“All I want is for them to forgive me. And then I’d like to forgive myself.”

Tanner interrupted. “It’s hard to tell through the heat waves, but I think I see somethin’ to the north.”

Burmeister signaled the rangers to drop back out of sight. Rusty admonished Andy, “Be careful. If they act like they’re fixin’ to shoot, you scoot down into the ravine.”

“They ain’t goin’ to shoot me. They’d rather sell me and watch a Comanche do it.”

Rusty retreated but stayed in a shallow part of the ravine so he could see over the edge. He had checked his rifle a couple of times before he had identified Andy and Billy. He checked it again.

The riders gradually materialized out of the dancing heat. He counted four. Andy had said there were six. That gave the rangers excellent odds.

The longer Rusty watched them, the more his anger built. The idea of their being depraved enough to sell two boys to the Indians . . . he almost hoped they would put up a fight. He felt that he could kill all four without a twinge of conscience.

The riders were two hundred yards away, then one hundred. Rusty whispered, “Andy, come on down from there.”

Andy sat hunched as if exhausted, as if he did not care whether he was caught or not. He waited until the men were fifty yards away before he acknowledged them. He stood his ground until they were within twenty yards. Then he put his mount into a hard trot down into the ravine.

Burmeister shouted an order. “Go get them boogers.”

The rangers swarmed out of the ravine, encircling the whiskey runners before they had a chance to react. One dressed in Confederate gray foolishly fired at Burmeister but missed. A ranger shot him out of the saddle. The other men raised their hands.

One demanded, “What in the hell is this?”

Burmeister said, “What the hell it is, you are under arrest for running whiskey.”

“We got no whiskey on us.”

Rusty said, “But you did have. We’ve got two witnesses that say so.” Andy rode up out of the ravine. He said, “Howdy, Jake. How did you like the fireworks?”

Jake muttered, “You damned hoodoo. I ought to’ve cut your throat the minute you rode into camp.”

“But then you couldn’t have sold me to the Indians.”

Burmeister said to the smuggler leader, “You were six men. Now you are four. Where are the other two?”

Jake did not answer.

Andy guessed, “They likely stayed to watch what was left of the whiskey while these came after me and Billy.”

Tanner dismounted and examined the fallen man. Burmeister leaned from his saddle. “He is dead?”

Tanner nodded. “He showred damned poor judgment for a man who wasn’t no better shot.”

Andy had no sympathy. “He’s the one who first said they ought to trade me and Billy for horses.”

Burmeister said, “The weather is warm. He will not keep well.” He turned to the smuggler named Jake. “He was your man. You will bury him here.”