“What now, Major?” Ezekiel Moody asked. It was a question everyone would have liked an answer to, but Major Chevallie ignored the question. He said nothing.

Ezekiel looked at Josh Corn, and Josh Corn looked at Rip Green.Long Bill looked at Bob Bascom, who looked at one-eyed Johnny Carthage.

“Now where would Shad be going, this time of night?” Johnny asked. “It’s no time to be exercising your mount—not if it means leaving the troop, not if you ask me.”

“I didn’t hear Shad ask you, Johnny,” Bigfoot said.

“That’s twice today he’s left, though,” the Major said. “It’s vexing.

Bigfoot walked over to the edge of the camp, lay flat down, and pressed his ear to the ground.

“Is he listening for worms—does he mean to fish?” Gus asked Call, perplexed by Bigfoot’s behaviour.

“No, he’s listening for horses—Comanche horses,” Matilda said. “Shut up and let him listen.”

Bigfoot soon stood up and came back to the fire.

“Nobody’s coming right this minute,” he said. “If there were hundreds of horses on the move, I’d hear them.”

“That don’t mean they won’t show up tomorrow, though,” he added.

“Why tomorrow?” several men asked at once. Tomorrow was only an hour or two away.

“Full moon,” Bigfoot said. “It’s what they call the Comanche moon. They like to raid into Mexico, down this old war trail, when the moon is full. They like that old Comanche moon.”

Major Chevallie knew he had only about an hour in which to decide on a course of action. Of course the old woman might be daft; there might be no plan to raid Chihuahua City and no great war party, hundreds of warriors strong, headed down from the Llano Estacado to terrorize the settlements in Mexico and Texas. It might all simply be the ravings of an old woman who was afraid of having her nose cut off.

But if what the old woman said was true, then the settlements needed to be warned. That many warriors moving south would threaten the whole frontier. All the farms west of the Austin-San Antonio line would be vulnerable—even half a dozen warriors split off from the main bunch could burn homesteads, steal children, and generally wreak havoc.

The devil of it was that they were just at the midpoint of theirexploration, as far from the settlements to the east as they were from the Pass of the North. Striking on west to El Paso might be the safest option for his troop—the war trail ran well east of El Paso. On the other hand, Buffalo Hump already knew they were there, and knew he was only up against a few men. If he had a large force at his disposal, he might pursue them simply for his pleasure. He no doubt knew that the two scalp hunters were with them. Scalping a scalp hunter was a pursuit that would interest any Indian, Comanche or Apache.

Turning east would mean the end of their mission—and they were only a week or two from completing it—and would also take them directly across the path of the raiders, if there were raiders. They would have to depend on speed and luck, if they turned east.

What was certain was that a decision had to be made, and made soon. He had no shackles on his men—Rangers mostly served because they wanted to; if they stopped wanting to, they might all do what Shadrach had just done. They might just ride off. The youngsters, Call and McCrae, would stay, of course. They were too green to strike out for themselves. But the more experienced men were unlikely to sit around and wait for his decision much past sunup. The sight of the buffalo lance sticking out of Augustus McCrae’s hip was vivid in their minds. They wouldn’t be inclined to play cards, or solicit Matilda, or shoot at cactus pods, not with a big war party swooping down the plains toward them.

The Major sighed. Going to jail in Baltimore was beginning to look like it might have some advantages. He walked over to Bigfoot —the tall scout was idly chewing on a chaparral twig.

“That old woman’s blind,” the Major said. “Do you think she was right about the raiding party? Maybe Shadrach misunderstood her about the figures. Maybe she was talking about some raid that took place thirty years ago.”

Bigfoot spat out the twig. “Maybe,” he said. “But maybe not.”

Bigfoot was thinking about how lucky the two young Rangers were—young Gus particularly. To walk right up on Buffalo Hump and live to tell about it was luck not many men could claim. Even to have seen the humpbacked chief was more than many experienced men could claim. He himself had glimpsed Buffalo Hump once, in a sleet storm near the Clear Fork of the Brazos, several years earlier. He had stepped out of a little post-oak thicket and looked up to see the humpbacked chief aiming an arrow at him. Just as Buffalo Hump loosed the arrow, Bigfoot stepped on an ice-glazed root and lost his footing. The arrow glanced off the bowie knife stuck in his belt. He rolled and brought his rifle up, but by the time he did, the Comanche was gone. That night, afraid to make a fire for fear Buffalo Hump would find him, he almost froze. The large feet that produced his nickname turned as numb as stone.

Now the Major was stumping about, trying to convince himself that Shadrach and the old Comanche woman were wrong about the raiding party. The men were scared, and with good reason; the Major had still not been able to think of an order to give.

“Damn it, I hate to double back,” the Major said. “I was aiming to wet my whistle in El Paso.”

He mounted and walked his sorrel slowly around the camp for a few minutes—the horse was likely to crow-hop on nippy mornings. Shadrach came back while he was riding slowly around. Settling his horse gave the Major time to think, and time, also, to ease his head a little. He was prone to violent headaches, and had suffered one most of the night. But the sun was just rising. It looked to be a fine morning; his spirits improved and he decided to go on west. Turning back didn’t jibe with his ambitions. If he found a clear route to El Paso, he might be made a colonel, or a general even.

“Let’s go, boys—it’s west,” he said, riding back to the campfire. “We were sent to find a road, so let’s go find it.”

The Rangers had survived a terrifying night. As soon as they mounted, warmed by the sun, many of them got sleepy and nodded in their saddles. Gus’s wounded hip was paining him. Walking wasn’t easy, but riding was hard, too. His black nag had a stiff trot. He kept glancing across the sage flats, expecting to see Buffalo Hump rise up from behind a sage bush.

The scalp hunters, Kirker and Glanton, rode half a mile with the troop, and then turned their horses.

“Ain’t you coming, boys?” Long Bill asked.

The scalp hunters didn’t answer. Once the pack mules passed, they rode toward Mexico.

“THERE AIN’T MANY SOLDIERS that know what they’re doing, are there, Shad?” Bigfoot asked. “This major sure don’t.”

“I doubt he’s a major, or even a soldier,” Shadrach said. “I expect he just stole a uniform.”

They were riding west through an area so dry that even the sage had almost played out.

Bigfoot suspected Shadrach was right. Probably Major Chevallie had just stolen a uniform. Texas was the sort of place where people could simply name themselves something and then start being whatever they happened to name. Then they could start acquiring the skills of their new profession—or not acquiring them, as the case might be.

“Well, I ain’t a soldier boy, neither,” Shadrach said.

“Was you ever a soldier?” Bigfoot asked. He was looking up at a crag, or a little hump of mountain, a few miles to the north. In the clear, dry air, he thought he saw a spot of white on the mountain,which was puzzling. What could be white on a mountain far west of the Pecos?

Shadrach ignored Bigfoot’s question—he didn’t answer questions about his past.

“See that white speck, up on that hill?” Bigfoot asked.

Shadrach looked, but saw nothing. Bigfoot was singular for the force of his vision, which was one reason he was sought after as a scout. He was not careful or meticulous—not by Shadrach’s standards—but there was no denying that he could see a long way.