Silas watches the Pawnee scouts depart

Silas was angry and he did not know why. The Pawnee scouts had disappeared the night before, and there was much speculation about where they had gone. Elijah thought they were riding hard toward the camps of the enemy. The party knew of these camps, crouching, rimmed with embers, hidden beyond the shadowy veil of the horizon. Others thought they were pushing forward, towards a scrubby line of evergreens in the distance, sandy soil, perhaps clean water. Still others were convinced that they had been swallowed whole by that unfathomable western land, a terrestrial deity greater and more mysterious than any lingering in the skies of the old world. Silas had watched them depart during the night. Tall and lanky, their sheepskin shawls pushed up around their shoulders, the smooth brown skin of their backs twisting in the neurotic light of the moon. Their horses shuffled uncertainly and seemed to topple forward, gaining momentum, unshorn hoofs scraping over the dead Nebraska long grass until they were dots in a darkening expanse. Silas was half-crouched, his body tensed. To do what? He shut his mouth and swallowed, tasting grit. He breathed through his nose, and slipped back under his blanket. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of horse sweat and gunpowder.