For a moment it seemed that Buffalo Hump was simply going to eat his food standing up, ignoring Caleb Cobb. Caleb himself was worried—with all his men watching, it would only do to let himself be insulted up to a point. But after he had sniffed the dishes, Buffalo Hump gestured again to the young women, who took two more bowls and filled them; these they brought to Caleb.

Buffalo Hump looked at Caleb for the first time, lifting the bowls. Then he took a place on the robe and handed the bowls to his young wives, who then began to take turns feeding him with their fingers.

“If I could find a woman to hand-feed me sweetbreads, I expect I’d get married too,” Caleb said. “Tell that to the rascal.”

At the word “rascal,” Buffalo Hump lifted his head slightly. It occurred to Caleb too late that perhaps the Comanche had picked up a few words of English—after all, he had taken many captives who spoke it.

Bes-Das spoke at length, in Comanche, but if his words made any impression on the chief, Buffalo Hump didn’t show it. His young wives continued to feed him buffalo liver and sweetbread stew. The camp had become completely silent. The men who had been cursing Buffalo Hump merely stood looking at him. Several who had proposed to risk hanging by attempting to kill him offered no threat. Call and Gus stood stock-still, watching, while Buffalo Hump ate. Caleb Cobb took a bite or two of liver himself, but seemed to have lost his usual vigorous appetite.

Buffalo Hump paid little attention to the company, at least until he noticed Matilda Roberts, standing with Shadrach. Once he noticed, he gave Matilda a long look; then he turned to Bes-Das and spoke what seemed like a long speech. Bes-Das glanced at Matilda and shook his head, but Buffalo Hump repeated what he had said.

“Taken a fancy to Matty, has he?” Caleb asked.

“Yes, he wants her for a wife,” Bes-Das said. “He has seen her before. He calls her Turtle Catching Woman.”

“First he wants a rifle and now he wants a wife,” Caleb said. “What is it they call Shadrach, in Comanche?”

“They call him Tail-Of-The-Bear,” Bes-Das said.

“Tell the great chief that Matilda is the wife of Tail-Of-The-Bear,” Caleb said. “She ain’t available for marriage unless she gets divorced.”

Bes-Das spoke to Buffalo Hump, who seemed amused by what was said. He replied at length, in a tone of derision; the reply made Bes-Das rather uncomfortable, Call thought.

“Well, what’s the report?” Caleb asked, impatiently.

“He says Tail-Of-The-Bear is too old for such a large woman,” Bes-Das said. “He says he will give him a young horse, in exchange.”

Neither Matilda nor Shadrach moved, or changed expression.

“Tell him we can’t accept—it is not our custom to trade people for horses,” Caleb said. “Falconer, go get your fancy rifle.”

Captain Falconer was startled.

“What for?” he asked.

Ignoring this exchange, Buffalo Hump suddenly spoke again. This time he spoke at more length, looking at Shadrach as he talked. When he stopped he reached for the pot that had the sweetbread stew in it, and drained it.

“What was that last?” Caleb said. “It had a hostile kind of sound.”

“He says he will take the scalp of Tail-Of-The-Bear if he crosses the Canadian River,” Bes-Das said. “Then he will take the woman and keep the horse.”

“Go get the rifle, Billy—supper’s about over,” Caleb said, though in a mild tone.

“Why, it’s my rifle?” Captain Falconer said.

“Go get it, Billy—we need a good present and it’s the only gun in camp fine enough to offer the chief,” Caleb said. “Hurry. I’ll buy you one just as good as soon as we get to Santa Fe.”

Captain Falconer balked. The Holland and Holland sporting rifle was the finest thing he owned. He had ordered it special, from London, and had waited two years for it to come. The case he kept it in was made of cherry wood. One of his reasons for signing on with the expedition was an eagerness to try his rifle on the game of the prairies—buffalo, elk, antelope, maybe even a grizzly bear. The rifle had cost him six months’ wages—he intended to treasure it throughout his life. The thought of having to hand it over to a murdering savage with yellow paint on his face was more than he could tolerate, and he said so.

“I won’t give it up,” he said bluntly. “Give the man a musket. It’s more than he deserves.”

“I’ll decide what he deserves, Captain,” Caleb Cobb said. He had been sitting, but he rose; when he did, Buffalo Hump rose, too.

“I won’t do it, Colonel—I’ll resign first,” Captain Falconer said.

In a motion no one saw clearly, Caleb Cobb drew his pistol and fired point-blank at Captain Falconer. The bullet took him in the forehead, directly above his nose.

“You’re resigned, Captain,” Caleb said. He walked over to the baggage wagon containing the officer’s baggage and came back with the cherry wood case containing the dead man’s Holland and Holland rifle. The body of Billy Falconer lay not two feet from the edge of Buffalo Hump’s robe. Neither the war chief nor his women gave any sign that they had noticed the killing.

Caleb Cobb opened the gun case and handed it to Buffalo Hump. The rifle was disassembled, its barrel in one velvet groove, the stock and trigger in another. Caleb set the case down, lifted the two parts out, and quickly fitted them together. Then he handed the gun to Buffalo Hump, who hefted it once and then, without another word, took the rifle and walked over to his horse. He mounted and gestured to his wives to bring the blanket and the cherry wood case. He didn’t thank Caleb, but he looked once more at Matilda, and bent a moment, to speak to Shadrach.

“If I don’t take yours first,” Shadrach said, quietly.

Then Buffalo Hump rode off, followed by his wives. The sun was just setting.

The strange silence that had seized the troop continued, even though the Comanches were soon well out of hearing.

Captain Falconer’s wound scarcely bled—only a thin line of blood curled down his ear.

“Bury this skunk, I won’t have mutiny,” Caleb said. He glanced at the troop, to see if anyone was disposed to challenge his action. The men all stood around like statues, all except Sam. He was expected to do the burying, as well as the cooking. He picked up a spade.

“You can have that pacing black—I intend to make you a scout,” Caleb said, to Call.

“Sir, Captain Falconer made me a corporal,” Gus McCrae said. He knew it was bold to speak, so soon after a captain of the Rangers had been executed for mutiny, but the fact was, he had been awarded the rank and he meant to have it. He had been made a corporal legally, he believed, and he wanted Clara Forsythe to know that Woodrow Call was not the only one to earn a quick promotion.

Caleb Cobb was a little surprised, but more amused. The young Tennessee boy had gumption, at least, to insist on his promotion at such a time.

“Well, let’s have your report—what did you do to earn this honor?” Caleb asked.

“I whacked John Kirker on the head with my pistol,” Gus said. “He followed us when he wasn’t told to, and he wouldn’t go back when we asked.”

“You whacked Johnny?” Caleb asked, in surprise. “How hard did you whack him?”

“He knocked him off his horse and split his forehead open,” Bigfoot said. “I seen it. Kirker was mean spoken—I had a notion to whack him myself.”

“Scalp hunters are apt to be a little short on manners,” Caleb said. “John Kirker’s the sort of fellow who will kill you for picking your teeth, if you happen to do it at a time when he ain’t in the mood to see no teeth picked. If you laid him out, then Falconer was wrong just to make you a corporal—he ought to have made you a general.”

He paused, and smiled.

“However, since I didn’t witness the action and don’t know all the circumstances, I’ll just let the rank of corporal stand. What became of Kirker after you whacked him?”