“He doesn’t strike me as a man who makes idle talk.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell.”

Rusty spent the day puttering around the farm with Vince Purdy, patching a broken place in a fence, putting several fresh shingles into the shed roof to repair hail damage. Every little while Rusty would look eastward toward the Dawkins farm, wondering where Dawkins was and what type of vengeance simmered in the man’s twisted mind. It seemed inconceivable that he would risk injury or death to women and children. Yet Dawkins was fanatical about the war and hated the Monahan family. Passion could easily drive such a man across the boundary between reason and madness. Daddy Mike had encountered fighters in the Mexican War and Indian campaigns who lost all sense of caution or compassion in the fury of the moment. Isaac York had been such a one.

Purdy offered, “You can sleep in the room with me tonight if you don’t mind an old man’s snorin’.”

Rusty demurred. “Clemmie wouldn’t get much rest, knowin’ I was under the same roof. I’ll sleep in the shed like I did before.”

He did not expect to sleep much. He intended to stay awake and on guard in case Dawkins came. But weariness overcame good intentions. He dozed off slumped on the edge of his cot.

He was awakened by a shout and a flash of light, the sound of horses moving. Fighting off a lingering drowsiness, he instinctively jumped to his feet, jamming his pistol into his waistband and grabbing the rifle he had loaded and left ready. He stumbled outside, nearly falling in his haste. Flames licked at the front of the house. Horsemen fired through the windows, shattering glass. In the flickering light of the blaze he saw someone emerge from the front door with a blanket and try to beat out the flames. Whether man or woman he could not tell. Horsemen raced down upon the figure and forced a retreat back into the burning house.

Against the flames he managed to outline a rider and bring the sights of the rifle to bear. The rifle roared, and a man shouted in shock, almost falling, leaning over the saddle horn as he lost himself in the darkness.

The flames swept upward, hungrily spreading across the front of the house. Rusty tried to reload the rifle as he ran. Two horsemen bore down upon him. He dodged, swinging the rifle like a club but missing. He raised the pistol and fired once.

Vince Purdy came around from the back of the house, firing a shotgun. A horse squealed and pitched and almost lost its rider.

Someone shouted, “We’ve done it! Let’s go!”

Sprinting toward the house, Rusty saw Clemmie burst out upon the porch, carrying a rifle. She fired into the horsemen. With a squall of pain, a rider fell to the ground. He arose, hopping. A companion reached down and pulled him up behind the saddle. They raced past Rusty, almost running over him.