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gnawing on a bone, he glanced up. “I saw something yonder,” he said, “that shapes up for trouble.”
    We waited, looking at him. He chewed for a moment, then said, “Moccasin tracks … boots among ’em. Maybe three white men, Spanish men, I’d say.”
    â€œWhat’s that to us?” Heath asked.
    â€œThey don’t look kindly on folks coming into their neighborhood,” Talley explained. “Bonaparte sort of took Louisiana from the Spanish, then sold it to us. The Spanish have a settlement or two down yonder and they throw anybody into prison who comes into their country.” He swept a hand in a wide arc. “They claim most of this here, an’ nobody ever did decide rightly where the boundary was. I heard of some French soldiers in Colorado … hunting gold. The Spanish set the Utes on them.”
    â€œThen we had best be careful,” I suggested. “Do you think they’ve seen us?”
    â€œDoubt it,” Kemble commented, “but there’s a big party, maybe forty in all. One of them might have hunted far enough east to see us.”
    We ate in silence, for there was much to think about. We were far from others of our kind, and could expect no help if trouble developed. The Spanish and the Indians had villages not too far off, but we were seven men alone, as if on another planet.
    Yet there is a strength implicit in such a situation, for having no one on which to rely, we relied upon no one. Our problem was our own, and what must be done we would do ourselves, and looking about me, I decided that had I selected each man, I could have done no better.
    These men were typical of what I had seen among those floating down the Ohio, crossing the Alleghenies or the Appalachians, coming west by whatever means … they were men who had chosen themselves. Each in his own mind had made the decision to go west. No king, no queen or general or president had said “Go west,” but each man in his own way had decided, and finding what they faced had not turned back.
    Looking upon these men, I knew that I, who had attended lectures at the Sorbonne and Heidelberg, who had himself lectured at Cambridge and William and Mary, I who had lunched with President Jefferson, who was a friend to Captain Meriwether Lewis, Henry Dearborn, Dr. William Thornton, Gilbert Stuart, and Count de Volney, I had at last come home. These were my people, this was my country.
    Isaac Heath turned his head to me. “Is that true, Chantry? Is there no border?”
    â€œNone has been defined. That’s one reason for the Lewis and Clark expedition. Not only to see what lies out there, but to establish our presence in the area.”
    Davy Shanagan appeared at the edge of the firelight. “Somebody comin’,” he said softly. “Five or six, maybe.”
    His words were spoken over an empty fire, for each of us vanished ghostlike into the surrounding darkness. I, fortunately, had the presence of mind to retain my coffee. With the Ferguson rifle in my right hand, I drank coffee from the cup in my left.
    A voice called out … in Spanish, and I replied in the same tongue, stepping quickly to the right as I did so. No shot was fired, and we heard the riders coming nearer. Two Spanish men, and four Indians.
    Stepping into the firelight, I invited them to dismount. They did so, striding up to the fire. The man in the lead looked at me coolly. “I’m Captain Luis Fernandez!” he said. “I’m an officer of Spain.”
    I bowed slightly. I could see he was somewhat surprised at my garb. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, señor,” I replied, “so far from home. On behalf of the American people, I welcome you to our country.”
    There was nothing to be lost, I decided, in landing the first blow. That he was shocked was obvious. “
Your
country?” he exclaimed indignantly. “But this is Spanish territory!”
    The