Antelope raised the bloody trophy for Buffalo Caller to observe, then looked toward the log cabin. “There may be others.”

Whoever was at the house might have a rifle or shotgun. Buffalo Caller saw none here. This was far from normal Comanche range, and the once-formidable Karankawas native to this region had been reduced to a pitiable scattered few. The farmer probably had seen no reason to burden himself with a weapon in the field. “We have the horses. That is what we came for.”

Antelope insisted, “If you leave one wasp, it will rebuild the nest.”

“But if they fire upon us, we must leave. We can do no good for anyone if we are dead.” It was not that he feared death. A warrior who died in battle was promised a happy afterlife. But the life he was living here gave him pleasure, for he was yet young, and so were his two wives. He would enjoy this life as long as he could. The next would endure forever, so he was in no hurry to begin it.

They approached by way of the barn, larger than the cabin and built of rough boards instead of logs. His gaze was focused on the house, for if there was to be trouble it would come from there. Antelope touched his arm and pointed in silence. Beneath a roof that extended beyond the barn, a woman sat on a stool, milking a cow. Like the man, she faced away from the Indians and was unaware of them.

The two warriors slipped down from their horses and moved toward a log fence that separated them from the barn. Buffalo Caller climbed to the top and swung his legs over. A log cracked beneath his weight. Startled, the woman looked around, saw him, and jumped to her feet, spilling the bucket of milk. With a cry of fear, she ran to the barn door and turned, a pitchfork in her hands.

Buffalo Caller had never seen a pitchfork and did not know what use it was meant for, but he recognized that the sharp steel tines could pierce like a lance. She made a threatening gesture, thrusting the fork toward him. She shouted, but her words meant nothing. White people’s talk was like the grunting of their stinking pigs.

He entertained the thought of taking her along, for his wives would welcome a slave woman to lift some of labor’s weight from their shoulders. Too, he had never taken a teibo woman into his blankets, and he wondered how different one might be. But she came at him with the pitchfork, and he had no choice. He fitted an arrow to the bowstring and drove it into her heart. She died quickly, with little sound and little struggle.

He had noticed from the first that her hair was reddish, like the hair of a buffalo calf. He knelt over her and lifted a strand of it, wondering if she might have colored it somehow. But none of the color came off on his fingers, so he decided it was natural. It would be a great curiosity when he showed it to his friends. He made a wide circle with the keen blade of his knife, wanting to keep as much of the hair as he could. He placed his foot on her back and pulled on the scalp. It tore free with a sucking sound.