Mr. Grimes gave a short nod. He stood for a moment, watching the fire, breathing deeply. Then he broke off and studied the dead Indians on the ground.

“What are you looking for?” Francis asked.

The mountain man didn’t answer. Presently he finished his examination, looked off across the hills, and mounted.

“C’mon, Mr. Tucket, let’s go talk to the farmers.”

When they were a hundred yards from the wagon train, three men came out to meet them. Two of them held rifles at the ready; the other one—in the middle—a stocky man with red hair and a red face, did the talking.

Mr. Grimes dismounted again. “They hit you long ago?” he asked.

“Maybe an hour, maybe more. Fifteen or so came down on our wagons and another forty jumped the trading post.”

“You lose many men?”

“Two. Thing is, they kept us hopping while they nailed the post. We couldn’t get out to help …”

Mr. Grimes nodded. “They were after powder. Did—did anyone get out of the house?”

The stocky man shook his head. “At least, if they did, we didn’t see ’em. Friends of yours?”

Mr. Grimes was quiet, staring at the snow-covered hills.

“I know how you feel,” the man went on. “One of the two we lost was my brother …”

There was silence for a while. Francis realized that the stocky man was crying, but that his lips were moving back and forth in anger.

Mr. Grimes broke the silence. “Well, it appears that the time has come to do something about Braid.” He turned to look at Francis. “Remember me telling you, Mr. Tucket, that if I ever did kill Braid, it wouldn’t be because he had something I wanted. This is different, Mr. Tucket, very different.”

He walked over to Footloose, removed the saddle, threw it on the ground, and mounted bareback. “What’s your name?” he asked the stocky man.

“Groves. Ben Groves.”

“Well, Mr. Groves, I’d take it kindly if you’d keep you eyes on Mr. Tucket, the boy here, for me.”

“Now wait a minute—” Francis began.

“There’s a fair chance I won’t be coming back from this ride,” Mr. Grimes went on, ignoring Francis. “Fact is, he’s kinda headstrong, and if somebody doesn’t watch him, he’s likely to do just about anything. Understand me, Mr. Groves?”

The redheaded man nodded. He motioned to the other two men, and before Francis could move, they had grabbed him, pulled him from his horse, and were holding him fast.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Wait a minute! Mr. Grimes, you can’t just go out there and jump a whole tribe of Pawnee.” He tried to wiggle free but failed. “They’ll—they’ll kill you. That’s dumb. You can’t do that, Mr. Grimes. You can’t be dumb. You wouldn’t let me be dumb …”