“You remember me tellin’ you about them two boys that came home after years amongst the Indians? One of them eventually went to the bad. Killed a man and tried to run off back to the Comanches. There wasn’t no civilizin’ him. Posse had to shoot him like a hydrophoby dog.”

“It won’t be like that with Andy.”

“Don’t take him for granted. Watch him, or one mornin’ you might wake up with your throat cut.”

The hunters spared Rusty enough meat and salt to last until he and Andy reached the Monahan family’s farm. He intended that to be the first stop on the long trip back to his own place down on the Colorado River. Andy seemed increasingly concerned after they resumed their journey.

“The man say maybe somebody shoot me for Indian.”

“Nobody’s fixin’ to shoot you. Just the same, I’ll be glad when we get you into different clothes. And we need to cut that hair.”

Andy touched one of the long braids that hung down his shoulders. “Cut? What for?”

“They draw attention. Lots of folks don’t trust anybody that looks different.” The hunter’s warning weighed heavily on Rusty’s mind.

“I am different. I am not ashamed.”

“I’m not sayin’ you should be. Ain’t your fault the Comanches stole you.”

“It was a good life.”

“But not the life you were born to. Me and Daddy Mike and the preacher trailed after the war party that stole you, us and a bunch of volunteers. We never could catch them. It was like the wind picked them up and carried them away. I don’t suppose you recollect much about that.”

“A little only.”

It was well that the boy did not remember much. Rusty remembered more than he wanted about the long pursuit, the shock of first blood when they came upon Andy’s kidnapped mother cruelly butchered on the trail. Before that, he had never seen a person dead at Indian hands. In the years since, he had seen many. Back East there had been but one war, between Confederates and the Union. Here on the Texas frontier there had been another, against Comanche and Kiowa. He was grateful the Eastern war was over. He could see no end to the one closer at hand.

Through no fault of his own Andy was caught in the middle, whipped about like a leaf in a whirlwind. Rusty had experienced a similar inner conflict, a similar confusion of loyalties during the war between the states.

He said, “It’s not like you’ve got any druthers. At least you know what your real name is. I had to borrow mine.”

Andy fingered the braid again. Sternly he said, “I will wear white-man clothes. I will talk white man’s talk. But I do not cut my hair.”

CHAPTER

TWO