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of land I knew well. I could turn the horse into the woods, but I doubted I would make it and my brother had no chance alone. Farther up the white hillside, I caught sight of the mustang pack I had intended to rope and break. They stood watching as we passed.
     
    T WO HOURS LATER we changed horses. My legs and backside were already raw and I’d been whipped by branches across the face and chest and arms. My brother was cut even worse; his entire body was caked with blood and dirt. We remounted and took up the same hard tempo. Later we came on a river that had to be the Llano. It didn’t seem possible we’d made it that far.
    “Is this what I think?” said my brother.
    I nodded.
    We waited for the horses to cross in the dark.
    “We are fucked,” he said. “This is a whole day’s ride.”
    Sometime later we hit another river, probably the Colorado, after which we stopped to change horses again. I could smell that my brother had shat himself. When they stood me on the ground I squatted with my hands tied in front of me and the water dripping off and the horses pacing all around. My legs were cramped and I could barely hold a squat. Someone kicked me but I did not want to be riding in my own mess so I finished shitting and they stood me up by the hair. I doubted there was any skin left anywhere below my waist. I was put on another pony. The Comanches didn’t trust the horses raised by whites.
     
    S OMETIME AFTER FIRST light we stopped to change horses a third time, but instead of remounting we stood around at the edge of a river. We were in a deep canyon, I guessed it was still the Colorado but not even the army ever went this far up. The sun hadn’t risen but it was bright enough to see color, and the Indians were standing around waiting for something. They were drinking from the river or leaning and stretching their backs, packing and repacking their saddlebags. It was the first time I’d seen them in the light.
    They carried bows and quivers and lances, short-barreled muskets and war axes and butcher knives, their faces were painted with arrows and blooming suns and their skin was completely smooth, their eyebrows and beards all plucked. They all wore their hair as a Dutch girl might, two long braids on either side, but these Indians had woven in bits of copper and silver and colored beads.
    “I can tell what you’re thinking,” said my brother.
    “They look like a pack of mollies,” I said, though I didn’t really believe it.
    “They look more like actors on a stage.” Then he added: “Don’t get us in any more trouble.”
    Then a stocky brave walked over and pushed us apart with his lance. There was a dried bloody handprint on his back and a long dark smear down the front of his leggings. What I had thought were pieces of calfskin on his waist turned out to be scalps. I looked up the river.
    Ahead of us was a high overlook and behind us the Indians were rotating the horses in and out of the grass along the banks. There was a discussion and then most of the Comanches made their way on foot toward the overlook. One of them was leading a horse and tied to the horse was the body of the man I’d shot. I hadn’t known he’d died and I got a cold feeling. My brother waded out into the river. The two Indians guarding us drew their bows but when I opened my eyes my brother was still in one piece, standing splashing himself—he was covered in his own waste. The Indians watched him, shriveled and pale and shivering, his chest caved from reading too many books.
    When he was clean he came back and sat next to me.
    “I hope it was worth getting shot just to wipe your ass,” I said.
    He patted my leg. “I want you to know what happened last night.”
    I didn’t want to know any more than I already did but I couldn’t tell him that so I stayed quiet.
    “Momma wasn’t going to make it but I don’t think they meant to kill Lizzie. When they saw she was wounded they took off her shirt and looked over her