“He won’t start nothin’. Mr. Isaac’s a sick man. He looks different than the last time you seen him.”

The door opened, and Isaac York stepped outside. “Tom,” he said, then stopped, dumbfounded at the sight of Rusty. “Heard talk and thought Tom had come back.” He stood awkwardly, one foot on the step, one on the ground. He made no move to extend his hand, nor did Rusty.

Rusty felt paralyzed. It had not entered his mind that he might find York here.

Though Shanty had warned him, he was surprised by York’s gaunt, pallid look. The man appeared to have shrunk. His eyes seemed sunk back into his head and surrounded by darkness.

Looks like the whiskey is finally about to get him, Rusty thought. But he sensed that the problem was deeper than simply drink. Maybe his conscience is grinding him down.

York appeared frozen in place. “I ain’t armed.”

Rusty’s rifle was on his saddle. “I’m not either. This is Tom Blessing’s farm. I’ve got no wish to bloody his ground.”

York eased a bit. “I never did want a fight with you. What happened to your daddy, that wasn’t none of my doin’.”

Rusty did not believe him, but he was determined to let the matter rest for now. Someday when the time was right he would call for an accounting, if nature did not beat him to it. York’s look indicated that he might not be long for this world.

“Tell Tom I came by. He’ll understand why I didn’t stay”

He swung into the saddle. He felt the rifle beneath his leg. It would be easy to draw it from the scabbard and shoot Isaac York where he stood. He had to struggle to keep himself from reaching down. But York was not armed. Killing him under these circumstances would be murder, as brutal as the murder of Mike Shannon.

Another time, then. Another place. He turned Alamo around and rode away. He would not allow himself to look behind him, though his back itched with anxiety. It would be easy for York to step into the cabin and fetch out one of Tom Blessing’s rifles, to shoot Rusty from behind as Daddy Mike had been shot. To turn and look would be to admit fear, and that he would not do, not for the miserable likes of Isaac York.

He felt a rising of confidence after he had ridden two hundred yards and strong faith after three. York was not going to shoot him. He wondered why.

A mile from Blessing’s cabin he saw a wagon coming toward him, Tom Blessing’s familiar figure perched on the seat. By this time Rusty’s pulse had slowed back to normal. He raised his hand in greeting. Blessing sawed on the reins and stopped the wagon. A huge smile spread across his face.

“Rusty Shannon. Didn’t know you were anywhere around.”

Rusty shook with him. Blessing’s big hands were strong enough to crush rock, and Rusty feared for a moment that his bones were going to break. “Just a few days. Brought some folks to stay on my place ‘I’ll the war foolishness slows down.”