“He tried to cut off my braids.”

“You’d save a lot of trouble if you’d cut them off yourself.”

“I’ve told you before, I won’t do that.”

Rusty had not pressed that argument much. For most of six years Andy had been resolute against giving up this remaining symbol of his life among the Indians. He wore the same plain clothes as most other farmboys, but the braids and moccasins remained, marking him as someone different.

Turning to leave, Rusty saw a man striding in his direction, his expression stern. The badge on his shirt marked him as a member of the recently organized state police force.

“You two!” the lawman said curtly. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til I’ve talked to you.”

Rusty bristled but tried not to show it. “Talk. We’re listenin’.” He regarded the man as having been misled into an exaggerated view of his own importance.

“I heard there was a fight in the street just now.” The policeman glared at Andy. “By the looks of you, you was in the middle of it.”

Andy held stubbornly silent. Rusty said, “There wasn’t much to it, just a little difference of opinion. No blood spilled, hardly.”

“It’s my job to keep the peace. Looks to me like the war ought to’ve given you rebels enough fightin’ to last you for twenty years.”

By that, Rusty guessed the man had not fought for the Confederacy. He had probably either dodged conscription or had gone east and served with the Union, which in the eyes of most old Texans branded him as a scalawag. Since the reconstruction government had organized its own police force it had tried to obtain officers free of Confederate connections. Some were well-meaning and honest citizens. Some were not worth the gunpowder and wadding it would take to send them to Kingdom Come.

Rusty had a gut opinion about this one. He said, “You know how it is when you throw a couple of bull yearlin’s together. They’ve got to see who’s the toughest. Wasn’t no harm done.”

The officer demanded, “Who else was involved?”

“I believe he’s already left town. Anyway, he learned his lesson. I doubt he’ll pick on Andy Pickard anymore.”

The officer scowled at Andy. “Boy, you look old enough to get acquainted with the inside of the jailhouse. Remember that the next time you come to town.” He walked away.

Relieved to see him go, Rusty warned, “Next time it’s liable to be a troop of soldiers instead of one state policeman. We’d best be gettin’ home. I’m lookin’ for Len Tanner to come back most any day now.”

Rusty and Tanner had ridden together as rangers before and during the war years. They knew enough about one another to earn each a medal or to put them both in jail.