He decided this was his chance to look through the camp while the men were engrossed in the whiskey and the negotiations. He slipped away carefully, looking back to see if his leaving had been noticed. He saw no indication that anyone was paying attention to him. Walking down into the camp, he saw only women and a few children, most of them outside.

As he passed each tepee he called softly. “Billy! Are you in there?”

He received no answer. By the time he had walked through the entire camp he was satisfied that the boy was not here. But a nagging feeling persisted: he had been.

He approached a middle-aged woman who was cutting thin strips of mule meat to dry. He decided he had nothing to lose by asking outright. “Grandmother, I am looking for my brother. He has about six summers. He stands this high.” He indicated Billy’s height. “He was taken from my family not long ago. I believe he has been here.”

She stared at him as if he had two heads. “You talk like one of The People, but you have the look of a teibo.”

“I am both,” he admitted. “But what of my brother? You have seen him?”

“Such a one was here. Those who cheated us took him and went on.” She pointed her chin to the northwest. “He is a Texan boy. He is claimed as a son by one called Fights with Bears.”

Andy could remember no one wearing such a name. He might be of a different band than Andy’s, or he could have changed his name from something else. It was customary among The People to shed an old name if a new one seemed more appropriate.

“Thank you, Grandmother.” He started back to the cart camp, for he had found out what he wanted to know.

He knew from the racket that something had gone badly wrong in his absence. The Indians had emptied the carts in their search for more whiskey. Goods lay scattered and trampled on the ground. Shouting, quarreling warriors wrestled each other for possession of the several jugs they had found. Andy looked for Martinez and found that the cart men had carried him out past the edge of camp. He lay on a blanket. One of his helpers pressed a folded cloth against a wound in Martinez’s shoulder. Blood streaked the side of his head.

One of the cart men spoke to Andy in Spanish, but Andy could not understand. Martinez groaned. “I knew we should have gone on.”

Andy saw that Martinez had been knifed in the shoulder. He had another wound on the side of his head, probably administered by a club. “I could not stop them,” Martinez wheezed. “They wanted the whiskey.”

“I could’ve told you that. It was a mistake, bringin’ it in the first place.”

“I need no lectures, boy”