levels. The wartime brush men had grown accustomed to living like coyotes, constantly on the dodge from Confederate authorities. Now a minority had turned to raiding isolated farms and villages, stealing horses and whatever else came easily to hand. The risk of punishment was slight where law enforcement was scattered thin and rendered toothless by lack of funds. The Federal occupation forces appeared more interested in punishing former Confederates than in suppressing the lawless or pursuing hostile Indians.

Rusty made out the shapes of two wagons. These gave him reassurance, for outlaws were not likely to encumber themselves with anything that moved so slowly. He reined up fifty yards short of the fire to shout, “Hello the camp.”

Several men cautiously edged away from the firelight. An answer came. “Come on in.”

Rusty sensed that several guns were aimed at him. He kept his hands at chest level, away from the pistol at his hip and the rifle in its scabbard. “We’re peaceable.”

“So are we.” The reply came from someone who moved back into the flickering glow of the fire, holding a rifle at arm’s length. Once Rusty could see the lanky, hunchedover form and the long unkempt beard, he was reasonably sure he had encountered the man before.

He asked, “Don’t I know you from around Fort Belknap?”

The man peered closely at Rusty. “I’ve freighted goods over that way.”

“I was in the ranger company. Served under Captain Whitfield. And before him, Captain Burmeister.”

“I remember Whitfield. A good and honest man. But there ain’t no rangers since the war ended. What you doin’ way off out here in the edge of Indian country?”

“Dodgin’ Indians.”

“Us, too. We’re huntin’ buffalo. Saltin’ humps and tongues to barter back in the settlements.” Barter was almost the only method of exchange in Texas since war’s end. Spendable money was as scarce as snow in August. The man turned his attention to Andy, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What you doin’ with that Indian kid?”

“He’s not an Indian. They stole him when he was little. Tried makin’ him into a Comanche.”

“He’s got the look of one. I don’t know as I’d want to run into him in the dark.”

“He’s a good kid. Just not quite sure yet who or what he is.”

“I’d put some white-boy clothes on him as quick as I could. Else somebody might shoot him for an Indian. Rescued him from the Comanches, did you?”

“It’s more like he rescued me. You-all got any coffee? I’d lease my soul to the devil for some fixin’s like we had before the war.”