"A military unit is a fine thing when it works," he said. "But it usually don't work. A solitary feat of arms is better, if the foe is worthy. This Kicking Wolf ain't much of a foe, though I grant that he's a brilliant thief. But I doubt that he's much of a killer--the two skills don't go together." Famous Shoes didn't know what to make of that comment. There were plenty of dead Texans and Mexicans and Indians who were dead because of Kicking Wolf--theirthe families considered him killer enough. If Scull wanted to fight someone who killed better than Kicking Wolf, he should not have passed up Buffalo Hump, a man who could kill plenty well.

He didn't comment. It was night, a good time for napping. If they wanted to catch Kicking Wolf and get the Buffalo Horse back, they would need to be up walking plenty early.

"This fellow Ahumado's been a notable bandit for a long time," Scull said. "Somebody must have some information about him." Famous Shoes kept quiet. Ahumado was a bad, cruel man; even to talk of him was bad luck. Ahumado worked very bad tortures on the people he caught. In Famous Shoes' view it was unwise even to think of a man that bad. The old people of Mexico thought Ahumado could pick up thoughts out of the air. If Scull kept talking about him, or even thinking about him, Ahumado might pick the thoughts out of the air and come north looking for them.

Scull fell silent for a while. Famous Shoes was hoping he would nod, and sleep. It was better to sleep a little and then apply themselves to the pursuit of Kicking Wolf than to be talking around a campfire about Ahumado. The smoke of the fire might drift south into Mexico, carrying their thoughts with it. Perhaps Ahumado was so wise that he could find out what people were saying about him just from little whiffso of drifting smoke. It was a new thought--Famous Shoes didn't know if it was true. But it might be true, which was a good reason to stop talking about Ahumado.

"He might be a man to match me," Scull said. "Very damn few can match me. I have to seek them out, otherwise the salt might lose its savor." "We have to track Kicking Wolf first, and that will take a lot of time," Famous Shoes said.

Scull had taken his little book out of his pocket, but he didn't look into it. He merely held it in his hand, as he stared into the fire.

On the plain to the south, two wolves began to howl. One howled and then another answered, which was very disturbing to Famous Shoes. Many coyotes often spoke to one another, but it was rare for two wolves to howl. Famous Shoes didn't know what it meant, but he didn't like it. The two wolves should not be speaking to one another, not so early in the night. When he got home he meant to ask the old ones what it meant when two wolves howled early. He would have to seek the old ones--they would surely know.

When Call found the dead boy, and the tracks of twenty horses going north, he knew there would not be a simple trek back to Austin. The Indians were not far--piles of horse turds were still warm, and the blood from the boy's crushed skull had only just coagulated. Call was less than a mile ahead of the troop, scouting. The boy was no more than six years old, skinny and pale, and the raiders who killed him had only just passed.

Probably he had been too sickly to travel; they had hit him in the head with a rifle butt and left him, dead or dying.

Call pulled his rifle out of its scabbard and got down to examine the tracks. It was annoying that Scull had taken Famous Shoes--the Kickapoo could have read the tracks easily, told them what band the raiders belonged to, and, probably, how many captives they were carrying into captivity. Call was not so skilled, nor was anyone else in the troop.

He knelt by the dead boy and felt again the weariness that the sight of such quick, casual death raised in him. The boy was barefoot, and so skinny that it seemed he had never had a filling meal in his life; probably he hadn't. The likelihood was that he had been snatched off some poor farm off one of the several branches of the Brazos, the river that tempted settlement most, due to the fertility of its long, lightly wooded valleys.

When the troop came in sight and saw that Call was dismounted, the rangers spurred up and sped to him, only to stop and stare in silence at the dead boy, the thin line of blood from his broken skull streaking the gray grass.

"Lord, he was just a young 'un," Long Bill said.

"I just missed the raiding party," Call said.

"I doubt they're five miles ahead." Augustus, whose keen vision was his pride, looked far north and saw the raiding party--they were so far away that they were dots--too far away for him to make a count.

"I expect it was a hundred Indians at least, from all these tracks," Neely Dickens said, unnerved by the thought that there might be a massive army of Indians nearby.

"I can see them, you fool--there's not more than twenty," Augustus said. "And some of them are probably captives." "I ain't a fool and don't you be cussing me just because you got made a captain," Neely replied. His pride was easily wounded; when insulted he was apt to respond with a flurry of fisticuffso.

To Augustus's annoyance Neely looked as if he might be about to flare into the fistfight mode, even though they were in a chancy situation, with major decisions to be made.

"Well, you gave a high count, I'm sorry I bruised your feelings," Gus said. He realized that he had to watch his comments, now that he had risen in rank. In the old days a man who didn't appreciate his remarks could take a swing at him--several had--but now that he was a captain, a man who tried to give him a licking might have to be court-martialed, or even hung.

Though Neely's fistfights were ridiculous-- Neely was small and had never whipped anybody --Augustus thought it behooved him to be tolerant in the present situation; there were larger issues to be decided than whether Neely Dickens was a fool.

Call was glad Gus had made amends to Neely--it wouldn't do to have a big silly dispute, with Indians in sight.

"What do we do, Woodrow?" Long Bill asked. "Do we chase the rascals or do we let 'em go?" The minute he spoke Long Bill wondered if he had done wrong to call Woodrow by his first name. He had known Call for years and always called him merely by his name, but now Woodrow was a captain and Gus too. Was he expected to address both of them as "Captain"his He felt so uncertain that merely speaking to either one of them made him nervous.

"I doubt this boy was the only captive," Call said. "It's a large party. They might have his sisters and brothers, if he had any, or even his mother." "They probably stole a few horses, too," Augustus said. "I say we go after them." Call saw that Deets already had the dead boy's grave half dug. Deets had been given a sidearm, but no rifle, when they left Austin. An old pistol with a chipped sight was all he had to defend himself with--it was something Call meant to remedy, once they got home.