“Tomorrow, and only as far as you feel strong. Take Private Tanner with you. Look for sign of Indians. But do not engage. Come back and report.”

“Yes sir.” It would feel good to be doing something useful again and not be considered an invalid. “There’s nobody I’d rather have with me than Tanner. Even if he does sometimes talk ‘til my ears hurt.”

The camp reminded him of earlier times, before and during the war when he had served with the rangers in the Fort Belknap country. Burmeister maintained a loose form of military discipline and routine that lent at least some structure to each day. Rusty studied the men, quietly trying to assess their potential. He found that most had escaped Confederate service, a couple of them by going to Mexico, a couple more by serving in the Union Army. One or two he suspected of having been brush men, hiding out from conscription officers. That did not necessarily brand them in his view. James Monahan had done it. On the other hand, so had the Oldham brothers.

Rusty guessed that his first day’s ride with Tanner covered about twenty miles, about as much as he could expect while watching the ground for tracks. The last few miles set his shoulder to throbbing and aggravated an old leg pain from his long-ago arrow wound.

Tanner commented, “You’re lookin’ a little peaked.”

“It’s your eyes. I’m doin’ just fine.”

“Well, I’m tired if you’re not. I say it’s time to make camp. Got to think of the horses.”

The ride had not been long enough to tax the horses unduly. Rusty appreciated that Tanner was watching out for his welfare without making an issue of it.

They stopped at a small seep he remembered from scouting trips long ago. The seep fed a narrow creek, its water trailing for a couple of hundred yards before disappearing into the sand. Along the creek’s short course a thin band of green grass offered grazing for the horses. Rusty and Tanner staked their mounts with long rawhide reatas that gave the animals considerable freedom to move around.

Tanner watched them. “Just like old times. The horses are gettin’ fed better than we are. I can imagine the good supper Clemmie Monahan is servin’ tonight.”

Rusty chewed hard on a salty strip of dried jerky. “Andy may not have even this much to eat.”

“He can get by on lizards and rattlesnakes if he has to. He’s that much Comanche.”

Rusty shuddered at the thought. “If I had any notion where he’s at, any notion at all—”

“You’d go there and lose that red hair before it has a chance to start gettin’ gray”

The only horse tracks he and Tanner had seen all day had been remnants of old ones, headed north. They found no sign of recent Indian incursion. Years ago, under the old loose frontier-ranger organization, the men had scouted along established north-south lines a little beyond the settlements, riding until they met scouts coming from counterpart camps. At that point they turned back and re-rode the same line. The system had worked well so long as the frontier companies had manpower enough. Some Indian raids were broken up before they were well started. The system had become less and less effective as the war drew men away from the frontier and the ranger companies.