“There’s too many of them, Shad,” Bigfoot concluded. “They had a party waiting, I expect.”

Call tried to get a sense of how many Indians they faced by counting the shots—but he knew the method wasn’t accurate. After all, the Indians were hidden. They could move around at will, shooting from one part of the woods and then another.

When the Rangers counted heads they discovered that they were down to eleven men, four less than they had started across the river with. Rip was dead, and so was the man named Bert—the whereabouts of the other two could not be ascertained.

“Probably drowned—I nearly did,” Long Bill said.

“No, probably deserted,” Shadrach said. “One is that fellow from Cincinnati. I don’t think he had much stomach.”

All that could be remembered about the other missing man was that he had ridden a roan horse. No roan horses were visible among the horses, though Long Bill’s horse and two others were also unaccounted for.

Call supposed the Comanches would charge any minute. He kept his gun as dry as he could and got ready to shoot accurately, when the charge came. Once again he found himself questioning the competence of the Rangers—here they were, huddled behind a few trees, four men and three horses short of what they had started out with, facing a Comanche force that had so far been invisible, commanding the woods above them. Behind them was the churning, flooding Brazos River. Their retreat would be watery, if they had to make one. Only those whose horses were good swimmers would have much of a chance.

But the day passed with no charge. From time to time the skies cleared and the sun shone; then clouds would pour over the western hills, and squalls would wet them once again, just when they had begun to hope of being dry. Shadrach and Bigfoot had long since decided that a retreat back across the river was their best chance— Shadrach thought there might be as many as thirty warriors opposing them, more than they could reasonably hope to whip.

A retreat in daylight, though, would be suicidal. The minute the Comanches saw them turn into the river, they would swarm down the shore like hornets and pick them off.

“We’ll wait,” Bigfoot said. “That’s the hard part of Indian fighting. Waiting. You never know what those red boys are doing. They may be up there cooking a coon or a possum, or they may be sneaking up. Try not to let your eyes get tired. It’s when your eyes get tired that your scalp’s in the worst danger.”

Call didn’t know how you were supposed to avoid the danger of tired eyes, when the Comanches were so clever at hiding. Who would think to look for an Indian boy between the legs of a floating mule?

The day passed very slowly. Though several Rangers speculated that the river would soon begin to fall, it didn’t. Clouds continued to roll through—Call thought the muddy flood looked higher, not lower. He was dreading the crossing—it had been bad in daylight, and would be even worse in darkness. He was not the only one worrying, either. Long Bill, despite his successful swim that morning, was once again doubtful that he could survive in the water if he had to navigate more than ten yards.

While the dusk gathered and the tops of the hills darkened, the Rangers debated whether it was better to hold the horse’s mane or the horse’s tail, the saddle strings, a stirrup, or even a saddle horn. Call didn’t enter the debate—his concern was to keep his musket in firing order—but he thought that if he clung to a stirrup he might be better able to keep his gun across the saddle, where it ought to stay fairly dry…

In the midst of the talk, with Shadrach and Bigfoot squatting at the edge of the driftwood, watching the woods, a man standing just beside Call—he was one of the new men—suddenly jerked, lurched forward, and fell facedown in the water, an arrow right between his shoulders. Call brought his gun up and whirled to face the darkening water. He saw a floating log, and just above it, for a second, the curve of a great wet hump; it might have been a huge fish diving, but Call knew it was Buffalo Hump behind the log. He fired immediately, and a chip of wood flew off the log; then several of the Rangers fired, but to no avail. The current swept the log downstream into the deep dusk, and there was no more sign of the Comanche chief.

Longen, the man who had fallen, was not yet dead—he was jerking and flapping in the water, like a fish that had been speared but not killed.

Bigfoot, annoyed to have been slipped up on so easily, waded several steps into the river, as if he meant to swim after the log and engage the Comanche, but Shadrach yelled at him to come back. “Come back here,” he said. “Don’t be trying no ignorant fighting.

Bigfoot hesitated a minute—he wanted to go—but the floating log was barely visible, in the dusk. If he tried to swim for it, Buffalo Hump might slip into the shallows and fill him with arrows while he swam. He knew it was folly to try it, but his fighting blood was up— it was all he could do to check himself; but he did check himself. Crouching low, he waded back to the little group of Rangers by the stand of driftwood.

“Dern, I hate to let him come at us like that,” he said. “The goddamn devil! He took Josh and took Zeke and now he’s taken this tall fellow here.”

All the Rangers stood around uneasily as the tall man named Longen continued to jerk and flop. They pulled him up on the muddy, darkening shore, but no one had any remedy for the fact that the man had an arrow lodged in his backbone. He flopped and jerked, but made no sound at all. Shadrach made one attempt to pull the arrow out, but couldn’t budge it.

“I guess we could tie him on a horse,” Bigfoot speculated. “Maybe if we can get him across the river he’ll live till we can get him to a doc.”

“No, let him die,” Shadrach said. “His lights are nearly out.”

A moment later the man named Longen—no one could remember his first name—ceased to flop. Shadrach felt his neck, and pronounced him dead.

“Get his possibles, boys,” Shadrach said, addressing Call.

Call had no idea what the old mountain man was talking about. What were possibles?

“He means empty his pockets—take his gun and his ammunition,” Bigfoot informed him. “Don’t leave a thing on him that might help the red boys. They don’t need no help—they got five of us with no assistance, it looks like.”

The last light faded soon after that. Now and again the clouds would break, bringing a glimpse of faint stars, or a thin moon. Call got every item of use off the dead man: his guns, his bullets, tobacco, a knife, a few coins. The knife was a good one—Call meant to keep it for Gus, who had no knife, and had long envied him the one old Jesus had made him.

“It’s dark enough—I expect it’s time to swim,” Bigfoot said.

“Dern it, I hope there ain’t no red boys out there, floating around on logs or dead mules,” Long Bill said. “My eyesight’s poorly, in this kind of weather.”

Call wedged Longen’s gun beneath his girth, and led the little bay back into the river. The horse had more confidence crossing back. He took the water easily and swam well. Bigfoot and Shadrach were ahead. Jimmy Tweed, true to his convictions, refused to leave the saddle. Long Bill and Blackie Slidell were right behind Call. Blackie Slidell’s horse proved to be a frantic swimmer. He swam past Call, so close that Call’s bay was pushed off course and floundered for a moment. Call was irritated, but it was so dark he couldn’t even see Blackie. When he opened his mouth to say something he got water in it and nearly choked. He tried to keep an eye out for floating logs or floating mules, but it was so dark he couldn’t see upriver at all. He concentrated on keeping his musket securely across his saddle. When his feet finally touched bottom and he and the little bay struggled out of the water, a lucky feeling came over him. The river hadn’t killed him, and neither had the Comanches. He was tired, and supposed they would be stopping, but he was wrong. Shadrach and Bigfoot led them through the hills all night, toward the big encampment on Bushy Creek.