"I wish there was more timber on this road," Blackie Slidell said. "I don't know if we could whip nine of those rascals if they came charging and we had nothing to hide behind."

"Nine's about the right size for a raiding party," Bigfoot observed. He had about finished his digging. The grave wasn't deep enough, but it would have to do.

"Why?" Call asked.

"Why what?" Bigfoot replied. The youngster was a good digger, and besides, he was steady. Of all the troop, he was the least affected by the sight of charred bodies. Of course, Long Bill wasn't shaking or puking, but Long Bill was notorious for his bad eyesight. He probably hadn't come close enough to take a good look.

"Why is nine a good size?" Call asked, as Gus handed him an armful of sacks. He spread one layer of sacking over each man, and then rolled the bodies over and tucked another layer of sacking over their backsides. It was curious how stiff bodies got-the dead men's limbs were as stiff as wood.

"Nine's about right," Bigfoot said, impressed that young Call was eager to learn, even while performing an unpleasant task. "Nine men who know the country can slip between the settlements without being noticed. They can watch the settlers and figure out which farms to attack. If there's a family with four or five big strapping boys who look like they can shoot, they'll leave it and go on to one where there's mostly womenfolk."

Matilda Roberts stood looking at the corpses as Call and Gus finished covering them with sacking. She recognized one of the men; his name was Eli, and he had come to her more than once.

"That nearest one is Eli Baker," she said. "He worked in the flour mill. I know him by his ear."

"What about his ear?" Bigfoot asked.

"Look at it, before you rake the dirt over him," Matilda said. "He got half his ear cut off when he was a boy-the bottom half. That's Eh Baker for sure. We ought to try to get word to his family. I believe he had several young 'uns."

"And a wife?" Bigfoot asked.

"Well, he didn't have the young 'uns himself," Matilda said. "I ain't seen him in a year or two, but I know he's Eli Baker."

When the corpses were covered, everyone stood around awkwardly for a minute. The wide prairie was empty, though the tall grass sang from the breeze. The sun shone brilliantly. Bigfoot took the stock of the broken shotgun and tamped the dirt solidly over the grave of the two wagoneers.

"If anybody knows a good scripture, let them say it," Bigfoot said. "We need to skedaddle. I'd rather not have to race no Comanches today-my horse is lame."

"There's that scripture about the green pastures," Long Bill recalled. "It's about the Lord being a shepherd."

"So say it then, Bill," Bigfoot said. He caught his horse and waited impatiently to mount.

Long Bill was silent.

"Well, there's the green pastures," he said. "That's all I can recall. It's been awhile since I had any dealings with scriptures."

"Can anyone say it?" Bigfoot asked.

"Leadeth me beside the still waters," Matilda said. "I think that's the one Bill's talking about."

"Well, this is a green pasture, at least," Bigfoot said. "It'll be greener, if it keeps raining."

"I wonder why people want to say scriptures when they've buried somebody?" Call reflected to Gus as they were trotting on toward Austin. "They're dead-they can't hear no holy talk."

Gus had the scared feeling inside again. The Indian who had nearly brought him down with a lance was somewhere around. He might be tracking them, or watching them, even then. He might be anywhere, with his warriors. They were approaching a little copse of live-oak trees thick enough to conceal a party of Comanches. What if Buffalo Hump and his warriors suddenly burst out, yelling their terrible war cries? Would he be able to shoot straight? Would he have the guts to fire a bullet through his eyeball if the battle went against them? Would he end up burned, swollen, and stiff, like the two men they had just buried? Those were the important questions, when you were out on the prairie where the wild men lived. Why people said scriptures over the dead was not an issue he could concentrate his mind on, not when he had the scared feeling in hisstomach. Even if he could have had the pork chop his mouth had been watering for the night before, he had no confidence that he could have kept it down.

"It's the custom," he said, finally. "People get to thinking of heaven, when people die."

Call didn't answer. He was wondering what the mule skinners were thinking and feeling when the Comanches tied them to the wagon wheels and began to build fires under them. Were they thinking of angels, or just wishing they could be dead?

"As soon as we get to Austin, I want to buy a better gun," he said. "I mean to practice, too. If we're going on this expedition, we need to learn to shoot."

Toward evening, the sky darkened again toward the southwest. Once again the sky turned coal black, with only a thin line of light at the horizon. The rolls of thunder were so loud that the Rangers had to give up conversation.

"It might be another cyclone," Blackie yelled. "We need to look for a gully or a ditch."

This time, though, no twisting snake cloud formed, though a violent thunderstorm slashed at them for some fifteen minutes, drenching them all. They expected a wet, cold night but by good fortune came upon a big live-oak tree that lightning had just struck. The tree had been split right in two. Part of the tree was still blazing, when the rain began to diminish. It made a good hot fire and enabled everybody to strip off and dry their clothes. Matilda, far from shy, stripped off first-Call was reluctant to take all his clothes off in her presence, but Gus wasn't. He didn't have a cent, but hoped the sight of him would incline Matilda to be friendly, or a little more than friendly, later in the evening-a hope that was disappointed. Bigfoot had Buffalo Hump on his mind: there was a time for sport, and a time to keep a close watch. None of the Rangers slept much -but the blazing fire was some comfort. By midnight, when it was Call's turn to watch, the sky was cloudless and the stars shone bright.

CALEB COBB AND HIS sour captain, Billy Falconer, enlisted the six Rangers for the expedition against New Mexico immediately. The Rangers simply walked up to the hotel where the enlistments were being handled, and the matter was done.

Billy Falconer was a dark little snipe of a man, with quick eyes, but Caleb Cobb was large; to Call he appeared slow. He stood a good six foot five inches, and had long, flowing blond hair. On the table in front of him, when he cast his lazy gaze over the men who hoped to go with him on the expedition, were two Walker Colt pistols, the latest thing in weaponry. Call would have liked one of the Walkers-at least he would have liked to hold one and heft it, though of course he knew that such fine guns were far beyond his means.

"There's no wages, this is volunteer soldiering," Caleb Cobb pointed out at once. "All we furnish is ammunition and grub."

"When possible, we expect you to rustle your own grub, at that," Captain Falconer said.

Caleb Cobb had a deep voice-he kept a deck of cards in his hand, and shuffled them endlessly.

"This is a freeman's army-only we won't call it an army," Caleb said.

"I wouldn't call it an army anyway, if these fellows outside the hotel are specimens of the soldiers," Bigfoot said.

Caleb Cobb smiled, or half smiled. Billy Falconer's eyes darted everywhere, whereas Caleb scarcely opened his. He leaned back in a big. chair and watched the proceedings as if half asleep.

"Mainly we're a trading expedition, Mr. Wallace," Caleb Cobb said after a moment. "St. Louis has had the Santa Fe business long enough. Some of us down here in the Texas Republic think we ought to go up there and capture a bunch of it for ourselves."

"That crowd outside is mostly bankers and barbers," Bigfoot said. "If they want to trade, that's fine, but what are we going to do for fighting men if the Mexicans decide they don't like our looks?"

"That ain't your worry, that's ours," Captain Falconer snapped.

"It's mine if I'm taking my scalp over in that direction," Bigfoot said.

"Why, we'll gather up some fighters, here and there," Caleb said. "Captain Billy Falconer's such a firebrand I expect he could handle the Mexican army all by himself."

"If he's such a scrapper then let him go handle Buffalo Hump," Bigfoot suggested. "He and his boys cooked two mule skinners yesterday, not thirty miles from this hotel."

"Why, the ugly rascal," Falconer said, grabbing one of the Walker Colts. "I'll get up a party and go after him right now. You boys can come if you're game."

"Whoa, now, Billy," Caleb Cobb said. "You can go chase violent Comanches if you want to, but you ain't taking one of my new pistols. That humpback man might get the best of you, and then I'd be out a gun."

"Oh-I thought one of these was mine," Falconer said. He put the gun back on the table with a sheepish look.

"It ain't," Cobb said, sitting up a little straighter. Then he looked at Bigfoot again, and let his sleepy eyes drift over the troop. Call didn't like the man's manner-he considered it insolent. But he was conscious that he and Gus were the youngest men in the troop-it was not his place to speak.

"When are we leaving, then?" Bigfoot asked.

"Day after tomorrow, if General Lloyd gets here," Caleb said. "The roads down Houston way are said to be muddy-they're generally muddy. I guess the General may be stuck."

"General Lloyd?" Bigfoot asked, a little surprised. "I scouted for the man a few years back. Why are we taking a general, if this is a trading expedition?"