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full on their backs as they traveled.
    Sanchez suddenly had a great resurgence of confidence in his ability. Of course he could lead the expedition. It required, at least for a time, only that they hold a generally northerly course. That, he could manage. He could gauge direction both by the sun’s position and by the prevailing south wind at their backs. He picked out a blue hilltop in the shimmering distance. That would be their landmark for the day.
    Sanchez suddenly became aware that Don Pedro had repeated his question.
    â€œWhich way, Sanchez?”
    The little man was exhilarated, almost drunk with the euphoria of authority. He stood in his stirrups and, with a long, sweeping gesture, pointed at the blue shimmering hill, days to the north.
    â€œWe follow the wind!”

7
    Sanchez, Garcia, and Cabeza squatted on woven rush mats in the shade of a thatched arbor. Lizard was in deep conversation with leaders of the village as the others waited.
    And this village was exactly like the rest, Sanchez fretted. Another few days of travel, another village of thatched huts. Garcia insisted on questioning in depth at every stop. It was stupid, Sanchez realized. The area where the young officer had been lost was weeks further to the north. Then he became irritated at himself. Mother of God, it was almost as if for a moment he had begun to believe his own story!
    Why should he care that the old don wished to give his trinkets to any chance village they encountered along the way? If it helped to keep interest alive, why not let him have his way?
    Sanchez sighed and scratched his back against the pole on which he leaned. Actually, he reflected, it was relatively comfortable here in the late afternoon shade. These savages built, for summer use, a sort of open-sided arbor with thatched roof. It kept the sun from beating down the livelong day, yet let the south breezes cool the sweat. Most of the cooking,
much of the living, even, was carried out in these structures during the summer months. Only in rainy or chilly weather would the Caddoes retreat to the shelter of the huts.
    Sanchez let his gaze wander across the level plain to the north. It seemed to stretch to the end of the earth and Sanchez began to wonder if he had made a mistake. He had had no idea, at the beginning, how persistent Don Pedro Garcia could be. He had thought in terms of leading the expedition aimlessly for a time, until the old man became discouraged and began to tire. At that point, they could all go home, everyone richer except the Señor Garcia, who had more wealth than he needed anyway.
    Somehow, it had not worked out that way at all. He, Sanchez, was becoming discouraged and tired. Don Pedro, on the other hand, appeared younger and more vigorous than at the start. He was thriving on this life. The first time Sanchez had seen the old don, he had appeared just that. A tired old aristocrat, limping from ancient battle wounds and arthritis and mourning the loss of his only son.
    Now old Garcia seemed decades younger. To observe him from a distance, as he sat the gray mare with military bearing, one would think of him as a soldier in the prime of life. There was no indication that he had any intention of backing down from this search until his mission was resolved. It seemed that he fully expected to find evidence of his son, either alive, or firm proof of his death.
    Sanchez exhaled a sigh of frustration. What if no evidence were ever found? Would the old man continue to press to the north until they all died in the unknown land? Just how far, Sanchez wondered, could one travel to the north? Might they not be trapped in a climate impossible for survival as winter descended? If worst came to worst, he wondered if there were enough men who could be counted on to mutiny and refuse to throw their lives away.
    He was afraid not. The expedition seemed a tight-knit, loyal, and enthusiastic unit. The lancers, handpicked by Lieutenant Cabeza, seemed to take so