Rusty stood the last watch before dawn. He observed the dimming of the stars and the first sign of light in the east, grateful that the night had passed without incident. Dawkins had probably known the rangers would be at the Monahan farm. However fanatic he might be, Dawkins would not want to risk confrontation with five armed and determined men.

Tonight, however, there would be only one. Two, including Vince Purdy. Rusty had no idea how well the old man could shoot. He knew he had been in the revolution against Mexico, but that had been nearly thirty years ago. He had scrapped with Indians in more recent times, but for all Rusty knew he might never have hit one. In all the Indian fights he had ever heard of, far more shots were fired than people wounded or killed on either side.

He watched as Whitfield and the others saddled their horses. The captain said, “I wish there was more I can do. Maybe Dawkins’ll change his thinkin’ when the dust has settled better.”

“He’s got blinders on, like a mule. He can’t see but one thing at a time.”

Whitfield wished Rusty luck and led out. Tanner lingered a moment. “We’re never goin’ to find them other fellers. Maybe I can talk the captain into comin’ back here once he sees that.”

“Even if he did, he couldn’t afford to stay. Dawkins’d just wait him out.”

Glumly Rusty watched the riders angle away to the northwest to intersect the horse tracks. He hunkered at the rebuilt fire, sipping from a cup of lukewarm liquid that had to pass for coffee in these short-ration times. He arose as he saw Geneva coming down the steps and walking toward him. He tossed out the little that remained in the cup. It had gone cold anyway.

She said, “Why don’t you come to the house? I’ll fix you a decent breakfast.”

“Your mother wouldn’t want me there.”

“I want you there.” She touched his arm. “You can’t just camp out here while you wait for her to change her mind. She may never change it. Come on.” She caught his hand and tugged.

He made a weak show of resistance, then gave in. “All right, but if she comes at me with a chunk of firewood . . .”

“She won’t. She’ll try to freeze you with her eyes, but she won’t draw blood. I think deep down she knows you did what you thought was right.

She just thinks you were wrong.”

“So do you, don’t you?”

Geneva did not reply.

Unlike the night before, Clemmie did not order him out of the house. She simply glared at him, then left the kitchen to him and Geneva and one of the younger girls slow in finishing her breakfast.

Clemmie came to the door as Rusty finished a bit of salt pork, dragging it through gravy and following it with half a biscuit. She leaned against the jamb, studying him critically. “Me and Lon and Papa and the boys built this house with our own hands. If you think I’ll let Dawkins scare me into leavin’ it, you’re mistaken.”