He asked, “Was my brother on the raid with you?”

“No. Fights with Bears was the leader. He and Steals the Ponies do not like one another.”

Andy was relieved that his brother had not participated in Vince Purdy’s killing and Billy’s kidnapping. Yet he would have thought no less of him if he had been a party to the incident. The Comanches were simply following the customs of their grandfathers. Raiding enemies was a natural part of their life, like eating, like breathing. It almost took on the aspects of a game, though ofttimes a deadly one. Living with them, Andy had regarded this as normal. Now, having lived away from them, he could no longer accept it without question, not when it took the lives of good people like Vince Purdy and involved the capture of innocent children like Billy Gifford.

Yet, white men of the North and South had fought one another during four long years for reasons he had never quite fathomed. They had killed strangers, people they had never seen before and who had never done them harm. He could not see a great difference between that and the Comanche way.

Impatience set his skin to prickling. He was eager to move on, to find Steals the Ponies. Perhaps his brother could help him in some way to free Billy. “I must go,” he said. “The longer I wait, the farther my brother may travel.”

His host tried to get him to stay the night. “With families, they move slowly. You could start with the morning’s light and catch them before the sun sleeps again.”

Andy had another potential problem to consider. He had not seen everyone in this camp, nor had everyone seen him. A friend of Tonkawa Killer might yet recognize him.

He said, “I can ride far before the sun sleeps.”

To replace the saddle, Andy obtained a rawhide rope to loop behind his horse’s shoulders. He could tuck his knees beneath it to hold him steady should he encounter rough traveling. Except for his trousers, he left his white-man clothing behind in return for the hospitality. With a stick, his host drew a rough map on the ground. He described the site where he thought the group was likely to camp for at least a few days. The description sounded familiar.

“I believe I remember the place,” Andy said.

“May friendly spirits ride with you.”

The trail was as plain as a white man’s wagon road, beaten out not only by horses but by tepee poles lashed together to form travois. Andy could have followed it at a lope and in the dark, but he did not want to push Long Red. He might have to depend upon the horse’s stamina if circumstances called for a hard run.

In the middle of the afternoon he came suddenly upon three Comanche hunters on horseback. Two carried deer carcasses in front of them. They reined up and waited for Andy, suspicion strong in their faces. The one not encumbered held a bow with an arrow fitted into its string.