“Sounds like you done right good.” For the moment, he wished they had not.

“When he was able, he commenced helpin’ around the place. That corn and that feed you see growin’ out yonder, he done a big part of the plantin’, along with Daddy Vince. Branded your calves for you, too.”

Rusty turned so they could not see the anguish in his face. His long-nourished dreams were slipping away from him. He was powerless to grab them and bring them back. He looked through the open door. “I see Vince out yonder, ridin’ a mule in from the field.”

“It’s early for him to be quittin’. Probably saw you-all and thought he’d better come to the house. Visitors mean trouble, oftener than not.”

One in particular, he thought, by the name of Evan Gifford. “You-all’ve had trouble?”

“No Indians lately, but there’s been horse thieves. There’s them that represent the army and give you worthless paper for them. Then there’s them that don’t bother with paper, they just run off whatever they can find.”

“At least the army shouldn’t bother you anymore. I imagine it’s breakin’ up fast.”

“There’s enough of them others, though. And there’s already been soldiers cut loose afoot and hungry, tryin’ to scavenge a livin’ wherever they can. You can’t expect them to stay hungry without puttin’ up a struggle. The law is apt to be scarce, so everybody’ll pretty much have to take care of theirselves.”

“Who is the law around here these days?”

“The regular sheriff went off to the army, so folks elected a man by the name of Tom Blessing. Know him?”

“Tom Blessing.” The name brought memories that would have been pleasant were he not still in shock over Geneva. “He was a friend of Daddy Mike’s. And he was the man who first put me into the rangers.”

Clemmie’s eyebrows went up. “You’re grateful to him for that?”

“It was the best thing that ever happened to me.” He saw Vince Purdy nearing the barn. That gave him an excuse to get out of the cabin. Perhaps in the open air he could clear his head and get a grip on his feelings. “I’ll go meet Vince and set his mind at ease.”

Purdy rode the plow mule, carrying the long reins coiled in one hand. He was taller than his daughter Clemmie but built along the same spare lines. His work-toughened hands seemed too large for the rest of him. Every year of his long life was etched deeply in lines that spider-webbed his thin, weathered face.

He grasped Rusty’s hand with bone-crunching strength that belied his age. “You home for good?”

“For better or for worse.” Rusty figured he had already heard the worst. He motioned toward the field. “The crops look good.”

“Rains’ve been fair enough, and we’ve watered them with a goodly amount of sweat. You ought to have a good harvest.”

“Not me. You. You-all planted and worked the fields. Whatever comes off of them rightly belongs to you.”