The horsemen put spurs to their mounts and quartered south-eastward in a hard run. They motioned for two men who still rode on the near side of the remuda to quit the bunch and join them. The stolen horses at the rear realized they were no longer being pushed and slowed down. A few stopped and nickered for their running mates. Rusty touched his heels to Alamo’s sides and put him into a long trot. Chapultepec lagged so that Rusty had to turn loose of the lead rope to prevent being pulled from the saddle. He circled back to recover the animal.

“Damned mule, you’re liable to get me killed.”

The delay prevented him from reaching the thicket in time. More than a dozen riders appeared on the hill where he had first seen the stolen horses. As they galloped down the slope, several split off and came after Rusty while the others continued pursuit of the remuda. There was no doubt this time. These were Indians. Rusty saw that he had no chance to reach the thicket. He pulled hard on the reins and slipped the rifle from its scabbard, then stepped quickly to the ground.

Even as he did so, he knew he had no chance. He might shoot one, but the others would cut him down before he could reload. He held his breath until his lungs ached, then sucked in enough air to fill them and stood with the rifle at arm’s length in a posture of surrender.

Daddy Mike had always said the worst thing a man could do was to give himself up to Indians, but the only other option he saw was to go down fighting. It seemed futile to kill just one when he could see half a dozen coming at him. He waited, his heart pounding and his mouth dry as old leather.

He wished Preacher Webb were with him. Preacher could charm his way into or out of almost any situation. Rusty whispered, “Lord, if You’re really up there and payin’ any attention, You’d better do somethin’ quick.”

The first Indian to reach him shouted furiously and pointed toward the horses still moving southward. Rusty did not understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable. The rest surrounded him in a hostile manner. He knew they assumed he was one of the thieves.

He pointed in the direction the real thieves had taken. They were still in sight but fading rapidly into the distance. “Yonder go the ones that stole your horses. It wasn’t me.”

He realized they probably did not understand what he was saying. He hoped they understood his gestures. He pointed again. “Yonder they go.”

A voice came from behind him. “How come you didn’t go with them, bub?”

He had not noticed that one of the men was white. Lord, he thought, maybe You were paying attention after all. “Because I wasn’t with them in the first place.”