Díaz shook his head. “My family was once badly mistreated in your country. Yours will not be mistreated in mine.”

James said defensively, “We was way back in Tennessee when all that happened. We didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”

“You are of the same blood. It is a blood that has no place in Mexico. I wish none of you had ever been allowed here.”

Díaz had sent a messenger to Nacogdoches the day before to let the garrison know his detail would be bringing in prisoners. A couple of dozen soldiers were lined up in front of an old stone building that appeared to be the most substantial in the small town. James assumed it was a jail or a courthouse or something of that type. An officer came out of the building. Díaz saluted him and gave a report. James did not understand the words, but he understood the accusing look Díaz kept flinging in his direction. He glanced at Frank. Though his cousin was not smiling, his face was composed, resigned. Frank Lewis was a hard man to discourage for long. The officer listened impassively to Díaz’s report, his dark eyes studying the wagons, the two men, and the boys on horseback. At length the officer turned to look behind him.

James saw another man standing in the doorway. By the darkness of his skin James knew him to be Mexican. Evidently he was not a soldier, for he wore no uniform. Yet he bore himself in what James took to be a military manner, his back and shoulders so straight that they must have hurt. The officer beckoned him. The civilian stepped out into the dirt street, giving James and Frank a thin smile and nodding affirmatively as if he knew them.

James glanced at Frank, silently asking a question. Frank shook his head. “Never saw him before, but he looks friendly. Right now we could sure use a friend.”

The man walked up near Frank’s horse. He asked, “Your name is Lewis?” His accent was thick, but the words were clear.

“It sure is. Frank Lewis. This here is James. He’s a Lewis, too.”

The man nodded, his smile broadening. “I can see it. Which is the brother of Michael and Andrew?”

“That’s me,” James said, puzzled. “You know them?”

“For many, many years. Turn. Look.”

A man came striding up the dirt street, a tall man with a smile as broad as an ax handle. James began to tremble. He would know that lanky frame anywhere, for it looked much like his own, like Frank’s, like all the Lewis men. James dismounted, ignoring Díaz and the soldiers. He took a couple of steps forward, tears suddenly blurring the man who approached him. He said in an unsteady voice, “Michael?”

“You’re close,” came a happy reply. “I’m Andrew. And you’d have to be James.”

They threw their arms around each other. James heard a squeal of joy from the front wagon and saw through a blur as Annie sprang nimbly down from the seat in a flare of gray skirts. She pushed James aside in her eagerness to hug Andrew.