“At least you’ll be seein’ her pretty soon.”

“If she’s still on the farm where I left her and her folks.” Because he had not heard from her in so long, he could imagine all manner of misfortunes that might have befallen the surviving Monahans.

Tanner said, “Wish I had a girl waitin’ for me. I never knew how to act around women, or what to say.”

“It’s hard to picture you not havin’ somethin’ to say.”

“Always seemed like when I opened my mouth the wrong words came out. By the time I knew what I ought to’ve said, the girl would be gone.”

“I was awkward around Geneva ‘I’ll we got used to one another. After that, things just seemed to come natural.”

Tanner considered awhile, then asked, “Did you and her ever . . .” He left the question unfinished.

Rusty’s face warmed. “She ain’t that kind.”

Tanner looked sheepish. “I was only wonderin’ if you ever talked about marryin’.”

“Oh. Well, it was understood, sort of. I never felt like I ought to ask her as long as the war was on.”

“Maybe you should’ve. Things can change when you’re gone for a long time.”

Rusty fell silent, trying not to think about the violent deaths of Lon and Billy. He preferred to recall Geneva, to bring her image alive in his mind. He tried to hear the music of her voice and see her as he had first seen her long ago.

Tanner’s edgy tone shook him back to sober reality. “I thought we was all by ourselves.”

Rusty jerked to attention. His skin prickled as five horsemen pushed out of a thicket. One cradled a rifle across his left arm.

Tanner pulled on the reins. “At least they ain’t Comanches.”

“Just the same, they don’t look like they’ve come to bid us welcome.” Dismounting, Rusty slipped his rifle from its scabbard. He stood behind his horse to shield himself. Holding the weapon ready across his saddle, he watched the oncoming riders.

Tanner followed his example, eyes tense but not afraid. Tanner was seldom afraid of anything he could see. “Brush men?”

“I don’t know who else would be so far out this way.” Rusty did not like the riders’ somber expressions. The black-bearded man carrying the rifle pushed a little past the others. He gave first Tanner and then Rusty a hasty appraisal that brought no friendliness into his sharp black eyes. He leaned forward, focusing a fierce suspicion on Rusty.

“Who are you men, and what’s your business?”

If these had been Comanches, Rusty would have no doubt about their intentions. The fight would already be under way instead of hanging in the air like electricity before a storm.

“Name’s Shannon . . . Rusty Shannon. This here’s Len Tanner. We’re headed for my farm.”

“Ain’t no farms out this way”

“Mine is down on the Colorado River.”

“You’re a long ways from home. How come you so far west?”

The other riders were unshaven, which added to their formidable appearance. None had a beard as black as the leader’s, however. Rusty sized them up as probable army deserters, conscription dodgers, or simply fugitives from the law for various and sundry crimes. “We didn’t come to cause trouble. We had no idea there was anybody around.”