“I try to see very little and tell even less. If I was to peach to a ranger, somebody might come by here some dark night and blow my light out. If any of them was to ride up here now and see me talkin’ to you, and they found out you’re a ranger, they might get the same idea. So I’d take it kindly if you’d water your stock and move on.”

Rusty pulled the mule’s lead rope. “I’m obliged to you for the water and the words of wisdom.”

“They never cost me nothin’. Watch out for yourself. I’d hate for your mother to have to grieve for you.”

Rusty saw no point in saying that he had no mother, no father, no kin that he knew of. The farmer had his own problems.

He tried to be watchful, for he knew this could be dangerous country, but he missed seeing the band of horses until they came boiling over a hill and swept down toward him. A rider galloped along in front, pointing the way. Several others rode alongside and behind, keeping the animals moving at a fast clip. Rusty felt a wild jolt of apprehension, thinking the horsemen were Comanches. His fear eased as he saw they were white. He realized that Comanches were in the habit of taking horses north, not south.

He pulled to the left to be out of the way. The driven horses began spilling past him, though the man who rode point reined around and came directly toward Rusty. He was followed quickly by two men who had been riding swing alongside the remuda.

The point rider gave Rusty a close scrutiny without speaking. His hard gaze brought back Rusty’s uneasiness.

Rusty offered a tentative “Howdy.”

“I don’t know you. Who are you?” The man was young enough that his several days’ growth of whiskers looked soft and uneven.

Not much older than me, Rusty thought. But he saw hardness in the eyes and the set of the jaw. “My name’s Rusty Shannon. What’s yours?” He extended his hand.

The rider did not answer the question or accept Rusty’s hand. “Where you headed?”

“Up the country a ways.” Rusty remembered the farmer’s admonition about not revealing his mission.

“What for?”

“Lookin’ for kin.” That was not quite a lie. He always harbored a faint hope that he might run into kin somewhere, though he would have no way of recognizing them if he did. It was frustrating not to know what his real name had been.

The suspicious gray eyes had a piercing quality that compounded Rusty’s discomfort. The other two horsemen had pulled up on either side of the point rider. Rusty sensed threat in all three. Whatever they were up to, it was not good.