He was reminded of an old bull buffalo he and Call and Bigfoot Wallace, the famous scout, had struggled to kill years before on the Mexican plain. They had shot the beast more than twenty times, chased it until one of their horses died, and had finally had to dispatch it with their bowie knives, a process that bloodied Augustus from shoulder to calf.

The Comanche boy who had dealt the fourth buffalo the final lance hit was probably just as bloody--t buffalo, too, must have poured blood from a number of wounds before it rolled its eyes up in death.

Looking down on the scene from high above, Augustus, though he couldn't say why, felt a mood of sadness take him. He knew he ought to be going, but he could not stop looking at the scene far below. A line of Indian women were moving out from the camp, ready to help cut up the meat.

Inish Scull paused a moment. He saw that his young ranger had been affected by the chase they had just observed, and its inevitable ending.

"Post coitum omne animal triste," he said, leaning over to put a hand, for a moment, on the young man's shoulder.

"That's Aristotle." "What, sir?" Augustus asked. "I expect that's Latin, but what does it mean?" ""After copulation every animal is sad,"'" the Captain said. "It's true, too--though who can say why? The seed flies, and the seeder feels blue." "Why is it?" Augustus asked. He knew, from his own memories, that the Captain had stated a truth. Much as he liked poking, there was that moment, afterward, when something made his spirits dip, for a time.

"I don't know why and I guess Aristotle didn't either, because he didn't say," Scull observed. "But it's not only rutting that can bring on that little gloom. Killing can do it too-- especially if you're killing something sizable, like a buffalo, or a man. Something that has a solid claim to life." He was silent for a moment, a little square cut chaw of tobacco in his hand.

"I grant that it's a curious thing," he said.

"The acts ain't much alike, and yet the gloom's alike. First excitement, then sadness.

Those red boys killed their game, and they needed to kill it, too. A buffalo is to them what a store would be to us. They have to kill the buffalo to live. And they have killed it. But now they're sad, and they don't know why." Well, I don't know why neither, Augustus thought. I wish that old man who talked about it to begin with had said why.

In a moment they turned back toward camp.

Augustus fell in behind the big horse. When they came over the first little rise they saw the camp boys, rushing around like ants, packing up.

"Where is his scalp? I don't see it," Buffalo Hump said, when Blue Duck walked up to him, dripping blood. "I thought you were going to bring me the scalp of Gun In The Water?" "He is quick," Blue Duck admitted.

"He shot me while he was shitting. I didn't know anyone could shoot straight while they were shitting." Buffalo Hump looked the boy over. He saw no wounds that looked serious.

"I had another son once," Buffalo Hump said. "Gun In The Water shot him too--shot him dead. He was almost drowned in the Brazos River but he was still quick enough to kill my son. You're lucky he didn't kill you too. Where is your horse?" The boy stood before him wearing a sullen look.

No doubt he had run across the canyon, hoping to be praised because he had gone alone against the whites and been wounded. It was a brave thing: Buffalo Hump didn't doubt the boy's courage. Blue Duck always led the charge, and could not sleep for days, from excitement, when a raid was planned.

Bravery was important in war, of course, but that did not mean that a warrior could afford to neglect the practicalities of war. The boy seemed to have rolled much of the way down the canyon and kept his weapons undamaged, which was good. On the other hand, he had lost a horse, which was not good.

Also, he had attacked a proven warrior, Gun In The Water, without being sure of his kill. Courage would not keep a warrior alive for long if courage was not backed up by judgment.

"My horse is dead," Blue Duck admitted. "Silver Hair McCrae shot him --I was running for my life. Big Horse Scull almost cut me with the long knife." Buffalo Hump motioned to Hair On The Lip, indicating that she was to tend to the boy's wounds. Slow Tree was approaching, at the head of his band, and would have to be greeted with the proper ceremony. Though Buffalo Hump would have liked to lecture the boy some more, he could not do it with Slow Tree and his warriors only half a mile from camp. He looked sternly at his young wife, Lark--he did not want her tending Blue Duck's wounds. The women made much of Blue Duck, old women and young women too.

He did not want Lark to be doctoring his handsome son. He had seen many unfortunate things happen, in his years as a chief. Sometimes young women, married to old men, could not resist coupling with the old men's sons, a thing that made bitter blood. If Lark was reckless with Blue Duck he would beat her so that she could not move for three days, and then he would drive Blue Duck out of camp, or else kill him.

"Why is Slow Tree coming?" Blue Duck asked, as Hair On The Lip began to poke at the wound in his side.

Buffalo Hump walked away without answering.

It was none of Blue Duck's business why Slow Tree had chosen to visit. Slow Tree could come and go as he pleased, as did all the Comanche. He himself was not particularly pleased to see the old man coming, though. Slow Tree was very pompous; he insisted on making long speeches that were boring to listen to. Buffalo Hump had long since heard all that Slow Tree had to say, and did not look forward to listening to him anymore.

Because he was old and lazy, Slow Tree had even begun to argue that the Comanche should live in peace with the Texans. He thought they ought to go onto reservations and learn to grow corn. He pointed out that the buffalo were no longer plentiful; soon the Comanche would have to find something else to eat. There were not enough deer and antelope to feed the tribe, nor enough wild roots and berries. The People would starve unless they made peace with the whites and learned their agriculture.

Buffalo Hump knew that on some points Slow Tree was right. He himself had ridden all the way north to the Republican River to find enough buffalo, in the fall just passed. The whites were killing more and more buffalo each year, and the People would, someday, have to find something else to eat. Such facts were plain; he did not need a long speech from Slow Tree to explain what was obvious.

What Buffalo Hump disagreed with was Slow Tree's solution. He himself did not like corn, and did not plan to grow it. Instead, since the white men were there in his land, his country, he meant to live off their animals: their horses, their pigs, and particularly their cattle. The land along the Nueces boiled with cattle. They were as plentiful as buffalo had once been. He himself preferred horsemeat to the meat of the cow, but the meat of the cow would suffice, if it proved impossible to kill enough buffalo or steal enough horses to get the band through the winter.