Tanner whispered, “There ain’t but five, two for me and two for you. We can share the other one.”

Rusty thought it would be a poor consolation to die knowing they had won the fight. “We don’t want to kill anybody.”

Barlow said, “We don’t either.” He seemed to be speaking to his friends more than to Rusty and Tanner. “We came here to stay out of the war. Ain’t no point in startin’ one of our own.”

The younger Oldham looked to the men on either side of him. He echoed Tanner. “Ain’t but two of them. You-all afraid?”

Clyde Oldham cautioned, “You’d better be, little brother. You’ve got a rifle aimed right at your belly.”

“Well, I ain’t afraid.” The youth’s eyes gave away his intention just before he brought up a pistol and pointed it toward Rusty.

Rusty muttered, “Oh hell!” and triggered the rifle. Through the smoke he saw young Oldham jerk back as if kicked by a mule. In reflex the youth fired his pistol. The paint staggered and fell, dumping Oldham on the ground. He had shot his own horse.

Tanner shouted, “Don’t anybody make a bad move. I still got a load in this gun.”

Clyde Oldham left the saddle quickly and knelt over his younger brother. “Buddy!” he cried. The dying horse was kicking. Oldham dragged the youth away from the flailing hooves.

The other three men stared as if they could not believe what they saw. Tanner said, “You-all throw them guns to one side before you get off of your horses.” They complied.

Rusty was momentarily in shock. He had acted by instinct. He had not had time even to take good aim. Now he saw the blood and knew it was of his own doing. He felt sick.

Tanner calmly told him, “We’re still deep in the woods. You better reload that rifle or draw your pistol.”

“I hope I didn’t kill that kid.”

“If you didn’t, you taught him a hell of a lesson.” Tanner moved slowly from behind his horse, keeping his rifle trained in the direction of the brush men. Clyde Oldham had laid his rifle on the ground. Tanner tossed it away and did the same with the pistol the younger Oldham had dropped. He leaned over the fallen youth, then looked up at Rusty.

“You hit him in the arm. It’s a hell of a mess.”

Rusty gathered his wits and reloaded his rifle. Oldham had ripped his brother’s sleeve to expose the wound. The arm was shattered. The youth groaned, his face draining white in shock.

Oldham cried, “He’ll bleed to death.”