Rusty felt a hollowness inside as he contemplated his own future. He had the farm. He could pick up a handful of its rich soil and know it was something substantial, something that was his. And he was confident that Geneva would stand by his side. But everything else was an unanswered question. Texas, along with the rest of the Confederacy, had lost the war. It was only a matter of time until the Federals moved in troops to take over whatever remained of a government. Where would the defeated Confederates fit in, or would they fit in at all? What punishments might they suffer at the hands of the victors?

Rusty had never taken up arms against the Union, yet in his won way as a ranger for the state of Texas he had been an agent of the Confederacy. Would he be subject to punishment? If so, what would the punishment be? These nagging questions ran through his mind, seeking answers but only stirring up more questions.

He voiced some of his concerns to Whitfield, who lay in the shade of a tree beside the slow-yielding spring. The captain said, “They can’t line us all up and shoot us; there’s way too many. Ain’t enough jails between here and Cape Cod to put us all behind bars. We’ll make do somehow as long as we’re livin’ and breathin’. Even if they burned us out like Sherman did in Georgia, there’s always the land. They can’t burn that up.”

They had unhitched the wagon team and led them to the water. Rusty took them back for a second chance to drink after their rest, then hitched them to the wagon again. “We’d best be gettin’ on. It’s a long ways to the Colorado River.”

He began seeing familiar landmarks he associated with the Monahan farm. They brought memories rushing back. He tried to concentrate on Geneva, but thoughts of her led to the chill of remembered violence. He relived the brutal lynching of Lon and Billy Monahan and a frightening nighttime raid that had culminated in the Monahan house going up in flames.

Tanner said, “I’ll bet you’re thinkin’ about that Geneva girl.”

Rusty had been struggling with bitter memories of Colonel Caleb Dawkins and his son Pete, but he did not feel like arguing with Tanner over technicalities. “Didn’t know it showed.”

Len suggested, “We could swing by the old Monahan farm, maybe spend the night there.”

Rusty dreaded the feelings such a visit would inevitably stir up. “It’d add some miles, maybe cost us an extra day. Wouldn’t likely be much left there anyway. Dawkins and his bunch left a lot of it in ashes.”

“Been a right long while since we heard anything about Caleb Dawkins.” Tanner smiled hopefully. “You don’t reckon somethin’ awful might’ve happened to him?”

“I doubt it. But he may not be gettin’ much sleep.”