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wilderness.”
    “Our quarry prefers the backcountry,” McAllen said.
    “Indians don’t like to be penned like horses,” Red muttered to himself. This comment caught me by surprise. The sentence could almost have counted as a soliloquy for Red.
    McAllen made a guttural noise to pull our attention back to him. “This morning I had Red send a few telegrams to get the story about a Ute uprising that happened up north last week. The White River Utes attacked an army troop. Killed plenty. Then it appears that yesterday they wiped out the Indian Agency on the reservation, murdering a man named Meeker and seven of his staff. More to the point, they stole Meeker’s daughter—a sixteen-year-old girl—and her two children.”
    “How far away?” Sharp asked, suddenly interested.
    “Over two hundred miles as the crow flies. Further around the mountains.”
    “Doesn’t sound like our renegades,” Sharp said.
    “Nope. Hard five-, six-day ride away.” McAllen kicked at the dirt a few times. “This is a separate band, but Meeker’s the one that got the Utes riled.” McAllen kicked again. “Forget what happened up north. We gotta track this band.”
    “Problem is those other posses messed the trail.” Sharp looked at Red but got no response. He turned back to McAllen. “Lot of territory.”
    “We’ll find ’em.” McAllen’s tone was flat, not confident.
    I didn’t want to think about if or when we did. Four against six or seven didn’t sound promising. And how were we supposed to rescue the girl without endangering her?
    “What riled the Utes up north?” I asked to get my mind off the coming fight.
    “Meeker tried to turn them into Christian farmers,” Red said, with a note of distaste.
    Red didn’t say which part of that sentence offended the Utes more. The only Indians I had encountered lived in towns, and they seemed like despondent castaways. I assumed that when in their own element, Indians were of a different character. Savages? They certainly fought savagely, but my experience in the café the other morning had not been particularly civilized. Sharp once said that Indians had the same faults as us. Without firsthand knowledge, I’d take him at his word. I was learning about a part of the West I had not yet considered. My journal had concentrated on the rough-hewn towns, and I had completely ignored the original inhabitants of this vast country. I suddenly realized I could collect valuable material for my book on this trip. For the first time, I grew somewhat excited about our venture.
    “D’ya think the two snatches are connected?” Sharp’s question snapped me back from my musing.
    “Red doesn’t think so,” McAllen said.
    “Why not?” I blurted out before thinking.
    “Indians don’t have telegraphs.” Red said these words in a matter-of-fact manner, but I still felt like I had again exposed my frontier ignorance.
    “Rebellions don’t start overnight,” McAllen explained. “These angry braves probably jumped the reservation earlier.” Another kick at the dirt. “I sure hope to hell those boys don’t hear ’bout this uprising.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “Because they’d kill the girl so they could race back to the reservation to help their brothers,” Red said. “We need to find them before they learn that the Utes up north need their help.”
    Reminded about our grim purpose, my newly found excitement for our odyssey dimmed. I might learn more than I wanted about the savagery of small-group warfare in remote environs where white men were newcomers.
    “Turn in. I want to start at first light,” McAllen ordered.
    “Do ya have a plan?” Sharp asked.
    “A shaky one. The other posses probably drove the Utes deep into the mountains. Winter’s coming, so I think they’ll avoid the high country to the north.” McAllen kicked the dirt again. I realized that the calmest man I had ever met was nervous. “After we pass through this valley, we’ll head southwest. Red’ll pick