He followed Finis and Luke outside, not so much to bid them good-bye as to be sure they did not pick up something and carry it away. The necessities were hard to come by in the isolation of colonial Texas; he did not want any of them stolen. Finis said, “That wife of yours is a fair to middlin’ cook, Andrew, even if she is a Mexican. I wisht Nelly could take some lessons from her.”

From the looks of Finis’s soft belly, Nelly fed well enough.

Finis said, “But there’s one thing bothers me about you bein’ married to a Mexican. The day’s comin’ when us Americans is fixin’ to have to fight them. When that day comes, Andrew, I’m wonderin’ which side you’ll be on—ours or theirs.”

Firmly, Andrew said, “I don’t see it comin’ to that. But if it ever does, I’ll be on mine.”

He watched the Blackwoods ride west, skirting along the river. Their farm was on the other side and some miles to the east. Not until the two brothers were out of sight did he return to his field. They remained on his mind after he set the blue ox back to pulling the plow. He had long wished for the Blackwoods to fail on their farm and move somewhere else, to be someone else’s worry. Were it not for Isaac Blackwood’s stubborn diligence, it would have happened long ago. Without Isaac to carry the load, Finis and Luke would not remain long.

He became so absorbed in his work and his thoughts about the Blackwoods that he did not see the other two horsemen who arrived on the faint trail which led from San Antonio de Bexar, capital of the Mexican state of Texas. He heard Petra clanging the piece of wagon tire hanging in the dog-run. She did not often use it except to call him to a meal, and this was midafternoon. He left the ox standing in the field, picked up his rifle that leaned against the pole fence, and trotted anxiously toward the cabin.

He saw two strange horses in the corral, three counting a sleek brown colt. The saddles on the fence were of a Mexican style rather than American.

As he walked up to the dog-run, he saw a thin dark-skinned man of forty or so years standing there, white teeth shining, his smile broad and friendly. “Qué pasó?” the man greeted him.

“Elizandro,” Andrew exclaimed, his voice glad. Relief swept over him. “You are a long ways from home.”

They gripped each other’s arms in the abrazo, the Mexican manner of greeting between two old friends. “It has been a long winter since I have seen you,” Andrew said in Spanish. Elizandro Zaragosa had learned considerable English, but he was more comfortable using his own language. Andrew had learned to be at ease with Spanish; Petra had been a good teacher. When he found himself at a loss for a word, he would throw in English and hope it was understood. “I saw two horses in the corral.”