Rusty had a suspicion, but he would not voice it, not yet. “I’ve been neglectful,” he said. “I ain’t made a circle yet to visit my neighbors. I don’t even know if they’re all still around.”

Clemmie’s face wrinkled. “There’s one that’s been around a lot more than I would’ve liked.”

Rusty thought he knew. “Sounds like Fowler Gaskin.”

Gaskin had lived just a few miles from the Shannons for years, to their continual misfortune.

Clemmie said, “That old sneak has got it in his mind that I ought to be in the market for a new husband. If there wasn’t but one man left alive on the face of God’s earth and it was him, I wouldn’t let him within smellin’ distance of me. And I can smell him a long way.”

Gaskin had been a thorn in Daddy Mike’s side, always borrowing without asking, never bringing anything back, always looking to ride instead of walk if he could manage it at someone else’s expense. Clemmie said, “You ever see a pig that would wiggle in with other litters and steal milk from every sow in the pen? That’s Fowler Gaskin.”

Vince Purdy scowled at mention of the name. “I’ve had to threaten to wallop him with a singletree to make him leave Clemmie alone.”

Clemmie might be well into middle age, but to her father she was still a young girl who needed protection. Though she might not weigh enough to sink in deep water, Rusty suspected she could swing a mean singletree herself if the need arose.

Rusty said, “I’ll go talk to Fowler. Me and Tanner.”

The last time he had seen the Gaskin cabin, part of it had been damaged by a windstorm. Repairs had been done in a makeshift manner, but now the whole cabin leaned to the south and seemed in danger of collapse.

Tanner observed, “He’s propped a log against the eaves. That’s the only thing holdin’ it up. That and the south wind.”

“He’d rather bleed than sweat. Never do for himself what he can wheedle someone else into doin’ for him. Never buy anything if he can borrow it. And never remember to take back anything he borrows.”

“You mean like a milk cow?”

“I’d not be surprised.”

Gaskin’s droop-tailed hound announced the horsemen. Gaskin stepped out through the cabin’s sagging door and stood slouched in front, a long rifle in his hand. Rusty wondered idly who he had “borrowed” it from. Gaskin reminded Rusty of a scarecrow, gaunt, bent-shouldered, his tangled beard a mixture of black and gray, streaked with tobacco juice that had dribbled down his chin. His red-rimmed eyes were far from friendly.

“Rusty Shannon. Back, are you?”