Andy had developed a strong bond with the former slave. He had never understood how anybody could be hostile toward someone who kept to himself and caused no trouble. He asked, “What they got against Shanty? He never hurt anybody.”

Rusty tried to explain. “He’s not white. There’s people who don’t think anybody but a white man ought to own property. It makes them nervous to see somebody like Shanty able to do for himself.”

“That don’t make any sense.”

“You’re right, but there’s no talkin’ to folks who feel that way.”

“The Comanches been makin’ it on their own since the first grandfathers came up out of the earth. And some of the dumbest people I ever saw are white.”

Rusty shrugged. “Bein’ wrong doesn’t keep them from bein’ dangerous. Especially to somebody like Shanty, an old man livin’ by himself. All his life he’s been taught to hunker down like a rabbit and not fight back.”

Shanty had been at Rusty’s place when Rusty first brought Andy home with a broken leg. His was one of the first friendly faces the confused and frightened boy had seen since being left behind by a Comanche war party. Shanty had remained close while Andy’s leg slowly healed. Though unable to read, Shanty had patiently coached Andy in the use of the language, reviving early childhood memories buried during his years with the Indians.

Andy’s face twisted. “They’d better not do anything to Shanty. I’ll kill them.”

Rusty frowned. “You shouldn’t talk so free about killin’. Some people might think you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

The look in Andy’s eyes disturbed Rusty. He did mean it.

Len’s right, Rusty thought. There’s still a streak of Comanche in him. He may never lose it.

Andy said, “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you stay here. Chances are there won’t be any trouble. And if there is any, I don’t want you in harm’s way. Len, you keep him here.”

CHAPTER

FIVE

Approaching Shanty’s log cabin, Rusty wondered how anyone could begrudge the old fellow this humble home, this modest parcel of farming land. As the only slave of a hard-drinking Indian fighter named Isaac York, he had lived here longer than most people around him. No one had objected to his presence so long as he belonged to a white man. It was only after his dying owner had willed him this little place that objections had arisen. In recent times, as many whites lost their own land to punitive reconstruction measures, those objections had intensified. A widespread feeling had developed that the government favored former slaves, taxing them lightly if at all, while it tried to crush former rebels under the weight of confiscatory levies.