Rusty had already told Geneva something of Mike and Dora. She watched him pull weeds from around the markers. Someone had put a carved stone over Mike’s grave, fairly well matching Dora’s. Preacher Webb’s doing, most likely, or perhaps Tom Blessing’s. He would remember to thank them.

She said, “Your father died because of his beliefs, like mine.”

“A lot of people are doin’ that these days. Seems like there ought to be a better way—more talkin’ and less fightin’.”

“That’s easy to say, but would you be content just to talk to whoever killed your father?”

Old anger arose in him. “No, I guess not. I still want to kill him. I suppose that makes me a hypocrite.”

“It just shows you’re human. I have the same feelin’s toward Caleb Dawkins, but I know I’ll never kill him. Somebody else may, but I won’t. And if you try hard enough, you can get past the notion of killin’ the man who shot your father.”

“It’ll take a lot of tryin’.”

He did not want to delay his return to the ranger camp longer than necessary, but he disliked leaving the Monahans such a mess to clean up for themselves. He decided a couple more days should do no harm, considering how much time he had already lost in recuperation and in the trip here. Few Indian incursions had been discovered in recent weeks. He persuaded the two boys to stay too. They could ride back together when they had the Shannon place in better shape, the woodpile replenished, and Rusty’s cattle accounted for.

It was the latter task that brought him suddenly and unexpectedly face-to-face with Isaac York. He had hoped to avoid any such meeting. But after a wide sweep failed to turn up half as many cattle as he thought should be there, he decided to ride over to Tom Blessing’s place and ask if Blessing knew anything about them. He had yearned to see at least a few old friends anyway, and Blessing was at the top of his list along with Preacher Webb.

Riding up to the Blessing cabin, he saw a face he knew well, the black man Shanty. Isaac York’s slave sat on a bench beside the door, soaking up the winter sunshine. Rusty reined to a stop and considered turning back. But stubbornness demanded that he not retreat. He tied his reins to a post.

Shanty stood up, his face troubled. “Mr. Rusty. You back to stay?”

“Just another day or two. Came to see Tom Blessing.”

Shanty jerked his head toward the door. “He’s gone someplace. Mr. Isaac’s inside, waitin’ for him. You ain’t come for trouble with Mr. Isaac, I hope.”

“Didn’t know he was here ‘I’ll I saw you. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.”

“I’ve told you before, it wasn’t Mr. Isaac killed your daddy.”

The old man’s honest eyes told Rusty that he believed what he was saying. But Shanty was a slave, and it was unlikely York would have told him anything that might later incriminate him. “I didn’t come for trouble, and there won’t be any unless he starts it.”