He heard a movement in the barn and turned quickly, bringing another arrow out of the quiver. He stopped, for in the doorway stood a small boy with hair redder than his mother’s. Buffalo Caller could only stare.

Antelope spoke from behind him. “Are you frightened of a baby? I will kill him for you if you are afraid.”

“I am not afraid, but I have never seen hair of such a color, not on a human being.” He recognized that the Americans were humans, though of a lesser order. The Comanches were the real people, the True Human Beings.

Antelope said, “The Texans have hair of all colors.” He brought out his knife and moved toward the child.

Buffalo Caller blocked his path. “My wives have given me only girl babies so far. I will take this boy for a son.”

“And carry him into the fight? He will be a burden.”

“But I can teach him to be a good hunter. He could keep us from hunger when we are old.”

“A white-skinned Penateka with hair like fire? Who ever saw such a thing?”

“The buffalo will not care about the color of his hair.”

The People had often taken Mexican children and raised them as their own. Captives helped offset the death rate caused by war and by accidents during the hunt. Since Americans had begun moving into Penateka lands, a sprinkling of lighter-skinned children had also appeared in the lodges. Most who survived the trauma of the first weeks would assimilate into the tribe. In time a majority would forget their past lives and become as Comanche-born.

Antelope argued, “We should kill him. The color of his hair is like blood. It could sour our medicine.”

“What has hair to do with medicine?”

The boy looked in bewilderment at his mother’s body. He whimpered as Buffalo Caller picked him up and tucked him under his right arm.

Antelope said, “I cannot tolerate a squalling child.” He touched the handle of his bloodstained knife. “If he cries, I will cut his throat.”

Buffalo Caller shifted the boy to his left arm and drew his own knife. “You will have to cut mine first.” It was unthinkable that one of The People might kill another, but he would inflict grievous pain with the blade if Antelope made it necessary.

His companion backed off. “Then do not let him cry.”

“This one is too brave to cry. Now let us go. We do not want to miss the big fight.”

“First I will burn the house.” Antelope’s eyes pinched in warning. “If you are wise, you will kill that red-haired boy.”

Buffalo Caller tightened his hold on the youngster. “Go on. Set your fire.”

Buffalo Caller had seen white-man towns before. He had visited San Antonio in his early youth, riding boldly up and down its streets, challenging any and all to come out and fight him. It was a way of demonstrating his bravery to other young men in the event any might have doubted it. No townsman had accepted the challenge face-to-face, but Buffalo Caller proudly bore the scar of a bullet wound inflicted by some coward who hid inside a doorway to shoot him. When he painted himself for ceremony or battle he always made a black circle around the scar so everyone would see and know that bullets did not easily kill him. For a fighter, scars were marks of honor.