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shaken. They collected their wounded and turned away. Pinto made no move to stop them.
    From the far bank of the river the tall chief hurled a torrent of abuse at Pinto Lowery. He pointed first to his chest and then to his back as if to tempt a shot. Finally the Indians bared themselves in contempt and screamed taunts.
    â€œGo ’head and yell yer heart out, Comanch!” Pinto yelled back. “I done my speakin’,” he added, waving the Colt.
    As the Comanches slowly abandoned their hold on the river and retreated north, Pinto reloaded his pistol and began working on the jammed rifle. The third scout, the unhurt one, rode into the river and stood naked atop his pony, inviting a bullet to match those received by his companions. Here was the youngest of all, Pinto knew, sent back for help perhaps by an elder cousin or brother.
    â€œAin’t there been enough hurt?” Pinto whispered to the wind. “Ain’t a thousand dead buffs put their bones to dis place already?”
    As if he heard the words, the young Comanche covered himself and slid back down onto the back of his horse. Riding away he sadly sang a warrior song.
    Be dead inside a year , Pinto thought as he fought to erase the faces of the men he’d shot. Starved or bluecoat shot, the bunch o’ them!
    But George Lowery wouldn’t be the one to have done it.
    Pinto collected his wits and then gathered his horses. He was still ten miles from the Lazy T, and dusk was settling over the Llano.

Chapter 4
    Pinto camped that night on a hillside overlooking the river. He could detect the small yellow-orange flames of campfires in the distance. Those would be roundup crews busy branding the yearlings and collecting a herd for the long trail north to Kansas. The dimmer pinpricks marked the windows of Bob Toney’s ranchhouse. The place would be near deserted now, of course. Toney would have his best men on the range. That’s where the work was to be found. Only the younger of his boys would remain at home with their mother.
    From time to time the faint echoes of a cowboy ballad haunted the wind. Cowboys worked hard at roundup, and they ate more dust than beef or beans. Some had the poor luck to get themselves gored or trampled by one cantankerous longhorn or another. Others collapsed from the heat or went mad from the plagues of mosquitoes and horseflies that were never far from that army of hooves and tallow.
    â€œYup, was hard work,” Pinto reminded himself. But as he hummed along with the eerie melodies, he recalled the odd sense of belonging that came with shared dangers, with putting your all into a task that needed doing. There were pranks, too—vexations the youngsters put upon their elders and double that many the veterans heaped upon the newcomers.
    Pinto laughed as he recalled how young Jake Toney had convinced Abel Perkins tarantulas favored red flannel as nesting places. Poor Abel awoke one morning, hollering to high heaven as he jumped around shedding his long handles. Finally there stood Abel, stark naked, staring with relief at the twist of horse hair Jake had managed to slip beneath his drawers.
    â€œSome spider, eh?” Jake called.
    â€œLord, boy, you did yourself a dance!” Bob added. “Lucky not to’ve caused your innards any harm!”
    Pinto himself never much went in for pranking, but he had to admit that horse-hair spider trick brought the whole outfit to life. And he missed the tale-swapping and singing come nightfall that shook off the wearies left by trailing cattle.
    â€œGot my own share o’ dem wearies,” Pinto muttered as he turned over on one side and closed his eyes. “Workin’ cows up to Kansas wouldn’t be so bad maybe.”
    No, and the wages earned at trail’s end would merit the effort. Going north with Bob Toney flooded Pinto’s mind with possibilities. Old Bob had been at Sharpsburg the day that minie ball tried to take off Pinto’s