“I say. Five men now. Three big men”

·        he indicated the rusty stain on a pot—

“hair like so.” He tapped the rusty spot.

“One who has no scalp, one the Little Bird.”

It made no sense, but he was not interested now in the men who had killed his father; that was all water under the bridge. Nor did he believe he would find them at the railhead. All he wanted now was freedom from attack, and he believed he had won that.

Any man who entered an Indian village of his own volition was safe as long as he remained there. Though anyone outside the tribe was a potential enemy, peace within the village was of first importance. As there had been no chance of outrunning the Kiowas with a trail herd, his best chance had been to come among them. Without a doubt they believed he had returned to avenge his father; had he denied it they would have lost respect for him, and any friendship they might have had would be gone.

Until now he had almost forgotten that his father had been a friend of the Kiowas, one of the fiercest of all the Plains tribes. He had traded with them, fed them when they were hungry, sheltered them often, and interceded for them with the Army. He had done it out of respect and admiration, not in fear, and this the Indians knew. It followed that they would have known who killed him.

He got to his feet. “I will come again to your village,” he said. “My father was your friend, and so shall I be.”

He turned to Wolf Walker and thrust out his hand. “Someday we will hunt together.”

The Indian took his hand, and the black eyes gleamed.

Turning his back, Chantry went out, and an Indian boy held his horse. He stepped into the saddle, raised his right hand, and rode away.

When he got back to the herd the cattle were moving. The riders came back and gathered around him—Callahan, Sun Chief, and McCarthy.  “What happened?” Mobile asked.

He explained, and then added, “They told me the men who killed my father are at the railhead.”

“Waitin’ for you?” Mobile asked.

“After all these years? Why?”