“Sorry, I ain’t heard the name,” Captain Falconer said. Though watchful of the Indians, he was more interested in the buffalo, a species of game he had never killed, though hunting was his passion. Now as many as a million animals were right in front of him, but the Colonel had ordered him to hold off until they crossed the river. In his baggage he had a fine sporting rifle, made by Holland and Holland in London—it was all he could do to keep from racing back to his baggage wagon to get it.

“Buffalo Hump is the killer, Kicking Wolf is the thief,” the Colonel said. “He’s the best horse thief on the plains. He’ll have every horse and mule we’ve got before we cross the Red River, unless we watch close.” He paused and extracted a cigar from his shirt pocket, as he studied the situation.

“If I had to choose who I’d have to harass me I might pick Buffalo Hump,” the Colonel said. “If I couldn’t whip him, he’d just kill me. It might be bloody, but it would be final. If I went up against Kicking Wolf, the first time I took a nap I’d be afoot.

“There’s places off north of here where I’d rather be dead than be afoot,” he added. “Ever drunk horse piss?”

He looked at Call and Gus, when he asked the question.

“No sir,” Gus said. “I never have and I don’t plan to, either.”

“I drunk it once—I was traveling with Zeb Pike,” the Colonel said. “We kept a horse alive just so we could drink its piss. I was so goddamn thirsty it tasted like peach nectar. When we finally came to water we ate the horse.”

To Call’s embarrassment his horse stretched itself and began to piss, just as the Colonel spoke. The yellow stream that splashed on the ground didn’t smell much like peach nectar, though.

“What will we do about our red neighbors, Billy?” Caleb asked. “Here we are and there they are, with a lot of goddamn buffalo in between.”

“Why sir, I expect they’ll leave,” Falconer said. “I can pursue them, if you prefer.”

“No, I don’t want you to pursue them,” the Colonel said. “My thinking was different. It’s almost time to make camp and prepare the grub. Maybe we ought to trot over and invite them to dinner.”

“Sir?” Captain Falconer said, not sure that he had heard the Colonel correctly.

“Invite them to dinner—I’d enjoy it,” the Colonel said. “A little parley might not hurt.”

“Well, but who would ask them?” Captain Falconer asked.

“How about Corporal Call and his companero?” the Colonel said. “It would give the Corporal a chance to live up to his promotion. Just tear up a sheet and wrap it around a rifle barrel. Comanches respect the white flag, I guess. Send Bes-Das with them, to make the introductions. I expect they know Bes-Das.”

Gus felt his legs begin to quiver, as they had that day near the western mountains, when he stood near the patch of ground soaked with Josh Corn’s blood. The Colonel had looked right at him, when he gave the duty of Call and his companero.Captain Falconer had gone back to the wagons to find a sheet. The Indians were still sitting on the opposite hill. The long ridge where the Rangers sat soon filled up with men—the whole expedition arranged itself along the ridge to watch the great spectacle below. There was no end to the column of buffalo, either north or south. They moved toward the river and curled out of it like the body of a great snake whose head and tail were hidden. Among the crowd of Rangers, merchants, blacksmiths, whores, and adventurers Call suddenly noticed John Kirker, the scalp hunter who had left them on the Rio Grande. His large colleague, Glanton, was not with him. Kirker had a rifle across the cantle of his saddle—while everyone else watched the buffalo, he watched the Indians.

“You mean we’re supposed to just ride over and talk to them?” Gus asked. It was a shock to him to realize that he had been ordered to approach the Comanches. He felt that he had been foolish to hop out of the sick wagon so soon. He should have nursed his sore ankle another week at least, but some of the Rangers had been chiding him for malingering and he had started traveling horseback sooner than he should have.

“That’s what Colonel Cobb said,” Call answered. “I don’t know how we’re going to get through them buffalo, though. They’re thick.”

“I don’t want to go through them,” Gus said. “I don’t want to go. Buffalo Hump stuck a lance in me once, he might poke it clear through me this time.”

“No, we’ll be under a flag of truce,” Call reminded him. “He won’t bother you.”

“He ain’t holding up no white sheet,” Gus said. “Why would a white sheet matter to a Comanche?”

“If you’re scared you should just go on back and marry that girl,” Call said. “Unpack dry goods all your life. I aim to stay with rangering and be a captain myself, someday.”

“I aim to be a captain too, unless it means drinking horse piss,” Gus said. “I don’t intend to get caught in no place so dry that I’d need to drink horse piss.”

“Well, you might—the Colonel did,” Call said. “That damn Kirker is here—did you notice?”

“He slipped in while you were off on the chase,” Gus said. “I understand he’s a friend of Colonel Cobb.”

“I deplore traveling with a man who hunts scalps,” Call said. “I don’t know why the Colonel would be his pard.”

“Comanche Indians hunt scalps,” Gus pointed out.

“No, they take them in war,” Call said. “Kirker hunts them for money. I think Bes-Das is ready. Let’s go.”

WATCHED BY THE WHOLE expedition, Call and Gus followed Bes-Das down the ridge toward the buffalo herd. Bigfoot came behind. No one had ordered Bigfoot to come, or not to come—he joined the parley because he wanted a closer look at the Comanches than he had been able to get during the rainy day on the Brazos. Bes-Das held his rifle high, the white sheet fluttering in the wind.

Across the valley, the eight Comanches waited. They had become as still as statues. The only movement was the fluttering of the three scalps on Buffalo Hump’s lance.

As the four horses approached the great moving mass of buffalo, they began, to show some anxiety. Their nostrils flared and they tried to turn back—it was with difficulty that Call kept his little bay in check. Gus was having trouble too, made worse by the fact of his sore ankle. Bes-Das, the broken-toothed Pawnee, whacked his mount with a rifle twice and the horse settled down. Bigfoot kept a tight rein on his grey mount—the smell of the thousands of animals affected men and horses alike; the dust they raised was as thick as any sandstorm.

“We’ll never get through them—they’re too thick,” Gus said. “They’ll trample us for sure.”

“Go quick,” Bes-Das said, turning his horse parallel to the herd. “Go with the buffalo.”

As Call and Gus kept close, the Pawnee slipped into the buffalo herd, moving in only a few feet and letting the horse turn in the same direction as the herd was going. Moving steadily over, giving ground and turning toward the river if there was no room between animals, Bes-Das was soon halfway across the herd.

“That’s the way, just keep a strong rein and ease on through,” Bigfoot said. Soon he was in the thick of the herd—Bes-Das was almost to the other side.

“Go on, you’re next,” Call said to Gus.

“I ain’t next, you go,” Gus said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Nope,” Call said. “I’m the corporal and I’m telling you to go. If I leave you behind you might claim your ankle’s hurt and get shot for desertion.”

“Why, hell … you don’t trust your own partner,” Gus said, so irritated that he immediately kicked his horse and slipped into the buffalo. In fact he had thought of finding an excuse to wait; he didn’t want to ride into the herd, and even more, he didn’t want to ride up to Buffalo Hump’s war party. But he was not going to let Woodrow Call slight his courage, either. He had always supposed he had as much guts as the next man; but his nerves had been somewhat affected by the bloody events of the first march, and were still not under perfect control. He felt sure, though, that he could match Woodrow Call ability for ability, and beat him at most contests. He could see farther, for one thing, though being in the middle of a buffalo herd didn’t give him much opportunity to test his vision. All he could see was the brown animals all around him. None of them seemed too interested in him or his horse, and he soon found that he could use the Bes-Das technique as well as Bigfoot or the Pawnee scout. Once he let his horse step too close to the horns of a young bull, but the horse turned just in time. In ten minutes he was almost across the herd—Bes-Das and Bigfoot were there waiting. He didn’t know where Woodrow Call was—slipping through the buffalo required all his attention. He was only twenty yards from being free of the herd when suddenly buffalo all around him began to swerve and jump. Gus’s horse jumped too, almost unseating him. All the buffalo on the far side of the herd were lowering their heads and acting as if they wanted to butt. Gus was thrown over the saddle horn, onto the horse’s neck, but just managed to hang on and regain his seat. He saw Bes-Das and Bigfoot laughing and felt rather annoyed—what was so funny about his nearly getting thrown and trampled?