He spurred through the last few animals and turned to see what had caused the commotion—all he could see was a large badger, snapping at a buffalo cow. The badger was so angry he had foam on his mouth—the buffalo were giving ground, too. Woodrow Call’s horse was pitching with him, agitated by the snorting buffalo cow that was faced off with the badger. Woodrow hung on and made it through.

“Why would anything as big as a buffalo shy at a badger?” Gus asked, when he rode up to Bigfoot. “A buffalo could kick a badger halfway to China.”

“That badger bluffed ‘em,” Bigfoot said. “He’s so mad he’s got ‘em convinced he’s as big as they are, and twice as mean.”

“I wonder if they’re mad?” Call said, looking at the Comanches, who sat without moving on the hill above them.

“If they are we’d be easy pickings,” Bigfoot said. “We’d never get back through them buffalo quick enough to get away, and the troop couldn’t get through quick enough to save us, either.”

Call looked up at the Indians and back across the valley, at the body of the expedition. He wished Bigfoot had not made the last comment. The buffalo herd they had just slipped through was like a moving wall, separating them from the safety of the troop. All the Cornanches would have to do would be to trot down the hill and kill them with lances or arrows. The thought made him feel wavy, and without strength.

Neither Bigfoot nor Bes-Das seemed concerned, though. They walked their horses slowly toward the hill, Bes-Das holding up the rifle with the white sheet on it. Call and Gus fell in behind.

“What if they don’t pay no attention to the sheet?” Call asked. He wanted to know what the procedure would be, if they had to fight.“If they come for us put as many bullets into the big one as you can,” Bigfoot said. “Always kill the biggest bull first—then kill the littlest.”

“Why the littlest?” Gus asked.

“Because the littlest is apt to be the meanest, like the badger,” Bigfoot said. “That one standing off to the right is Kicking Wolf— he’s the littlest and the meanest. You don’t want to let your horse graze off nowhere, with Kicking Wolf around. He’s so slick he can steal a horse with a man sitting on it.”

“He’s stumpy, ain’t he?” Gus said.

“Kicking Wolf always rides to the outside,” Bigfoot said. “Buffalo Hump is the hammer, but Kicking Wolf is the nail. He don’t like to be in a crowd. He’s the best shot with a rifle in the whole Comanche nation. If they go out and they’ve only got one rifle between them, they give it to him. Buffalo Hump’s old-fashioned. He still prefers the bow.”

With the Pawnee scout, Bes-Das, slightly in the lead, the party moved slowly up the hill toward the waiting Indians. Call glanced at the short, stumpy Indian on the right edge of the group and saw that he was the only Indian armed with a rifle. All the rest carried bows or lances. When they were halfway up the hill Buffalo Hump touched his mount with his heels and came down to meet them. When he was still some fifty yards away Call looked at Gus, to see if he was firm. To his surprise Gus looked nonchalant, as if he were merely riding out for a little sport with his pals.

“Here he comes, I hope he’s friendly,” Gus said. “I never expected to have to go and palaver with him, not after he stuck me with that lance.”

“Shut up—Bes-Das will do the palavering,” Bigfoot instructed. “You young boys keep your damn traps shut. It don’t take much to rub a Comanche the wrong way.”

As Buffalo Hump approached, holding his spotted pony to a slow walk, Call felt the air change. The Comanche’s body shone with grease; a necklace made of claws hung on his bare chest. Call looked at Gus, to see if he felt the change, and Gus nodded. They had entered the air of the wild men—even the smell of the Indian horses was different.

Bes-Das stopped, waiting. Buffalo Hump came on until the nose of his spotted pony was only a few feet from the nose of the Paw-nee’s black mare. Then Buffalo Hump lifted his lance and pointed first at Gus, and then at Call. Though he sat erect on his horse, the great hump was visible, rising from between his shoulders behind his neck. When he spoke his voice was so wild and angry that it was all Call could do to keep from grabbing his gun. Call met the man’s eyes for a moment—the Comanche’s eyes were like stone. Buffalo Hump lowered his lance, glanced at Bigfoot dismissively for a second, and then waited for Bes-Das to speak. Bigfoot seemed not to interest him. Bigfoot returned the favor by looking pointedly up the hill, at Kicking Wolf.

Bes-Das spoke briefly, in Comanche. Buffalo Hump raised his arm and the other Comanches trotted down the hill, to join him. He turned and spoke to his warriors for several minutes. Kicking Wolf grunted something and rode away, back to his position at the side.

“I hope he ain’t getting ready to shoot,” Gus said.

“I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut,” Bigfoot said. “We’ll get out of this with our hair if you’ll just keep quiet.”

Bes-Das listened to Buffalo Hump, who made a long speech in his thick, angry voice. Call decided then that he would do what he could to learn the Comanche language. It seemed foolish to parley with wild red men if you did not know what was being said in the discussion. He could be talking of ways to kill them, for all he knew.

When Buffalo Hump finished, Bes-Das said a few words and immediately turned his horse and began to walk him back toward the buffalo herd. Bigfoot waited a moment, as if absent-mindedly, and then turned his horse, too. Call and Gus fell in behind. Call felt so much danger in the air that it took all his self-control not to look back. A lance like the one that had pierced Gus’s hip could be singing toward them. He glanced at Gus and saw that his friend seemed perfectly firm—something had happened to toughen his attitude since they left the camp and slipped through the buffalo herd.

The recrossing of the herd went quickly—they had learned the edging technique on the first crossing and were soon almost through. Once the buffalo herd was between them and the Indians, Call felt free to look back. The air had changed again—they were in the air of safety, not the air where the quick death was.“I guess you grew your backbone again,” Call said, noting that Gus looked so cheerful that he was almost whistling.

“Yes, I ain’t scared of him now,” Gus said. “Clara wouldn’t want no coward. I kept my mind on her. We’ll be married once we get back to Austin.”

Indeed, he felt cheered by the encounter. He had looked Buffalo Hump in the eye and lived—it made him feel lucky again. He was curious, though, about one aspect of the parley.

“I wonder why he pointed that lance at us, when he first rode up?” Gus asked.

Bes-Das turned briefly, and laughed his broken-toothed laugh.

“He said you both belong to him,” he told them. “He says he will take you when he is ready—but not today. He is coming to eat supper with the Colonel, and he will bring his wives.”

“Why do we belong to him and not you and Bigfoot?” Gus asked.

“You cheated his lance,” Bes-Das told him. “He says his lance is hungry for your liver.”

“It can just stay hungry,” Gus said boldly, though the threat did make his stomach feel wavy for a moment.

“Why me, then?” Call asked. “I didn’t cheat his damn lance.”

Bes-Das laughed again.

“No, with you it’s different,” he said, smiling at Call.

“Why would it be different?” Call asked, wishing he could have understood the Indian’s talk.

“Different because you killed his son,” the Pawnee said.

CALL WAS MORE SOBERED than Gus by the news Bes-Das had delivered. He had killed the war chief’s son. Buffalo Hump might forget that he had missed Gus with his lance, but he would not forget the loss of a son. As long as the humpbacked Comanche was alive, Call knew he would have an enemy. Anytime he traveled in Comanche country, his life would depend on keeping alert. , He was silent as they rode back to camp, thinking of all the years of vigilance ahead.