He climbed over the fence near his horse. Rusty heard him say something to his companion. Quickly they jerked their reins loose and swung into the saddle. They spurred the horses into a dust-raising hard run on the wagon road that ran through Jacksboro.

Tanner drew his rifle and aimed. Whitfield said, “Don’t shoot. You might hit some innocent person in town.”

Tanner lowered the rifle. “From what I’ve heard, there ain’t no innocent people in this town.”

“A few. Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“Them boys are gettin’ away.”

“I think we all know where they’re goin’.”

Tom Blessing stood gaping. “I’m just guessin’, but I’d have to figure the government won’t be gettin’ these horses.”

Whitfield said, “Not unless the government encourages horse thieves. Johnny Morris, you stay here and take charge of these animals. The rest of you, follow me.”

Rusty told Blessing, “Sorry to bust up your trade.”

“You-all may need a witness. I’ll saddle up and go with you.”

Whitfield did not have to say where they were going. Rusty knew long before he saw the big house where Colonel Dawkins lived. Several of the Dawkins farmhands stood silently watching the rangers ride into the yard.

Rusty studied one face after another, uneasy. One order from Caleb Dawkins and none of the rangers might leave here alive.

Whitfield asked an elderly black man, “Is the colonel at home?”

“Yes sir, up at his house.”

Whitfield stopped and studied the house before he dismounted. “Shannon, you come with me. Tanner, Morris, Mr. Blessing, you-all stand watch out here. You may have to cover our leavin’ if things don’t go well.”

Rusty had a pistol on his hip, but he had always trusted the rifle more. He drew it and walked to the captain’s side. They ascended the few steps up to the long veranda.

A man stood just inside the doorway that led into a hall. Caleb Dawkins, who had always looked seven feet tall, seemed smaller than Rusty remembered him. His broad shoulders sagged. His face appeared the gray of riverbank mud, his eyes dull and dispirited. His voice lacked the deep resonance Rusty remembered. “Come in, Captain. The men you seek are here.”

Pete Dawkins and the other man who had fled Jacksboro sat in straight chairs in the parlor. They looked as if they had been whipped. A middle-aged woman stood beside Pete and wept.

The colonel said gruffly, “Amity, you’d best leave the room.”

She cried, “You can’t do this to our son.”

“Our son has done it to himself. You’d best go and let me talk to the captain.”

The woman left the room in tears.

Pete pleaded, “Papa, please . . .”

The colonel rubbed the knuckles of his left hand as if arthritis was biting him. Gravely he said, “Pete asked me to help him get away. He told me what he’d done, he and Scully here, and some of those renegades out in the brush. They stole from others, and they stole from me.” He turned on his son with a flash of anger. “For this, I’ve kept you out of the army.” The anger left him quickly, and a deep sadness came over him again. “I have had men hung for less than what he has done. He’s my son. I can’t have him hung. But I can turn him over to you and let the law take its course.”