“Just a week or ten days, Preacher Webb says. It won’t be forever.”

“Not for you, but maybe for me.”

Rusty blinked back the threat of tears and tried to make light of the turbulence he felt. “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

Mike led the saddled horse out of the corral and watched Rusty tie the blanket behind the cantle. “Tom Blessing is a good man, so listen to what he says. But don’t put all your faith in other people, because sometimes they can be wrong. Do your own thinkin’. In the long run every man has got to answer to himself, and for himself.” He looked up at Webb, in the saddle and waiting. “Keep an eye on him, won’t you, Preacher?”

“Don’t you worry about Rusty. You take care of Dora.”

Rusty and Webb cut across the river and put their horses into a trot. They intercepted Blessing and six others after a couple of hours. Webb explained about Mike’s remaining behind. Blessing took the news with regret. “I always felt that everything would turn out all right when I could see Mike Shannon at my side. You’ve got a big pair of boots to fill, Rusty.”

Rusty did not know how to reply. Webb smiled. “He’ll fill them. He’s still gettin’ his growth.”

Rusty glanced quickly over the men and was pleased to see that Isaac York was not among them. He had lain awake many nights, his mind’s eye seeing York shoot the old man and the Indian woman over and over again. The memory usually brought him to a cold sweat. He would seek a balance by remembering the white woman so cruelly butchered, but that made him feel no easier about York. The man had a streak of madness in him, Rusty thought. Given provocation, there was no telling what he might do.

It took the rangers two days to reach the boundary of the reserve. There they met a couple of similar volunteer companies gathered to keep the peace. Looking at their determined faces, Rusty suspected that a few might welcome any excuse to break the peace instead, to kill a few more Indians before they were moved out of the state and, in theory at least, out of reach. Besides the rangers, a number of civilians came straggling along, well-armed and talking loudly. It was apparent that they were not burdened with the weight of good intentions.

Rusty was relieved to see a large contingent of U.S. Army troops on hand to accompany the march out of Texas. Without their protection, he suspected, many of the Indians would not live to see the Red River.

Major Robert Neighbors, the Indian agent, accompanied the final group of refugees that started the long northward trek. Rusty heard him mutter something about Philistines and the exodus from Egypt.

Rusty saw grown men weeping. He saw an Indian woman throw her arms around a tree and refuse to move until two soldiers forcibly pulled her away. He saw a travois with a woman lying on it, her shoulder heavily bandaged. He could not be sure, but he thought she was probably the one York had shot. If so, she had survived the wound. He hoped she would survive the long trip, the travois bumping along on rough ground and jarring her mercilessly.