James asked, “What do you reckon they want with us?”

Frank shook his head. “Nothin’ I can think of. They couldn’t've known we were here till they seen us. Was I you, I’d lower that rifle and let them know we’re friendly.”

“I ain’t friendly till I know what their intentions are.”

Frank’s smile froze, and his voice took on a tone of command. “Lower it.”

James had always been taught to defer to age. He eased the rifle down. “I’d like to know first that they’re friendly.”

“It’s their country.”

“Ours, too, now.”

The riders crossed the creek, splashing water liberally. The man in command said something sharp in a language James could not understand. The soldiers spread out, reining up in a half-moon configuration around the little camp. The leader looked first at James, then at Frank. His black eyes revealed no friendliness. His accent was thick, but his words were clear. “Who is in command here?”

James considered telling him that Annie thought she was, but levity seemed inappropriate. Frank said, “Nobody is, exactly. We all just do our part.”

“You are the only men here?”

Frank replied, “We’re all there is. Two men, two women, two boys. Welcome to our camp.”

“And where do you think you are going?” The question was voiced like a challenge.

James took it as one and was about to reply in kind, but Frank cut him off with a voice still calm and easy. “We’re goin’ to Nacogdoches, then on down to a place called San Felipe, in Stephen Austin’s colony.”

The soldier gave them a long study. If anything, his eyes seemed increasingly hostile. “You have the papers, then? Papers from the Esteban Austin?”

James gave Frank a questioning glance. Frank shrugged. James said, “We got a letter from my brother, sayin’ Austin is holdin’ us some land.”

“But nothing from the Austin himself?”

“Just that letter, is all.”

“Then by the new federal law which has come to us from Mexico City, you have no right to be here. No more Americans are allowed into Texas if they do not have already the papers from the Austin himself.” He spoke quickly in that other language, and soldiers on either side of him drew their sabers. He said in English, “You are under arrest!”

James’s face warmed in a flash of anger. “I’ve never been under arrest in my life! I ain’t fixin’ to start now.” He tightened his grip on the rifle, though he still held it at arm’s length. He shivered as he thought how one of those sabers would feel, run through his stomach.

A voice spoke from behind the soldiers. “You’ll get used to it, friend. Happens a lot in this country.”

A youngish American-looking man in buckskins sat slouched on a dun horse behind the soldiers. James had not noticed him before. The man’s face had not felt a razor in many days. It was brown, but the color came from sun, not from Mexican blood. He wore a crooked grin that indicated he was taking a certain perverse pleasure from all this.