Riding over to the Weaver place had already wasted half an hour of precious time. Now the two men were mulling over the situation as only dirt-farming Texans could—slower than two flies on tack paper. Loretta could have screamed in frustration and fear. Why didn’t they do something? Every extra minute took Amy farther away from them. ‘‘Ain’t no way in hell a small group of men can track ’em.’’ Tom scraped his boot against the edge of his rickety porch to rid the heel of cow dung. ‘‘They’ll split up and go sev’ral different directions. Without a big group of men, we’ll have to split up, too. And divided into small numbers, there ain’t no way we can take on the likes of them. Them Comanchero are damned good with guns, Henry. We’d be dead before we ever cleared leather.’’ Henry ran a hand over his hair. ‘‘We gotta do somethin’, Tom. They’ve got Amy. We have to find ’em before—’’ He broke off. ‘‘First Loretta, now Amy. What’ll people think?
