“It’s the custom,” he said, finally. “People get to thinking of heaven, when people die.”

Call didn’t answer. He was wondering what the mule skinners were thinking and feeling when the Comanches tied them to the wagon wheels and began to build fires under them. Were they thinking of angels, or just wishing they could be dead?

“As soon as we get to Austin, I want to buy a better gun,” he said. “I mean to practice, too. If we’re going on this expedition, we need to learn to shoot.”

Toward evening, the sky darkened again toward the southwest. Once again the sky turned coal black, with only a thin line of light at the horizon. The rolls of thunder were so loud that the Rangers had to give up conversation.

“It might be another cyclone,” Blackie yelled. “We need to look for a gully or a ditch.”

This time, though, no twisting snake cloud formed, though a violent thunderstorm slashed at them for some fifteen minutes, drenching them all. They expected a wet, cold night but by good fortune came upon a big live-oak tree that lightning had just struck. The tree had been split right in two. Part of the tree was still blazing, when the rain began to diminish. It made a good hot fire and enabled everybody to strip off and dry their clothes. Matilda, far from shy, stripped off first—Call was reluctant to take all his clothes off in her presence, but Gus wasn’t. He didn’t have a cent, but hoped the sight of him would incline Matilda to be friendly, or a little more than friendly, later in the evening—a hope that was disappointed. Bigfoot had Buffalo Hump on his mind: there was a time for sport, and a time to keep a close watch. None of the Rangers slept much —but the blazing fire was some comfort. By midnight, when it was Call’s turn to watch, the sky was cloudless and the stars shone bright.

CALEB COBB AND HIS sour captain, Billy Falconer, enlisted the six Rangers for the expedition against New Mexico immediately. The Rangers simply walked up to the hotel where the enlistments were being handled, and the matter was done.

Billy Falconer was a dark little snipe of a man, with quick eyes, but Caleb Cobb was large; to Call he appeared slow. He stood a good six foot five inches, and had long, flowing blond hair. On the table in front of him, when he cast his lazy gaze over the men who hoped to go with him on the expedition, were two Walker Colt pistols, the latest thing in weaponry. Call would have liked one of the Walkers—at least he would have liked to hold one and heft it, though of course he knew that such fine guns were far beyond his means.

“There’s no wages, this is volunteer soldiering,” Caleb Cobb pointed out at once. “All we furnish is ammunition and grub.”

“When possible, we expect you to rustle your own grub, at that,” Captain Falconer said.

Caleb Cobb had a deep voice—he kept a deck of cards in his hand, and shuffled them endlessly.

“This is a freeman’s army—only we won’t call it an army,” Caleb said.

“I wouldn’t call it an army anyway, if these fellows outside the hotel are specimens of the soldiers,” Bigfoot said.

Caleb Cobb smiled, or half smiled. Billy Falconer’s eyes darted everywhere, whereas Caleb scarcely opened his. He leaned back in a big. chair and watched the proceedings as if half asleep.

“Mainly we’re a trading expedition, Mr. Wallace,” Caleb Cobb said after a moment. “St. Louis has had the Santa Fe business long enough. Some of us down here in the Texas Republic think we ought to go up there and capture a bunch of it for ourselves.”

“That crowd outside is mostly bankers and barbers,” Bigfoot said. “If they want to trade, that’s fine, but what are we going to do for fighting men if the Mexicans decide they don’t like our looks?”

“That ain’t your worry, that’s ours,” Captain Falconer snapped.

“It’s mine if I’m taking my scalp over in that direction,” Bigfoot said.

“Why, we’ll gather up some fighters, here and there,” Caleb said. “Captain Billy Falconer’s such a firebrand I expect he could handle the Mexican army all by himself.”

“If he’s such a scrapper then let him go handle Buffalo Hump,” Bigfoot suggested. “He and his boys cooked two mule skinners yesterday, not thirty miles from this hotel.”

“Why, the ugly rascal,” Falconer said, grabbing one of the Walker Colts. “I’ll get up a party and go after him right now. You boys can come if you’re game.”

“Whoa, now, Billy,” Caleb Cobb said. “You can go chase violent Comanches if you want to, but you ain’t taking one of my new pistols. That humpback man might get the best of you, and then I’d be out a gun.”

“Oh—I thought one of these was mine,” Falconer said. He put the gun back on the table with a sheepish look.

“It ain’t,” Cobb said, sitting up a little straighter. Then he looked at Bigfoot again, and let his sleepy eyes drift over the troop. Call didn’t like the man’s manner—he considered it insolent. But he was conscious that he and Gus were the youngest men in the troop—it was not his place to speak.

“When are we leaving, then?” Bigfoot asked.

“Day after tomorrow, if General Lloyd gets here,” Caleb said. “The roads down Houston way are said to be muddy—they’re generally muddy. I guess the General may be stuck.”

“General Lloyd?” Bigfoot asked, a little surprised. “I scouted for the man a few years back. Why are we taking a general, if this is a trading expedition?”

“It never hurts to have a general in tow, especially if you’re dealing with Mexicans,” Cobb said. “They like to deal with the jefe, in my experience. If they get runctious we can hang a few medals on Phil Lloyd and send him in to parley with the governor of Santa Fe —it might spare us some hostilities.”

“I’d rather avoid hostilities, if we can,” Caleb added, shuffling his cards.

“I’d rather avoid them myself—we’ll be outnumbered fifty to one,” Bigfoot commented. “The reason General Lloyd ain’t here is because he got drunk and got lost. The man was dead drunk the whole time I scouted for him, and he got lost every time he stepped out of his tent to piss. He couldn’t find Mexico if you pointed him south and gave him a year, and what’s more, he can’t ride.”

Caleb Cobb chuckled. “Well, he can ride in a wagon, and if he can’t we’ll tie him in,” he said.

“Our mounts are a little on the feeble side,” Long Bill put in. “What do we do about horses?”

“You look like seasoned men,” Caleb said. “The Republic of Texas will furnish you a horse apiece—Billy, sign them some chits. Half the men in Austin are horse traders—I expect you can find good mounts.”

“What about guns? Mine’s a poor weapon,” Call asked. “I would like to replace it if possible, before we leave.”

“Guns are your lookout,” Captain Falconer snapped. “If you’re Rangers I guess you’re drawing Rangers’ pay. You can buy your own guns.”

“No, I think some new guns would be a sound investment, Billy,” Caleb said. “I expect the Mexicans will welcome us with open arms and probably cook a few goats and lay us out a feast. But folks are unpredictable. If the Mexicans get fractious it would be good if we’re well armed, so we can shoot the damn bastards. Tell the quartermaster to help these gentlemen arm themselves proper.”

“So what’s our route, Colonel?” Bigfoot inquired.

“You’re too full of questions—we ain’t figured out the route,” Falconer snapped. “We ain’t got all day to stand around talking, either.”

Caleb Cobb merely smiled.

Captain Falconer briskly wrote them out some chits for horses— good with any trader in Austin, he claimed—and then marched them over to a man named Brognoli, who was in charge of stores and armaments. Brognoli was in the process of buying livestock when they found him. Twenty beeves had been driven in—they were ambling around the town square, which, at that time, was a maelstrom of activity. A wagon master was hammering together a new wagon, several saddle makers were making repairs on saddles the volunteers had brought in, and a dentist was pulling a man’s tooth right in the middle of it all. The man yowled, but the dentist persisted and brought out a tooth with a long red root.