It was not much to say after such a long time, but in Gaskin’s case Rusty was not interested in extended conversation. “Back. I see you’re still here.”

It would have been too much to ask of good fortune to find that Gaskin had left the country. “I think you met Len Tanner a time or two.”

Gaskin hardly looked away from Rusty. “You a ranger now, or a soldier?”

“Neither one. Our company disbanded.”

“Just as well. I never seen the rangers stop an Indian raid yet, not ‘I’ll after the damage was done.”

Rusty felt the burning of resentment. The rangers had turned back a number of attempted raids before they were able to materialize. Nobody other than the rangers themselves knew it had happened. “You still livin’ here by yourself?”

Gaskin’s voice broke into a whine. “You know I am. Them two good boys of mine gave up their lives fightin’ for the Confederacy.”

Rusty knew better. The Gaskin boys had been absent without leave and were killed in a New Orleans bawdy house fight. He was not sure Fowler Gaskin was aware of that. If he truly believed his sons had died on the battlefield, it was just as well to leave him that illusion. If he was lying to save humiliation, Rusty saw no point in picking the scab from an old sore.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of a milk cow that belongs to the Monahan family?”

“They done asked me about that cow. I’ll tell you the same as I told them. If I ever see the old hussy, I’ll give her a whack on the rump and send her home.”

Rusty heard a sound he had not encountered in a long time, the bleating of lambs. “You got sheep?”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with sheep,” Gaskin said defensively. “Confederate money ain’t worth nothin’, but you can always swap wool for somethin’ you need. Them’s dogie lambs in that pen. Lost their mamas.”

Rusty’s faint suspicions began to take on larger dimensions. “What you feedin’ them?”

“Whatever I’ve got. Lambs ain’t choosy.”

Rusty and Tanner rode down to the pen, Gaskin following suspiciously. Rusty saw half a dozen lambs. He asked Tanner, “You know anything about sheep?”

“Not much. Just that they don’t smell good, is all.”

Rusty would guess these lambs were two or three months old, all in excellent flesh. Whatever they had been fed, they were thriving. Over in the corner of the pen was a stanchion large enough for a cow.

Sheep manure came in small pellets. Scattered around the pen were large patties, some of them fresh.

Rusty said to Gaskin, “You must have some awful big sheep.”

Gaskin looked nervous. “They’re big enough.”