“Papa,” Manuel argued, “I want to go with you.”

But he could see in his father’s eyes that this was not to be. He lowered his chin in sadness. Mordecai put his arm around Manuel’s shoulder. He did not speak; he did not have to.

Next morning, when the family awakened, Elizandro Zaragosa had already gone. And Michael Lewis had gone with him.

AS THE crops were harvested and farmers were freed from the tyranny of the fields, they began to gather in various places, rifles in their hands, unsure what to do but knowing they should do something. Many of them passed James’s place, and he itched to go with them, perhaps to find where Michael had gone. But he held back, awaiting direction, awaiting a call.

As if in warning of calamity to come, a mysterious comet lighted the Texas skies that fall, a spectral visitor that chilled brave hearts and set the superstitious to talking about the end of the world. James wondered aloud if it was a bad omen.

Andrew said, “It’s just a comet. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Cousin Frank declared confidently, “Books say comets’ve been flyin’ around ever since Eve pulled the apple stunt on Adam. Even if it meant anything, they’re probably seein’ it the same in Mexico as we do here. Maybe it means bad luck for the Mexicans instead of for us.”

Frank would be the one to know, for he was always the reader in the Lewis family. He knew all manner of things that were of no earthly use to a working man.

James had about made up his mind to take his rifle and go in search of Michael when the wagons came. He and Annie were at Marie’s, helping her and Mordecai and Manuel harvest her garden. The wagons came into sight over a rise from the east. James looked up from the work and wondered idly who would be taking wagons westward. That trail led toward San Antonio de Bexar, where Cós and his troops held the presidio, awaiting reinforcements from the interior before venturing out into the colonies to assert Santa Anna’s control. Most of the traffic James had seen lately had been coming from Bexar, not traveling toward it. But he put his curiosity aside and bent to the work again, for it would take the wagons some time to get here.

He noticed, after a bit, that Marie was becoming excited. “It cannot be,” she said, then lapsed into French, something she occasionally did when she forgot herself. She hurried to the rail fence. Though she wore a bonnet, she shaded her eyes with her hand. “Papa?” Her voice was barely a whisper at first, then a shout. “Papa!”

James squinted. Surely enough, he recognized old Baptiste Villaret on the lead wagon, driving a pair of big, strong mules. Marie scaled the fence, skirt flaring, jumped down on the other side and went running. Villaret climbed from the wagon and trotted stiffly to meet her, limping from the arthritis in his deteriorating knees. “Marie!”