That did not sound like the Gaskin boys Rusty had known, but maybe the war had given them an unexpected sense of responsibility. More likely the conscription officers had come and taken them away whether they wanted to go or not.

Gaskin added, “My old woman died, and daughter Florey run off and got herself married. I been havin’ to do everything for myself. It’s hard, boy, awful hard.”

For someone else, Rusty would have felt compassion. But Gaskin had never done much for himself and had done nothing for anybody else, so far as Rusty knew. “You’ll have to gather up your stuff and move. These folks lost their home, and I’ve brought them here to live ‘I’ll they can do better.”

Gaskin had the cowering look of a dog just given a whipping. “I don’t know where I can go. My old house ain’t fit to live in.”

“You can find somebody to help you fix the roof. Doesn’t look like it’s rained around here lately or is fixin’ to any time soon.”

Gaskin hunched, his voice trailing into a whine. “I’d hoped you’d turn out better, but you’re just like your old daddy was. He never had no pity on the poor and helpless. I’ll bet Saint Peter gave him a cussin’ when he got to the gates.”

Rusty had tried to summon tolerance, but it evaporated. “I said go, Fowler.”

“I’ll have to fetch my team. They’re down by the creek.”

“Then do it. I’ll pile what’s yours out here on the dog run.”

The old man mumbled to himself as he hobbled off in the direction of the creek where two mules grazed. Rusty realized he had not seen any Shannon cattle on the way in. There should have been some. He would not be surprised to learn that Gaskin had driven them off somewhere and sold them for whatever little he could get.

Geneva helped her mother into the cabin. She turned back at the door. “We wouldn’t want that old man put out in the cold on our account.”

“You don’t need to feel sorry for the likes of Fowler Gaskin. If he could be sold for his true worth, he wouldn’t fetch six bits.”

The kitchen was a mess. Rusty could well believe that Gaskin had lived here for months. It would have taken that long to accumulate so much grease and filfth. Mother Dora would be appalled if she could see what had become of her home. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea the place would need so much cleanin’ up.”

He smelled something simmering on the stove. Squirrel stew. For a moment he felt hungry, but he quickly recovered, remembering how dirty Gaskin’s hands had been. When Fowler Gaskin died, it would not be of food poisoning; he must be immune to that or he would already have gone to his reward. Rusty removed the stew from the stove and carried it out onto the dog run. “You don’t want to eat that. It’d kill anybody but a Gaskin.”