There’d already been plenty of blood spilled, and many would have turned tail, but these fellas had all hung on and seemed to still have their teeth sharp. Since entering the Indian territories they’d ridden hard, covering thirty miles or more while the big scout, Blackfeather, had tracked, sometimes at a lope. They’d traded off dragging two pack mules, each loaded with hard tack, jerky, bacon, dried beans, and extra ammunition. Kansas grass as far as the eye could see had become ravines flanked with red oak, post oak, white cedar, and shortleaf and loblolly pine, with occasional thickets of dogwood lining those cuts hiding creeks. Even with the country getting thicker, but still hard-surfaced, Blackfeather could conjure up more sign while mounted than most men with their nose to the ground. It had been a hell of a lot of miles to cover, considering the rain hadn’t blessed the country for a good long time, and the ground was hard as the hubs of hell. But they’d finally staked out the stock and rolled out blankets under some post and red oaks near a trickle of muddy water, downed some jerky and hardtack, and were now watching the moon do a slow climb to the east, each in their own thoughts.
