Gaskin rode away, putting the mule into a stiff trot. The animal was not too tired for that.

Rusty wasted little time brooding about Gaskin’s desertion. He stared regretfully at the grave. “It don’t seem right—no fitten grave, not even a marker, no kinfolks to say good-bye.”

“What’s here is just the clay, not the soul. The Lord’s takin’ care of her now.”

Bitterness crept into Rusty’s voice. “Where was He last night when she really needed takin’ care of? He could’ve struck them butchers down.”

“It’s not given to us to know His reasons. He tests the strength of our faith.”

“I’m not real sure about mine right now. I don’t think He’s even lookin’ in our direction.”

“Lad, this is no time to yield to blasphemy.”

“You think He’s liable to strike me down?”

“You’re young. You have but little notion how cruel man can be to man. You’ll learn, though, and you’ll need a strong faith to get you through it.”

“I’d have a stronger faith if I could see a dozen Comanches layin’ here dead.”

“You might not like it once you saw it. Be careful what you pray for, lest it be given unto you.”

CHAPTER

FIVE

Buffalo Caller, stripped down to breechcloth and moccasins and a few streaks of paint, allowed the horses and mules to be driven past him in a generally northward direction. He held tightly to the rawhide rein of the bay horse he rode and looked southward along the trail they had just made. He saw no one, but he sensed that the Texans were back there somewhere. He had seen them in a dream last night. He could feel them in his bones. A blind man could follow these tracks, and the Texans were hardly blind.

Ordinarily this would trouble him. On most horse raids he took every precaution to make the trail difficult or impossible to follow. But this time was different. This time he had a purpose.

A young brave drew up beside him and studied the tracks. “If we divide the horses it will be much harder for the Texans to follow.”

Buffalo Caller felt the prickling of impatience. He was the leader of this raid. The young men’s fighting ability was as yet unproven. It was not for them to question his judgment. But he put down the flare of resentment, for this was Black Horse, son of an old friend who had died at Texan hands long ago, after the big raid on Linnville. Buffalo Caller avoided ever saying Antelope’s name, though it crossed his mind from time to time. It was not good to speak the names of the dead lest one summon their ghosts. Ghosts were often known to be unfriendly, though in life they had been family and friends. Antelope might feel he had ample cause to be unfriendly because Buffalo Caller had drawn a knife on him to defend the Texan boy of the red hair.

Buffalo Caller thought occasionally of the boy, wondering if he yet lived. Whippoorwill had said he was alive when the Texans took him from her, but only because a Texan bullet had struck down Antelope as he tried to kill the youngster. Buffalo Caller knew that dark spirits could summon all manner of ill fortune to fall upon child and adult alike. Diseases once unknown to the Comanche had spread among them with a vengeance after the white man’s coming. The spotted sickness was the worst, snuffing out the lives not only of children but of their elders as well, leaving many lodges in mourning.