* * *
Cha rode to a hill where he could see his backtrail for a great distance, then watched carefully as the fading light lit the sky with the last colors of day. Below him, the herd worked its way among the tules to the shores of the lake the Spanish called Buena Vista. It had been a hard ride from the Cuyama Valley, and a sad one. Yes, he had a hundred horses, but he had traded one man for each five. And in the camp below, another half dozen nursed wounds that might take them to the spirit land.
It had been a costly trip.
He only hoped the price had been paid in fill.
The vaqueros with firesticks that spoke like the woodpecker had ridden back toward the sea. Maybe they had had enough.
Maybe, but still he would keep a careful watch.