Some of the cattle were as wild as any buffalo, but because they were small animals the Texans seemed to think they owned them. The cattle were so numerous that the Comanches, once they practiced a little, could easily steal or kill enough of them to survive.

Buffalo Hump considered himself as wild as the buffalo or the antelope or the bear; he would not be owned by the whites and he would not tear up the grass and grow corn. But Slow Tree, evidently, was no longer too wild to be owned, so now he talked of peace with the whites, though that was not the reason for his visit. The old man knew that Buffalo Hump's band had buffalo--what he had come for was to eat.

Slow Tree was a great Comanche chief, and Buffalo Hump meant to welcome him with proper ceremony. But that did not mean that he trusted the old man. Slow Tree had been a great killer, when he was younger, and an unscrupulous killer too. Slow Tree was old; he had heard things from the old women of the tribe that the younger Comanches did not know. Long ago Buffalo Hump had been told by his grandmother that he could only die if his great hump was pierced. Old Slow Tree knew of this prophecy. Several times, over the years, in camp here and there, usually after feasting and dancing, Buffalo Hump would get an uneasy feeling. Three times he had turned and found that Slow Tree was behind him. Once Slow Tree had had a lance in his hand; another time he held a rifle, and he had had a cold look in his eye--the look of the killer. Slow Tree had long been jealous of Buffalo Hump's prowess as a raider. Once, on a raid all the way to the Great Water, Buffalo Hump had run off three thousand horses--it was a raid all the young warriors sang about and dreamed of equalling.

Slow Tree, though fierce in battle, had never made such a raid. He didn't like it when the young men sang of Buffalo Hump.

But, always, because of the uneasy feeling he got, Buffalo Hump had turned before Slow Tree could strike with the lance or fire the gun. He had saved himself, but he had never trusted Slow Tree and still didn't. The fact that the man was old did not mean he was harmless.

Buffalo Hump turned to look at his young wife, Lark; her eyes were cast down in modesty. Heavy Leg and Hair On The Lip, his other wives, had stripped the boy, Blue Duck, in order to tend his wounds. He stood naked not far from Lark, but Lark kept her eyes cast down. She was the wife of Buffalo Hump--she looked at her husband, when she wanted to look at a man.

Blue Duck became impatient with the women, who were smearing grease on his wounds.

"There are only a few whites up there," he said to his father--he pointed toward the top of the canyon. "I killed one of them last night --there are only a few left. We could kill them all if we hurry." "I imagine you scared them so badly that they are running away by now," Buffalo Hump said casually. "We would have to chase them to the Brazos to kill them, and I don't want to chase them. I have to wait for Slow Tree and listen to him tell me I should be growing corn." Blue Duck was sorry he had spoken. His father had only mocked him, when he said the whites were afraid of him. Big Horse Scull was not afraid of him, nor Gun In The Water, nor McCrae. He wanted to go back and kill the Texans, but Buffalo Hump had already turned and was walking away. Slow Tree had entered the camp and had to be shown the proper respect.

Blue Duck wasn't interested in the old chief himself, but he had heard that Slow Tree had several pretty wives. He was impatient with the women who were dressing his wounds--he wanted to go over and have a look at Slow Tree's wives.

"Hurry up," he said, to Hair On The Lip. "I have to go stand with my father. Slow Tree is here." Hair On The Lip didn't like the rude boy, whelp of a Mexican woman. Rosa, the boy's mother, had once been Buffalo Hump's favorite, but she had run away and frozen to death on the Washita River. Now Lark was his favorite--Lark was young and plump--but he still kept Hair On The Lip with him many nights, because she had the gift of stories. She told him many stories about the animal people, but not just the animal people. She knew some old Comanche women who were lustful and full of wickedness. The old women hid in the bushes, looking for young men.

Buffalo Hump had had only a few wives, unlike Slow Tree and some of the other chiefs.

He told Hair On The Lip that it would be too much trouble to have more wives. He wanted to save his strength for hunting, andfor fighting the whites. He liked to hear about women, though, particularly the old lustful women who were always in the bushes, trying to get young boys to couple with them. Many nights Hair On The Lip had lain with Buffalo Hump, while the cold wind blew around the lodges. Hair On The Lip was not pretty and she was not young--the young women of the tribe wondered why such a great chief would stay with her, when he could have the youngest and prettiest wives.

Those younger women didn't know how much he liked the stories.

Clara was unpacking some new crockery for the store when she happened to glance up and see Maggie Tilton crossing the street--Maggie, too anxious to stop herself, was coming to inquire about Woodrow Call. Every few days Maggie came on the same errand, thinking Clara might have some news of the rangers. Clara didn't--but she could well understand Maggie's anxiety--she herself grew worried when several weeks passed without news of Gus McCrae. Except for the anxiety, though, their positions in regard to the men in question were opposite: Maggie's one hope was that Woodrow Call would someday unbend enough to marry her, while Clara was doing everything she could to check her foolish passion for Gus McCrae. Clara was doing her best not to marry Gus, while Maggie pinned all her hopes on finally marrying Woodrow. Maggie and Clara talked little--theirthe respective stations didn't permit it. What little conversation they had was usually just about the small purchases Maggie made. Yet they had become, if not friends, at least women who were sympathetic to one another because of their common problem: what to do about the menfolk.

The dishes and cups Clara was unwrapping and setting on the counter were nice, serviceable brown stoneware from Pennsylvania. Only the day before she had had a bit of a tiff with her father, over the stoneware. Usually George Forsythe let Clara have her way, when it came to ordering dishware, but, in this case, he happened to look at the bill and had what for him was a fit. He took off his coat, put it back on, told Clara she was bankrupting him with her impulsive ordering, and walked out of the store, not to return for three hours. Clara was more amused than offended by her father's little fit. George Forsythe considered that he and he alone knew what was best for the solid frontier citizens who frequented their store.

Whenever Clara ordered something that appealed to her, even if it was as simple as a pewter pitcher, her father invariably concluded that it was too fancy; soon the store would fill up with things Clara liked that the customers either didn't want or couldn't afford; and ruin would follow.

"I've had a store on this street since it started being a street," he informed his daughter-- sometimes, when he was particularly exercised, he even wagged his finger at her--?and I know one thing: the people of Austin won't shell out for your fancy Eastern goods." "Now, that's not true, Pa," Clara protested. "Mrs. Scull shells out for them.