Last winter came the news of the passing of Robert E. Lee.

Now the summer had already seen its first moon, the twelfth moon since Maddo had been riding a lonely and damn near dangerous physician's circuit of the upper Colorado and Brazos settlements.

After delivering twins at a ranch west of Abilene, Maddo paid a call on the A.E. Reynolds gunsmithy camp at Sweetwater. A smart fellow who clearly saw his role in the growing buffalo trade, Reynolds had laid in a much more marvelous selection of rifles and cartridges than last year. Then it had just been more damned yankees in Texas, but now a new thing of good and evil and promise and danger was on the wind. The wandering purveyor of firearms showed Maddo a new Sharps for not too many dollars in .50 caliber like the Spencer cavalry repeater the father of the twins had given him as payment. Maddo laid his eyes and tried his hands on a very good .44-77 Sharps octagon barrel, and then a new Remington-Rider sporting rifle, which chambered the .45-70. The selection of his new rifle gave more pleasure than Maddo had expected. Maddo finally decided to trade the Spencer for the octagon Sharps plus 500 rounds, and Reynolds, who knew and respected his customer, threw in a fine ivory grip Remington Beals Patent 1858 Army revolver.

"You have earned this, Doc," Reynolds carefully placed the belt revolver in its box for Maddo, "you ain't dead."

Bidding thanks to Reynolds, Maddo departed the gun dealer's tented compound with a smile which only lacked a few feathers to be like that of a cat toting a bird for his supper.

Reynolds happily resumed his assistance to the two young European gentlemen outfitting themselves, apparently without regard for cost, for an excursion onto the Llano. On the surface of it, the two foreigners were of genteel military bearing, but did not seem fierce enough to present much risk to the Comanche they would likely encounter if they made their way much farther west.

Maddo stowed his kit and goods at the hotel where he shared a tiny medical office cum pharmacy with his ranging colleagues and returned to survey the horsed dirt main street which made do as the mercado and civic center of Sweetwater. The general thirst a man acquires when he rides great distances in Texas was next on his list of lively satisfactions.

A great roaring bear wearing buckskin interrupted Maddo's street reverie. The beast loped toward Maddo with that bow-legged gait he would recognize anywhere.

"Pretty far north, ain't ya', Phil?" he called.

Old Philpot pranced right up to Maddo and gave him a huge friendly hug, lifting him off the new corduroy sidewalk.

"Hyar t' have ye another chance at my Walker Colt, eh Doc?"

"And how would that pass, Phil?"

"Me and them green furriners is goin' out huntin'."

"Out where?"

"Out the Brazos an' up t' th' Red, an' wherever that takes us to pay back our sins. Y'all commin'?"

"I've had my gut of killing human beings, Phil."

"Ain't goin' far enough fer Comanch', Doc. Gonna make our stake with buffalo."

Maddo nodded his approval as he took Old Philpot's elbow and escorted him into the Deep Springs Emporium, which was mostly a tent with a wooden face to the town. Old Philpot let Maddo handle the bartender.

"Stick to them and your Big Fifty, Phil. They'll give you what for all your sinnin'."

Old Philpot lapped up his beer and shouted to someone in the street.

A moment later Old Philpot's newest dearest friends, the two European aristocrats, joined them. They were hussars on leave to become hunters, and their conversation was pleasant and interesting enough to warrant additional rounds of the Deep Springs' best whiskey.

"We seek the mighty American bison, " said Mr. Sturm.

"And your great bear," said Mr. Challant.

"In this land, gentlemen," Maddo raised his glass to them, and to the fine midsummer sun entering the saloon's always open door, "your quarry is more like to be wearing the bear than to be the bear."

The European gentlemen had a good nervous laugh and glanced at each other, sharing the knowledge that this Texican was rather not in jest.

"Either'n be good shootin', gents!" pitched Old Philpot. "Jine us, Doc?"

Maddo thought about it. No more babies expected on his circuit for the rest of this season, and he rarely saw a fracture or bump on the head younger than a few weeks anyway. He had not been in truly interesting company since the second winter of the war, and what better way to test his new Sharps?

"Never say no to a new buffalo robe."

The next morning, giving the sun an extra pot of coffee, the four men prepared their wagon and secured the led mules. All was made ready for the buffalo hunt.

A very handsome and richly dressed lady accosted Maddo as he walked his horse from the livery to the Europeans' outfit in front of the hotel. An easterner among the barbarians, come to the border to do the good work for the Quaker Indian Mercy League or some such yankee hogwash. It was very queer to see such a fine woman this near to hell: the stage must have stopped to change horses, or to find a driver in his right mind.

"To kill the magnificent bison is to kill the invaded aboriginal, his wife, his children."

"Madam, there's a fair parcel of difference twixt killing the prince of murder on his pony, and killing his squaw's winter larder on the hoof," Maddo pulled the mules' aparejos tight.

"Such as?"

"The fear engendered by doing the thing, Madam." Maddo touched the broad brim of his hat. "I will return by the first norther, if ever." He grinned as broadly as his hangover permitted. "Perhaps you will wait upon my arrival, when we will discuss the finer points of the matter over a dinner of champagne and oysters?"

"I do not think I will, sir!" The handsome lady began from right then and right there her withdrawal toward civilization.

Old Philpot screeched with laughter, "Buffalo ain't got teeth half as sharp as no Comanche, lady! Them wooly hoofers is a whole might easier to kill wif'out gittin' kill't than no 'aborigimals'!"

To reach that game, the hunting party must cross the scorched plain north of the Colorado and west of the Brazos, burned by the Comanche to corral great bison tribes against the escarpment.

It was full summer, no hint of other season in the hot, motionless sky.

The known streams marked by sparse stands of timber were now but muddy trails below the llano. Lined by freshly greening stub brush and short grass, the little creeks and headwaters were near naught, soft here, cracked there, and the prairie where not burnt was cast a brown between that of the earth itself and the skin of those who burned it.

Most days early and late they made west and north by west, sheltering during the zenith of sun and heat in timber where they found it, under the wagon and tarpaulin otherwise. Toward the end of the second week and well into the new grass, they began to see dust raised between here and the distant mesas. Then they saw big dust two mornings in a row, just beyond the broken hills before them.

The Red River herd was over there.

The hair positively stood up on the back of your neck, and you felt the first thrill in your gut, and then flush across your face. This was why you rode fifteen days into the emptiness, camping at the base of these arid hills. Tossing and turning on your bedroll, you were up before the sun to saddle up and to cross that last ridge of golden short grass and red clay.

Cross that last ridge of golden short grass and red clay the excited hunting foursome did, making summit just after dawn, to peer into that strangely smoky valley as the sun itself first shone upon it this very warm morning.

Old Philpot crossed his hands on his saddlehorn, whisking away a fly with his reins and exhaling with a long low whistle which ended in a pained growl.

"Mebbe we're gonna git some o' that bear you spoke of, Doc."

The smoke in the valley had settled in the late summer stillness from dying campfires some two or three days old. Beneath the smoke lay the slaughtered Red River herd. The white men who had kindled the campfires lay there with it.

Challant was handling the wagon. Now he gathered the reins for maneuver.

"My late grandfather, The General," he said, barely above a whisper, "would advise retreat in haste."

"Damnedably headlong," chimed Sturm, slapping the led mules to follow the wagon, "as Satan himself has got your scent!"

"These fellers is meaner than Satan," Old Philpot yanked his horse about, "with better noses."

"And faster ponies," agreed Maddo. "Let's backtrack south below the ridge a ways, but try not to raise more dust than we did coming up." Maddo backed his horse from his summit silhouette. "Phil, guide on back to those cottonwoods from yesterday--stay good for the wagon. Challant, keep your horse's reins at hand. We may need to leave the box and run like hell."

Maddo drew his Sharps from its scabbard and dropped the block to slide in the massive cartridge. Old Philpot took the lead, Sturm following with his fine rifle already half-cocked and across his saddle, Challant handling the rig well and his horse's reins tucked through his belt, and Maddo bringing up the rear, his Sharps also ready across his saddle.

Maddo felt as naked as his horse.

As they quietly descended the lee ridge, Maddo capped his Remington. The lightly timbered creek was probably ten miles back. Slowly negotiating the arroyos that exited the base of the broken hills onto the prairie farther south than where they had entered, the hunting party finally embarked on relatively level ground with their shadows under them.

Maddo surveyed their trail. There was no sign of movement behind them. To the far north, a surviving small clump of the herd had wandered up the valley and over to their side of the divide. He followed up the others, strung out about an eighth of a mile.

At the very limit of the horizon, the pale cottonwood smudge of Cala Verde beckoned. Without speaking, the string of hunters increased their pace. It would not do to tarry.

Resuming his survey, as Maddo peered through the shimmering haze the dark clump to the north separated into shiny small jewels, gradually more visible against the background of golden dust and pearl sky.

They were hunters no more.

Maddo jabbed his horse into a trot and quickly caught the wagon. He quickly cut the yoked mules loose and jerked the led mules free

"Grab your horse!"

Challant was on his horse like a cougar on a calf. The hussar shouldered his companion and they were both up to speed before Maddo caught them.

"On guard, sir! The devil is loose!"

Old Philpot had seen and heard and was swatting his horse to the gallop. Challant and Sturm, graceful and swift, passed him with a hurrah.

"Last man is eaten!"

The two hussars, scout, and doctor was a ranger were running like hell. That wood at Cala Verde was still five miles away.

Maddo forced himself to scan the north, but it was difficult to focus riding this hard this scared. The jewels had become several distant figures riding fine ponies very hard and very well. The glints of sunlight said they had guns. Two or three more distant smaller figures lagging the others held lines of more fine ponies.

Maddo gathered a clear sense that the distance of hunter to quarry was closing faster than the distance of quarry to creek. He shouted to Old Philpot, several lengths ahead.

"Gimme your rifle, Phil! I'll stall 'em!"

"You got no sense, Doc!"

"Gimme yer goddamned rifle, Phil!"

Old Philpot slowed his horse until Maddo matched him. He passed over his Big Fifty and then slapped three cartridges into Maddo's shirt pocket.

"Shoot these and come along, Doc. We're like to be needin' ya'. Bring the gun!" Old Philpot still had the Henry he got in Colorado a few years back.

Maddo checked their pursuers again as he got a grip now on both rifles across his saddle. Probably a mile. He lit after Old Philpot who had not waited.

The ground grew more uneven. The hussars had a good start on the creek and Old Philpot would probably get there. Maddo guessed it was two miles and some to the trees.

His horse almost stumbled. Maddo looked over his shoulder.

Ten or twelve Comanches riding like the wind!

They were not more than half a mile away now, coming on straight, luckily in almost a single file, two or three in front contending for the lead. Maddo thought he could hear their yells. He pulled up and dismounted to take a kneeling position. He drew a bead first with his .44-77 at about 500 yards, lining up the bunch of their horses and setting his trigger. He would squeeze at something like 400 yards.

Hell, he ought to hit one of them.

He did. When the bead came down after the crack and recoil, a horse in the pack was tumbling. The Comanche bunch immediately scattered.

Maddo grabbed the Big Fifty and sighted the closest horse. He let the shot go and fished for a cartridge. A miss. He sighted that one again and pulled the trigger at 200 yards. The horse crashed forward. Maddo shoved another cartridge in as the rider got up running toward him. Another horse was closer. Maddo took that shot and dropped him, but the first runner was hollering close. Maddo had to use his fingernail to get the spent cartridge completely ejected and slid the last one in. The hollering fellow was about 100 yards, running and raising a rifle. Maddo pushed down the ladder sight and placed the bead on the brightly adorned chest of his approaching doom. He touched the trigger for the last time that day and the hollering disappeared in the boom, carried out of the hollering fellow with his heart and lungs.

Maddo shoved both rifles under his saddle blanket and remounted at the walk, stabbing his horse's ribs with his heels to get underway in earnest. He had lost sight of the other riders but they had to be damned near! He hoped the scout and hussars at the creek would follow his covering fire example.

Somebody, maybe everybody, was shooting. Most everybody was running. A few horses passed him on the way to the trees.

From the corner of his eye, or even from his mind's eye, Maddo became aware of someone close, someone strong and quick on a horse black and fast, pounding down on him. A powerful spirit was approaching, an eagle to take its prey on the wing.

Maddo saw smoke puff from the timber but the only thing he could hear was himself screaming like the banshee in his father's stories. He knew Comanches respected a good war cry. Maybe they would only kill him once.

A ball sizzled past his head and a bloody mist splashed into his face, something else flapping and blowing past him, his horse's left ear. The horse uttered a whinnying scream at the sharp blow and wheeled madly about at full speed, throwing Maddo forward through a full somersault into the llano dificil. Maddo landed on his back with a walloping white flash, breath gone, pain resonating in an empty diamond of shoulders, butt and occipital skull.

Maddo could not breathe. He did not know if he had a bullet in him because everything hurt. He still could not breathe.

A powerful dark shape circled him. A piercing cry marked him.

The Comanche borne upon a magnificent black stallion circled him again.

The Comanche effortlessly drew his far leg over the horse's head to dismount facing Maddo and hit the ground running. The magnificent stallion continued to circle as the Comanche rushed toward Maddo to count first coup and take first scalp.

Yet paralyzed but the pain evaporated into a curious silence, yet unable to breathe, Maddo as in a dream examined this angel of death approaching, this Death-Eagle descending. He was a beautiful youth, the fire of battle upon his countenance. This breech-clouted savage in hide leggings and beaded moccasins was about to plunge his war club into Maddo's brain. He was the flower of uncivilized manhood in rawest nature, his long dark but not black hair braided with animal skin, his brilliant, intelligent blue-gray eyes seeing every facet of Maddo's prostrate form and the whole world around it. He saw every moment of Maddo's life. The young Comanche wore a familiar talisman at his throat, supported by a necklace of bear claws.

Maddo recognized him. It was the medicine boy.

The young Comanche was now directly over him, on top of him, face to face. Maddo felt the young Comanche's breath on his forehead, on his chin, as the young Comanche studied his face. The young Comanche licked away the horse's blood.

"We too late," the young Comanche hissed, "you more too late."

Maddo could not breathe. Maddo knew he was dead.

The young Comanche reared back to his feet and seized Maddo's belt buckle to pull upward firmly, crisply: Maddo's lungs opened and with a great inhalation he was alive again.

Having counted coup, and paid a debt, the young Comanche floated back upon the circling magnificent black stallion and vanished into the rising dust created by his companions.

The shooting had already stopped and the Comanches long disappeared by the time Maddo struggled to his feet and climbed back on his whimpering horse. The Comanche had somehow wrapped Maddo's wrist with his one-eared horse's rein, the bloody bridle crooked but in bit. The stump of the ear was still there, and when Maddo reached the creek and the timber and the scout and the two hussars he applied a soothing poultice.