would fit into the community, but Travis knew there would always be those who saw him more Indian and less McMurray.
As always, when he thought of Madeline Ward, he silently wished her well, hoping she'd escaped her father's wrath and was living happily somewhere safe. He'd asked about her once, but no one knew where she'd moved.
A thin line of smoke rose to the north, pulling Travis back to full alert. Most wouldn't have noticed the puff that climbed toward passing clouds, but he recognized the sign. Someone a mile away had just put out a small campfire.
A lone buzzard circled in the same area. The bird was probably waiting for the remains of whatever animal had been killed for breakfast, telling Travis that whoever camped to the north was living off the land and not packing hardtack and beans.
Travis turned his horse and headed back to the wagons. The signs could mean nothing, another traveler ahead of them, a brave soul homesteading alone, or they could be warning of an ambush. If so, the outlaws were sloppy, but then, they hadn't expected a Ranger to be riding along with the Germans.
He kicked his horse into full gallop, glancing back only once to notice the smoke had vanished.
'Circle the wagons!' Travis shouted to William Ackland, the leader of the small band of farmers, when he got close to the wagons.
Ackland started to question but reconsidered. He waved with his hand and the wagons began to pull together. The German was smart, he'd learn fast-if he stayed alive long enough.
Travis swung from his horse and helped unhitch the horses and oxen so the wagons could be used to build a corral around the stock. He explained to Ackland as they worked, 'We've got company up ahead. It may be nothing, but I'd like to check.'
'Other travelers?' the German asked hopefully.
'Maybe,' Travis answered. 'But no one's passed by the post in several days heading north, or Anderson would have made sure you folks traveled with them.' He thought of adding that anyone coming from the north would know better than to be so sloppy with their fire in open country. 'If it's Indians, they may want to trade.'
The little German looked frightened. 'We've heard stories.'
Travis closed his eyes and guessed what they'd heard. Stories of killings and captures. He'd heard them, too. Hell, he'd even seen some of them. Horrors committed by different tribes against each other and the invading settlers, horrors repaid in kind. He forced his face to remain stone. He wanted to yell at the man, asking hadn't he known that this was a wild country when he signed on for the journey? But, instead, he said calmly, 'All we can do is prepare, Mr. Ackland. By circling we'll protect our stock. If it's traders, we'll meet them outside the circle of the wagons. If it's a war party, we'll have cover. I'll ride out and report back.'
William Ackland nodded and straightened. 'We will be ready. Every man has a rifle.'
Travis wished every man had three, but he only added, 'If I come back riding hell-bent for leather, have the guns ready to fire. If it's a raiding party, as soon as they know we're aware of them, they'll attack.'
Grabbing his horse, Travis glanced around the circle. Women and children, he thought. Too many women and children. If raiders were coming, the men would be dead before they could reload, and the women and children would think they were in hell. He had to make sure that didn't happen.
He glanced back at Ackland. 'Tell everyone to stay put until I return. Even if you hear gunfire, don't go outside the circle.'
The German nodded.
Travis jumped over a wagon tongue and rode north. He didn't need to check his weapons, he knew they were ready. His life had depended on it many times.
Just out of sight of the wagons, he turned west. If whoever put out the fire was heading toward the settlers, he didn't plan to be in their path before he got a chance to size them up. He climbed on higher ground and eased his horse silently through tall grass.
The morning was still cool, calm, but he smelled their camp before he saw it. He slipped from his horse and moved closer, invisible in the grass.
Travis swore as he recognized their kind. A raiding party made up of outlaws-men too mean to live in any civilized world. He also saw two Indians, probably acting as scouts, and a child, tied to a rope like a dog. The kid was on the far side of the camp, and Travis couldn't tell if the child was a boy or girl, only that the youth was so thin he, or she, seemed almost birdlike. The child's movements were slow and stiff as if bones had been broken once and hadn't healed right. Shivering into his coat, Travis noticed the child was almost nude.
Travis had heard reports of a bad gang raiding near the mouth of the Colorado River. It was said they'd steal anything they could use in trade and kill anyone who got in their way. They must have drifted north.
The men moving about the campsite didn't seem in any hurry. They were saddling up, but leaving their gear behind. Preparing to ride hard and fast. Most had double weapons strapped both to their bodies and their mounts. None looked nervous or excited. They apparently saw the Germans as easy pickings. They planned to kill the men and take everything, wagons and all. The women and children would probably be tied up in one of the wagons and sold somewhere in Mexico within a few weeks. Or traded to tribes farther north, where the captives would later be bartered for supplies at one of the forts. By the time the women and children were traded off, they'd be near dead from starvation.
Travis knew he was looking at the rock bottom of humanity. Men who would do anything for money. Men who put no value on life.
They began to saddle up and he should have moved away, but one of the Indians caught his attention. Apache. He didn't usually see them this far south. Though his mind knew evil could have any skin color, his heart didn't like the idea that someone from his mother's tribe could be one of the raiders.
Travis focused. The Apache wasn't young, maybe forty. He favored his left side as he walked and a deep scar crossed his forehead. Travis couldn't help but wonder what had happened in his life that had made him leave his people and band with the outlaws.
He watched closer. The Apache's face was hard, his brown eyes cold, dead inside.
His eyes!
Travis felt the realization like a physical slap. If he were staring at the Apache's eyes, the Apache had spotted him.
Travis didn't bother to crawl away. He stood and ran.
A shot rang out as he reached his horse, another followed. A fiery bullet sliced into his leg like a knife made of lava.
He kicked the horse into full speed and shot out of range. Within seconds he heard the thunder of horses behind him. It crossed his mind to lead the outlaws away from the wagons, but he knew they'd just double back and attack. If they got there before he could, he wouldn't be able to help the Germans fight. There was a good chance some of the men weren't fully armed, for he'd noticed several cleaning guns a moment before he ran. The Germans would have a better chance if he forced the battle now.
Travis hit the circle of wagons at full speed. His horse thundered inside as the Germans pulled the opening closed. They'd spent the hour he'd been gone building a blockade with trunks and boxes. Before he could rein in his horse, the children disappeared into wagons and the men raised their weapons. There was no problem with language; they all seemed to understand the danger.
Pulling his rifle, Travis slid from his horse, surprised when his left leg wouldn't hold his weight. Hopping, he made it to the barrels of water stacked almost shoulder high. A cloud of dust rode directly toward him.
Lifting his weapon, he waited for the outlaws to come into range. With his rifles he could take down two. There would be no time to reload. He'd have to pull his Colts.
He counted twelve men riding toward them, guns ready. The Apache weren't just scouts; they were part of the gang. Travis held his weapon steady. For the first time in his life he'd be firing at his mother's people.
If he were lucky, he'd get four before the band hit the wagons. Then it would be hand-to-hand fighting. The Germans weren't fighters. They'd waste most of their shots, firing too early, taking too much time to aim. He glanced around. In truth none of them looked like they'd stand a chance against a seasoned fighter. Most would be cut down without ever striking a blow.
If he could get four, maybe five before they broke the blockade, he'd fight the rest, he hoped one at a time. He touched his throbbing leg. Pain volted through him in lightning strikes the width of a heartbeat apart. Warm blood
