Rusty saw him saddling a horse in a log pen beside the barn and reined Alamo over that way. Blessing reacted with surprise upon recognition but methodically finished buckling the girth before he stepped around from behind the gray horse and waved a huge hand. “Thought the Indians might’ve got you, or you’d plumb left the country.”

Rusty dismounted and accepted Blessing’s bruising handshake. “Never saw a place I liked better than here.” He studied the gray horse. It took a big one to carry a man like Blessing. “Looks like I caught you fixin’ to go someplace. I wouldn’t want to hold you up.”

Blessing frowned, considering before he spoke. “I got a message from Isaac York. Asked me to come over to his place as quick as I could. I’d invite you to go with me, but I remember that you held a heavy grudge against him.”

“That was a long time ago. When I found out I was mistaken, I told him I was sorry.” Rusty had long believed York had fired the shot that killed Mike Shannon. He had been almost to the point of shooting the man before he discovered that the blame lay elsewhere.

“Then you’re welcome to come if you’re of a mind to.”

Rusty was a little surprised that York was still alive. York had fought a long and hopeless battle with whiskey. Neighbors had placed bets on when he would lose the inevitable fight with the final bottle.

“Still drinkin’ as hard as he used to?”

“I’m afraid so. Last time I saw him, I doubted he’d make it home. If it hadn’t been for Shanty, he probably wouldn’t have.”

Shanty was York’s slave. More than that, he was York’s friend, almost the only one the man still had after years of alienating his neighbors.

Rusty said, “I still owe Isaac for all the bad things I said about him. I’ll go with you.”

Blessing nodded his approval. “You show your good Shannon raisin’. Takes a strong man to admit he’s been wrong.” He mounted the gray horse and started off, Rusty pulling in beside him. They talked of old times, shared experiences on the trail when Blessing had headed up the local volunteer minutemen and Rusty had gone along as a green youngster eager for his first real fight. He had never been that eager again, not after seeing blood.

Blessing had helped Rusty and Captain Whitfield break up a horsestealing ring. He had been buying remounts as a civilian representative of the Confederate Army when Caleb Dawkins’s son Pete had driven a sizeable bunch into Jacksboro to sell. They proved to have been stolen, some from Caleb Dawkins’s own remuda. Facing his prideful father’s wrath, and a choice of prison or military service, Pete had reluctantly enlisted in the Southern Army.