Eli Wingate did not respond.

As they approached the Bullock Hotel, they could see that, as had been the case for nearly a week now, John Henry McAllen was in place on the veranda. Almost everyone who was anyone in Austin passed by Bullock's, located near the center of town, and Singletary had it on good authority that quite a few prominent persons—most of them Houston partisans, or neutral taking a moderate stance between Houston's "Peace Party" and Lamar's "War Party"—had dropped by to engage McAllen in conversation. McAllen, mused the newspaperman, looked like a caged tiger on the hotel veranda. This was a man of action, unaccustomed to idling away the hours in a cane chair, drinking Kentucky bourbon and smoking Havana cigars and watching the world go by. Old, rumpled Dr. Artemus Tice was at his side, reading the day's edition of the City Gazette, a corncob pipe gripped in his teeth. The half-breed named Joshua sat on the porch steps, whittling on a stick. He looked about as friendly as a rattlesnake. But he did not give Singletary pause; the editor strolled right past Joshua and along the veranda to McAllen and Tice.

"Gentlemen. Please, don't get up."

"I wasn't going to," said McAllen. His frosty gaze slid past Singletary to the Texas Ranger and did not warm at all. "Hello, Wingate." He spoke with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

"Singletary," said Tice, amused, "don't you think 'therapeutic vampire' is a bit extreme? I do confess to owning a thumb lancet, and a twelve-blade scarificator, but I'm really not much for bleeding, these days, and haven't practiced cupping, either wet or dry, in years. I think quinine and calomel sufficient for the treatment of malaria, and while I'm no Thomsonian, I do believe there is something to be said for certain herbal remedies. After all, quinine itself is derived from the bark of the cinchona tree, so why not raspberry leaves, spiced bitters, and Lobelia seed? Still, I must admit, 'therapeutic vampire' has a clever ring to it."

Singletary smirked. "I am glad you are not offended, Doctor." He turned to McAllen. "I must say, Captain, that your presence here is a mystery to me. I would wager you have not lingered for this length of time in one place your entire life. You are a pure American, sir. Your accomplishments provide indisputable proof. Born in haste, you finish your education on the run, marry on the wing, make a fortune at a stroke. Your body is a locomotive, your soul a high-pressure engine, your life a shooting star—and death will overtake you like a flash of lightning. And yet here you sit, like a storefront Indian. I cannot help but wonder why."

"And I wonder why I should answer you," replied McAllen, barely civil. "You have already made my personal affairs your business, and without any assistance from me. Besides, you have never allowed the truth to restrain you."

"Some of my acquaintances suggest your presence here endangers my health. But I do not hold with that notion. You are an honest man, Captain, that much I willingly concede. And I might have cause for concern if what I printed had been scurrilous lies. But they are not lies. We both know as much."

"Were you a gentleman I would demand satisfaction," snapped McAllen. "But all of Texas knows you are not."

"How very southern, sir. I have never aspired to that distinction, no."

Impatient, Eli Wingate stepped forward, a belligerent cast to his sun-darkened features. "I know why you're here, McAllen. Just as I know that I will see you again in San Antonio. I give you fair warning—stay out of affairs that do not concern you."

"Peace on the frontier does concern me, sir, and I will go where I please and do what I must to achieve it."

Wingate glowered. Dislike simmered between the two men, and Singletary decided to defuse the situation before it got out of hand.

"We will intrude no further upon your leisure, gentlemen," said the newspaperman. "Good day to you both."

"And good day to you," replied Tice cheerfully. "If you have the need to be purged or bled, Singletary, feel free to call upon me. I will do the honors at no charge. The least I can do for this free advertisement."

"Touché," said Singletary, then he bowed stiffly and left the veranda, followed by the Texas Ranger.

"Bravo, John Henry," said Tice. "Admirable restraint. I expected Singletary to come calling eventually, and I was afraid of what you meant to do to him. He's got plenty of nerve, you have to give him that."

"I've had time to think on it," said McAllen, reaching for the leatherbound copy of the The Iliad which lay on a small wrought-iron table between their chairs. "I cannot kill a man for telling the truth. Singletary's death would not erase the shame. And besides, the Old Chief would not approve, would he? Texas is in mortal danger. Personal problems can wait."

Vastly relieved, Tice nodded. Then, as McAllen opened the book, Tice saw the wildflower that had been pressed between the pages of Homer's classic.

"A token of admiration from a secret admirer?" asked the physician.

"Just a bookmark."

"Curious," murmured Tice. For some reason he thought of Emily Torrance. "Curious."

Chapter Six

When Tall Horses found Gray Wolf, the war chief was in his tepee, having just finished a meal of mush made from mesquite beans, buffalo marrow, and bee honey. It was Comanche custom to eat a light meal early in the day, with a heavier meal to follow in the evening, and usually Gray Wolf had a healthy appetite. His pretty wife, Snow Dancer, was a good cook, and she knew what pleased his palate most—her husband was especially fond of raw liver flavored with the contents of the deer or buffalo gallbladder, and the curdled milk taken from the stomach of a buffalo calf was a special treat.

Today, though, Gray Wolf barely tasted the savory mush. He ate only because he knew his body needed nourishment. He would be on the move all day, scouting far to the south and east. The nearest white settlement was less than two days' ride from this camp; the newest enemy of the Comanches—the Texan—was too close for comfort.

Tall Horses was a young warrior, and he stood in awe of Gray Wolf, who, though only a few years older than he, had already proven himself to be one of the greatest fighters of the Quohadi, or Antelope band. This was why Gray Wolf had become one the band's war chiefs. Though young, he was wise beyond his years. And, though a war chief, he was one of the leading proponents of peace.

"Gray Wolf," said Tall Horses, dropping to one knee just inside the tepee's entrance, "Maguara has summoned the council."

Gray Wolf nodded. He was not a member of the council—that distinction was reserved for the old patriarchs—but as a distinguished war leader his opinion was sometimes sought, since the council always pursued unanimity in its decisions.

Tall Horses glanced at Snow Dancer, who sat in the back shadows of the skin lodge on a buffalo robe, nursing her ten-month-old son. Her dark eyes were troubled, reflecting the disquiet in the young warrior's own soul. He turned his attention back to Gray Wolf and found the war chief gazing at him intently.

"Speak your mind, Tall Horses."

"There are many who do not trust the Texans. They will try to persuade the council not to go to Bexar." He knew San Antonio only by its old Mexican name.