Gus McCrae, though, was in high spirits. Now that he had survived, he was glad he had gone to the parley. Not only had he threaded his way through the great buffalo herd, he had faced the Comanche killer at close range and ridden away unharmed. Now he was safely back with the big troop. Buffalo Hump could threaten all he wanted to—his lance would have to go hungry. Once Clara Forsythe heard what he had done she would know she had kissed a brave man, a Ranger on whom her affections would not be wasted.

It wouldn’t be long before the news reached her, either—several of the merchants and most of the whores would soon be going back. In a town as small as Austin the news that he had been selected for a dangerous mission would soon reach the young lady in the general store.

There was a crowd around Caleb Cobb when they rode up to report. The big Irish dog was back—it sat panting at Caleb’s feet, its long tongue hanging out. John Kirker was there, sitting on a stump, his big scalping knife at his belt. Shadrach stood to one side, looking disgruntled. He had not liked the order forbidding him to shoot buffalo until they were across the Brazos. When he looked at Caleb Cobb, he glowered his displeasure.

Matilda Roberts stood with him. Lately, the old mountain man and the large whore seemed to have formed an attachment. Often, when Shadrach was out scouting, the two would be seen riding together. At night they sometimes sat together, around a little campfire of their own. No one had heard them exchange a word, and yet they were together, united in their silence. Some of the younger men had become afraid to approach Matilda—they didn’t want to risk stirring the old mountain man’s wrath. He was said to be terrible in his angers, though no one there could actually remember an occasion when Shadrach had lost his temper.

“Well, are we to have guests for supper?” Caleb Cobb asked. “Does the chief prefer to eat with a fork or with a scalping knife?”

“He will come in one hour,” Bes-Das said. “He wants to eat quick. He will leave the camp at sundown. He will bring three wives with him but no braves.”

“Well, that’s rare,” Caleb said. “Does he have any other requests, this chief?”

“Yes,” Bes-Das said. “He wants you to give him a rifle.”.

Caleb chuckled. “A rifle to kill us with,” he said. “I sure hope he likes the cooking, when he tastes it—if he don’t find it tasty he might scalp Sam.”

Black Sam had become Caleb Cobb’s personal cook. The Colonel was so partial to rabbit that Sam had stuffed a cage of fat rabbits into one of the supply wagons. The Colonel didn’t like large game— Sam trapped quail for him, and kept him fed with small, succulent bunnies.

“Well, if he’s coming so soon, the chef will have to hurry,” Caleb said. “Falconer, you like to shoot. Lope down and kill a couple of buffalo calves. Take the liver and sweetmeats and leave the rest. Call and McCrae will escort you—their horses are already used to thebufs.”

Falconer started for the wagon, to get his fine gun, but the Colonel stopped him with an impatient wave.

“You don’t need that damn English gun just to shoot two calves,” he said. “Shoot ‘em with your pistol, or let Corporal Call do it.”

Call was disconcerted, as they rode down to the herd, to see John Kirker following, only a few yards to the rear. Call rode on for a bit and then decided he couldn’t tolerate the man’s presence. He nodded at Gus, and the two of them turned to face the scalp hunter.

“You weren’t told to come,” Call informed Kirker. “I’d prefer it if you’d go back.”

“I don’t work for no army and I won’t be told what to do by no one,” Kirker said. “Caleb Cobb can pretend he’s a colonel if he wants to. He don’t tell me what to do and neither do you, you damn pups.”

“You weren’t told to come,” Call repeated. He was trying to be calm, though he felt his anger rising.

“There’s Indians around buffalo,” Kirker said. “They crawl in with them and shoot from under their bellies. I got business to tend to—I don’t care if that murdering humpback is coming to eat. Get out of my way.”

“Tell him, Captain,” Call said, turning to Falconer, but Falconer ignored the request.

“Last time you rode with us you scalped some Mexicans,” Gus remarked.

Kirker brought the rifle up and looked at them coolly, his thin lip twisted in a kind of sneer.

“I despise young fools,” he said. “If you don’t like my trade have at me and do it now. I might get a scalp before sundown if I’m active.”

Kirker spoke with the same insolence with which he had confronted Bigfoot and Shadrach, back on the Rio Grande.

Gus found the man’s insolence intolerable. To Call’s surprise, he yanked one of the big pistols out of his belt and whacked Kirker right across the forehead with it. The lick made a dull sound—a mule kicking a post made such a sound. Kirker was knocked backward, off his horse. He lay still for a moment, curled on the ground, but his eyes were open.

Call leapt down and took Kirker’s pistol, as the man struggled to his feet. Kirker reached for his big knife, but before he could pull it Call clubbed his arm with his musket—then he clubbed him twice more.

“Whoa, Woodrow,” Gus said, alarmed by the look in Call’s eye and the savage force of his clubbing. He himself had been angry enough to knock Kirker off his horse with a pistol, but the one hard lick satisfied him. The man’s forehead was split open—he was streaming blood. It was enough, at least, to teach him respect. But Woodrow Call had no interest in respect. He was swinging to kill.

“He’s a friend of the Colonel’s—we don’t need to kill him,” Gus said, leaping down, as did black Sam, who had come along to select the cuts. Call swung a third time, at the man’s Adam’s apple—only the fact that Sam grabbed at the barrel and partially broke the force of the swing saved Kirker—even so the man went down again, rolling and clawing at his throat, trying to get air through his windpipe. Gus and Sam together managed to hold Call and keep him from smashing the man’s head with the musket.

Falconer, who didn’t like the scalp hunter either, turned for a moment, to look at the fallen man.

“Disarm him,” he said. “He’s got guns in his boots. If we leave him anything to shoot he’ll try to kill us all, once he gets his wind.”

Call was remembering the filthy, fly-bitten scalps, hanging from the man’s saddle; he also remembered Bigfoot’s contention that some of them were the scalps of Mexican children.

“Don’t be beating nobody to death—not here,” Sam said. “Colonel Cobb, he’ll hang you. He hangs folks all the time.”

With difficulty, Call made himself mount and ride on to the herd. When they left, Kirker was on his knees, spitting blood.

“You yanked that pistol quick,” Falconer said, to Gus. “I think I’ll make you my corporal. You could make a fine pistolero.”

“Thank you, the fellow was rude,” Gus said. “Do you think the Colonel will let me be a corporal?”

Though he didn’t much like Falconer, the man’s words filled him with relief. He felt he had caught up with Call again, in terms of rank. He also felt that he was staunch again, and could fight when a fight was required. The weak feeling that had troubled him since his first glimpse of Buffalo Hump wasn’t there anymore—or at least, not there steadily. He might die, but at least he could fight first, and not simply pass his days shaking at the expectation of slaughter.

They rode on to the herd, quickly shot two fat calves, and took their livers and sweetmeats, as instructed. Sam was deft at the cutting. He had brought a sack to put the meat on, and knotted it deftly once he was finished.

“I’ll kill some big meat tomorrow,” Falconer said, as they rode back toward camp. “Once we get across the river the Colonel won’t mind.”

“These buffalo be gone tomorrow,” Sam said.

“Gone—what do you mean—there’s thousands of them,” Falconer said, in surprise.