He had no clear idea just what to do next. He did not want to abandon the search for Michael, but he was beginning to realize that his chances of finding his brother were painfully slim, especially now that Mexicans were patrolling the region. If he remained here much longer, chances were great that he would be caught and probably killed. What Fannin had said about the reason for destroying the map was beginning to take on a new dimension of cold reality. To continue to roam around this part of the country presented a hazard far greater than any chance he had of finding Michael. Regretfully he decided to start back north. Michael probably already had, if he was still alive.

It was almost full dark when he ventured out of the thicket on its east side. He had waited in the edge for some minutes, watching, listening, hearing nothing except the calling of a few birds. His courage girded up, he finally touched his heels to Walker’s sides and moved out into the open. His confidence was shaken, however, when Walker swung his head to the left and pricked his ears forward.

James’s heart leaped. A horseman charged at him from no more than fifty yards away. They had set a trap, and he had blundered into it. As he wheeled Walker around, he saw the flash of a musket and heard it crackle. Walker missed a step, almost falling. But the horse regained his feet and plunged headlong back into the brush. James could hear the soldier shouting somewhere behind him, calling for help. He could hear responses from farther away.

They had known he had to come out of the brush. They just had not known where.

He felt Walker beginning to falter. The horse was wheezing. Then his legs went out from under him. James kicked his feet free of the stirrups as the horse went down. He hit the ground rolling, scrambling out of the way. Walker’s thrashing hoofs could be as dangerous as the cavalrymen’s muskets. Jumping to his feet, he turned back toward the horse and saw blood gushing from a wound in the bay’s chest.

He wondered how Walker had made it this far. He grabbed his fallen rifle and his shot pouch. He looked for a moment at the dying animal his Uncle Benjamin had given him, a gallant horse that had brought him to Texas and had carried him over a large part of it during the last several years. Now James was losing him. He had no time for grief. He paused to pat the animal on the neck, then took off running afoot through the brush. Branches slapped at him. Thorns clutched, stopped him, dug into his skin and bled him, but he struggled free and kept going. He fought for breath, pausing to lean against a tree and gasp for air when it felt as if his lungs would collapse. He tried to lick his leather-dry lips, but his tongue was just as dry. He could hear himself wheezing as Walker had wheezed. But he could also hear the soldiers hunting for him in the heavy timber. That kept his blood pumping, his feet moving. He heard a loud and exultant shout and knew Walker had been found. He wished he had taken time to retrieve the pack of food tied to the saddle, but he had not thought of it in his haste to get away. He buried himself deep in the brush and lay down flat on the ground behind a tall clump of prickly pear, fighting for breath, fighting against the fear that threatened to paralyze him as he heard the pursuers breaking through the timber, coming closer all the time.