'What's your name?' Call asked the boy, before he mounted.
'Bob,' the boy said. 'Bobby Fant.' 'Why, son ... is Jasper your pa?' Call asked. 'Jasper Fant?' 'That's our pa. How'd you know his name, mister?' the boy asked. His wounds had stopped bleeding and had crusted over. Call had packed some sand in the wound in the horse's neck, and it was no longer bleeding so badly.
'Your pa worked for me once,' Call said.
'We went to Montana together. I didn't even know he had married. Last I heard of him, he was in Nebraska.' 'Nope, we live out by Comstock now,' the boy said.
'Say, are you Captain Call?' he asked, his eyes widening. He even got the swollen eye open, in his amazement.
'Yes, I'm Captain Call,' Call replied.
'Pa always talks about you,' the boy said. 'He said if anyone ever took us, he'd get you to find us, even if it was Indians that got us.' 'Well, it's your good luck that I did find you,' Call said. 'You hold on to your sister and don't let her fall off.
'We may have to ride all night, Bob,' he said. 'There's a town we can get to tomorrow if we don't stop. Once we get there, you'll both be safe and I can send you home to your ma and pa.' 'Want Ma. ...' the little girl said again.
'Want Ma. ...' 'You'll have her,' Call said. Despite being wrapped in two serapes, the little girl was still shivering, chilled through by the long cold, Call supposed.
'Don't let her fall,' he said again, to the boy.
'Oh, I don't guess Marcie will fall off. She's got her own pony, back home,' the boy said.
Call took the lead rope and headed immediately into the widest space he could find, well away from the ridges. He was glad that Fort Stockton was no farther than it was. It was bitter weather, and the children had gone through a brutal experience. They might sicken yet, and probably would. He wanted to get them to a place where there were warm houses and a proper doctor. They seemed to him to be remarkably plucky children. That was even more remarkable in view of the fact that their father was Jasper Fant, a man who complained constantly about his ills, real or imagined. He had been a Hat Creek cowboy and had made the drive to Montana. His main terror was of drowning, but it took only a sniffle to bring out Jasper's complaints.
Night fell, and Captain Call kept riding. He stopped now and then to check on the wound in the horse's neck. The little girl had gone to sleep, propped against her brother's chest.
Bobby, the boy, was wide awake.
'We're gonna keep going,' Call told him. 'Gnaw on that meat and give your sister some if she wakes up.' 'My hands are freezing off,' the boy said.
'I wish it wasn't so cold.' 'Keep your hands under the blanket,' Call said. 'I can't stop and make a fire. Mox Mox might find us.' 'That squint--I wish you'd kilt him,' Bobby said.
'Well, I didn't, but I might yet,' Call said.
Call rode on, trying to knot an old bandanna around his neck to protect it from the cutting wind. The little gun battle had been badly handled, he knew. Bobby Fant was right to reproach him for not killing Mox Mox. The boy's screams had caused him to rush what he ought not to have rushed. It would have been wiser to let the boy endure the whipping for another few seconds.
The large man might have moved out of the way and given him a clear shot at Mox Mox. He might even have had a clear shot at Jimmy Cumsa, if he had waited a minute more to start firing.
As it was, he had rushed, and the result of his rushing was that he had killed the six incompetents and let the two really dangerous men escape. It was foolish behavior. He had rescued the children, but he hadn't removed the threat. He should have kept his mind on the prime object, which was to kill Mox Mox. Jimmy Cumsa might be deadly, but he hadn't been leading the pack, and he didn't quirt children for his amusement.
Another truth, just as discouraging, was that he had not shot well. Only the boy who had been caught with his pants down had been killed cleanly, with one shot, and that was probably luck.
All the others had required two or more bullets. It was poor shooting, and yet he'd had all the advantages: not a shot had been fired at him, he had been shooting from less than fifty yards' distance, and he had taken the men completely by surprise.
Call blamed his swollen knuckles. Also, he wasn't as sure of his eyesight as he had been. If the men had been better fighters, he would have been in trouble. If Mox Mox and Jimmy Cumsa had taken cover instead of running, the outcome of the struggle might have been different.
Call often picked over battles, in his mind. There were few fixed rules. Once men started shooting at one another with deadly intent, strategies and plans were usually forgotten. Men acted and reacted according to their instincts. Experience didn't always tell; veterans of many battles made wild, inexplicable mistakes. Even men who remained perfectly calm in battle did things that they could not make sense of later, if they survived to rehash the battle.
But, right or wrong, it was done. At least he had Jasper Fant's children, and they would survive, if he could get them to a warm place soon enough.
As Call rode on, the cold grew more intense. His mind returned again and again to the shooting. It troubled him that he had shot so poorly. Augustus McCrae, given similar advantages would probably have killed all the men with a pistol.
Before the night ended, the children got so cold that Call had to stop and risk a fire. He could barely gather sticks with his stiff fingers. The children's feet were so cold that Call knew he was risking frostbite if he didn't do something.
Fortunately, there was enough scrubby brush that he soon had adequate wood. He made two fires and put the freezing children between them. The crusted blood on the boy's face was icy. He had been plucky when first rescued, but had gone into a kind of shock and couldn't speak. The little girl was so cold she was past whimpering.
Call built up the fires and kept them flaming as the children slept. He himself hunkered near the flames only a
