Eric nodded vigorously. “Exactly. They killed Ryan Hamilton, they just tried to kill us. I don’t see anything wrong with a good old-fashioned execution.”

“You mean lynching,” said Caine Foster. “I don’t know who shot Mr. Hamilton or why they did it, but like the major tried to tell us all, this here wouldn’t have happened if we didn’t come chasing the fight. They’d probably say they were trying to defend themselves from us.”

His brother turned on him. “Whose side are you on?”

“Have you already forgotten this morning? We were him just a few hours ago.”

“But we didn’t do anything,” Kyle corrected.

“They didn’t know that. The town thought we were guilty as hell of stealing all the shit that is right here.”

“All the more reason to shoot the son of a bitch,” Eric said.

“Nobody’s shooting anybody,” McCrea said. “Jesus, listen to yourselves. This war is only one day old. Maybe it’s going to tear civilized behavior apart, but for the time being, this is still America, and we don’t just execute people because we feel like it.”

“Then what do you suggest we do with him after his trial, whatever the hell that would look like?” George pressed. “We gonna build a jail just for him?”

“Maybe a gallows,” Joey suggested.

Caleb raised his hand to speak, as if in a classroom. Old habits died hard.

“Go ahead,” McCrea said. “And you don’t have to do that to join the discussion.”

“What’s the harm in doing it the right way?” Caleb asked.

“Which way is right?”

“We take him back alive,” Caleb said. “What’s the harm in that? We could tie him to a tree or whatever. My mom will know what to do.”

“Your mom ain’t from around here,” George said. “And she ain’t a judge.”

“Maybe it’s best that she ain’t,” Caine said. “I know who this peckerhead is. He’s Brandon-Lee May, from up our way. He ain’t never been no good, but that don’t mean he don’t have rights. Mrs. . . . What’s her name?”

“Emerson,” Caleb prompted. “Victoria or Vicky Emerson.”

“Okay, well, she don’t know nobody. She don’t know who to hate or why. If we’re tryin’ to figure out what the hell Brandon-Lee’s gang did or didn’t do, maybe it’s best that the judge not be one of us.”

“I’ll say it again,” George said. “What happens after the trial?”

“Maybe he goes free,” McCrea said.

“Oh, hell no.”

“And maybe you get to shoot him.” McCrea shrugged, palms up. “Or hang him. I don’t know. Nobody knows. I don’t think it’s even right to know. That’s why we have trials.”