He raised his hands, his rifle balanced across his lap. “Don’t any of you-all shoot.”

One of the men lowered his rifle partway. “You’re an American?”

“Used to be. I’m a Texan now. Come from over on the Colorado River, west of San Felipe.”

The man spoke, and the others let their rifles rest. “We seen you from a good ways off. There’s been a report of some Mexican soldiers. Outriders, maybe, scoutin’ for a column. For all we could tell, you might’ve been one. Seen any?”

James shook his head. “Haven’t seen a human bein’ in three or four days.” He explained his mission and described Michael.

One of the men nodded. “I know the man. Knew him, anyway. Him and two more, they rode out from camp four or five weeks ago. None of them ever showed up again.” He grimaced. “I hate to be the one to carry bad news, friend, but I’m afraid they must’ve run into somethin’ too big for them. Otherwise they’d've been back. I’m afraid your brother is dead.”

James felt his throat tightening, and his eyes burned. It was the news he had come to expect, but he had not made up his mind to accept it. “You never actually saw him killed, though. You never saw his body.”

“A man falls in this country, you ain’t likely ever to find him. All you know for sure is that he’s gone.”

Us Lewises don’t quit till we see the body, he had told Fannin. “You know which direction he rode?”

“No, I was out on patrol myself when they left. Never did hear anybody say. You’d have to talk to Captain Jones.”

“I’d like to. Whichaway is he?”

The man pointed west. “Camp’s over yonderway about eight, maybe ten miles. Goin’ to be a mite hard to find. We keep it hidden so it will be.” He gave James a little description to help him locate the site. “Good luck to you, friend. Sorry we handed you a scare. I wish I could give you more hope about findin’ your brother, but truth is truth.”

James thanked him and started west, his hope rising, falling, and rising again as he pondered the man’s words. At least he had found where Michael had been.

He had just ridden into a wide, brushy draw, splashed through a cold little stream and had come out on the far side, back into the lower-growing chaparral brush, when he saw a dozen or so riders. Instinct told him they were Mexican cavalrymen before he made out the color of their uniforms. He felt a flush of excitement, a quickening of his heartbeat. They saw him at almost the same instant that he saw them, and they came charging from two hundred yards away. He whirled Walker around and drummed his heels into the bay’s sides, racing for the heavier brush.

He heard a few shots, which served only to make Walker run faster. The muskets the soldiers carried were notoriously inaccurate at any distance, one reason the sharp-shooting long rifles of the Texans had done so much more damage in Bexar than the defending Mexican troops had been able to accomplish. But James knew the cavalrymen had an answer for that: get closer. He felt they were gaining on him. He had not given Walker much rest or grazing time since he had left home, and the horse was wearing down.