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it wouldn’t stop the knife, but the Indian was already too close for him to step aside.
    Ted fell backward, twisting the thick wool as herolled to one side. He’d snared the Indian and twisted again as he tried to get up. The Comanche’s hand flailed at him, the blade narrowly missing him as he tripped again. Ted kicked out with his left leg and landed a glancing blow on the Comanche’s ribs. The Indian grunted with the impact and fell to one knee. Ted grabbed for the Colt on his hip and brought it up as the Indian jerked his arm free of the snare.
    He fired point-blank, and the Comanche jerked upright for a second, then toppled over on his side. In the moonlight, the blood seeping from the Indian’s chest looked like liquid coal. Ted scrambled to his feet and bent over him. The Indian looked up, his lips curled back in hatred. In the orange light of the lingering flames he looked almost demonic.
    Ted cocked his Colt and aimed it. The Comanche tried to get to his feet, but he didn’t have the strength. Propped on one hip, he lay there panting. Ted turned away, lowering the hammer and holstering the gun. The brave was no threat.
    Snatching at the blanket, he raced to the next fire and flailed at the flames until they were reduced to glowing straws. The light rose and fell as the wind moaned past, then they died out altogether. In the distance, he could hear the hands rounding the herd and driving it to let the cattle run off their terror.
    Scattered gunshots cracked over the thunder ofthe hooves. He saw another Comanche, this one on horseback, race toward him. Hitting the ground, he grabbed the Colt and snapped off a shot. The Indian charged past, tossing a lance, but didn’t stop. The lance grazed Ted, piercing his shirt and pinning him to the ground. He ripped the cloth away, wiped the blood on his shirt, and got to his knees.
    He turned, waiting for the Indian to charge back, but the sound of the horse receded in the night. When it was gone, he got to his feet, holding his side. He could feel the trickle of blood between his fingers, hot and sticky. He could smell it and wanted to gag.
    Ted walked toward the Comanche, who was lying on his back now. Behind him, he heard hoofbeats and reached for his gun. Johnny skidded to a halt. He dismounted and raced toward his brother.
    “What the hell happened? Where were you?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You know damn well. How did this happen? Why the hell were you night riding, to watch the goddamned moon?”
    Johnny spotted the Comanche and brushed past. He prodded the Indian in the ribs with the toe of one boot. The brave moaned. His eyes opened and he stared up at Johnny.
    “Christ almighty, he ain’t even dead! Can’t you do nothing right?”
    “He was no …”
    Johnny drew his gun and cocked the hammer. Ted grabbed his arm, but Johnny shook him off.
    “Don’t …” Ted shouted, but Johnny ignored him. He fired once, then again, hitting the Indian in the head and the heart. Johnny turned, shaking his head.
    “You yellow bastard …” He brushed past Ted, glanced at the wound in his side, but said nothing. Johnny grabbed the reins and swung up into the saddle. “We’re leaving first light. No thanks to you, we have enough beeves to head north. I don’t imagine you’ll be comin’.”
    Johnny wheeled his horse and galloped away. Ted stood there watching horse and rider disappear. When his brother was out of sight, he glanced at the dead Comanche once, then walked back to his horse. It hurt to mount up but he ignored the pain and spurred the pony once, just hard enough to get him moving.
    The sound of the herd off in the distance was growing more subdued, even as he approached. He moved past the mess wagon, but didn’t stop. He skirted the edge of the herd, now just milling in a broad circle. He spotted a hand, but couldn’t tell it was Rafe until he got closer.
    Rafe looked at him long and hard, but didn’t say anything until their mounts were