roasting over glowing coals. He saw figures moving about.
His skin prickled. These were Indians, right enough. He counted at least eight and reasoned that others were beyond the firelight. For a moment he entertained a wild notion of firing into their camp and giving them a scare that might make them retreat to the reservation. He abandoned that as a bad idea. In all likelihood they would swarm over him like wasps disturbed in their nest. Taking his hair might only increase the warriors' desire for more, because enemy scalps aroused a competitive spirit. Symbolizing manhood and fighting ability, they were trophies sought after and prized.
The Indians had posted no guard. This was a basic flaw in the Comanche approach to war that Rusty had never understood. He did not know if it was a sign of arrogance or simply a false sense of security. They did not normally like to fight at night, and perhaps they felt that no one else did either.
He drew away from the camp and returned to his horse. His skin still tingled with excitement. "Old feller, we wouldn't want to run into those boys in the daylight."
Prudence told him to head south, but he hesitated. The honorable thing—the responsible thing—would be to double back to the ranger camp and sound an alarm. Perhaps enough men remained there to head off this band as they had done the last raiding party, forcing them to retreat north of the Red before they could strike outlying farms or ranches. But he would be riding into the clutches of the conscription officers. It was a foregone conclusion that they would want him for the Southern army.
The image of Daddy Mike flashed into his mind—Daddy Mike and a Union flag proudly draped on the wall of the Shannon cabin. Back in the 1840s, Mike had campaigned to have Texas brought into the Union. He had fought for that flag in Mexico. He had sworn that nothing would ever cause him to fire upon it, though his passionate rhetoric had led to his being declared a traitor to the Confederacy.
Daddy Mike's fierce patriotism had been burned into Rusty from the time he was old enough to grasp the meaning of the flag. He would rather face prison, or worse, than fight against the Union to which his foster father had proudly given full allegiance.
But Rusty thought of the Haines woman and the little girl. Other settlers would likely fall victim should these raiders not be turned back. Innocent blood would stain his hands if he rode away, taking care only of himself. Even before he decided at a conscious level, he turned Alamo eastward, going back the way he had come.
Perhaps the conscription officers had not yet arrived. Perhaps he could deliver his message and steal away before anyone had a chance to stop him. Perhaps ... But more likely they would grab him like a wolf grabs a lamb.
He gritted his teeth and put Alamo into a long trot.
· CHAPTER THREE ·
R usty judged that it was near noon when the Fort Belknap settlement loomed up ahead. All along he had hoped he might encounter a friend and impart his information, then slip away without actually entering camp. Unfortunately he saw no rangers or anyone else he knew well enough to trust. Some residents of the settlement had no liking for the rangers, who interfered with their chosen work of stealing reservation horses and running liquor to the same Indians they stole from. He would have to take his chances.
Len Tanner's legs always looked too long for the rest of him. Ambling out of the open corral, leading his horse, he spotted Rusty. Surprise yielded to regret. "I thought you'd got clean away."
Rusty sensed the answer before he asked, "The conscript officers here already?"
Two of them, fixin' to take most of the company away. Me included." His eyes were solemn. "What in the hell did you come back for?"
"I ran into Comanches. The captain needs to know."
"He won't have enough men left to do much about it. They're just waitin' for the last patrol to report in so they can pick
1796-1874 Agnes Strickland, 1794-1875 Elizabeth Strickland, Rosalie Kaufman