Rusty said, “I hear you’re the sheriff now. I don’t see you wearin’ a badge.”

“The last sheriff lost it someplace. Anyway, everybody around here knows who I am.”

“What if you run into outlaws and they don’t know you?”

“They’ll get acquainted with me quick enough.”

York’s cabin was plain, without even such embellishments as a small porch or a yard fence. York had no family beyond the slave Shanty. His wife and daughters had been killed by Comanches years ago. He had tried to drown his bitterness in whiskey ever since. He seethed with hatred for Indians, no matter their intentions, no matter their tribe, and embraced any opportunity to kill them.

A dog’s barking brought a slight figure to the cabin door. Rusty recognized the aging slave. The talk was that his mother had belonged to Isaac York’s father, and he and Isaac had grown up together. Some people whispered that the two might be half-brothers. Technically Shanty was York’s property, but in practice he was more a caretaker and protector. Had it not been for Shanty constantly watching over him, dragging his contentious master out of a fight before it went too far, sobering him up before it was too late, Isaac probably would have gone to his grave years ago.

Shanty bowed in the deferential manner drilled into him from the time he had learned to walk. His lean body was bent under the weight of hard times. His big-knuckled hands were disproportionately large, bespeaking a lifetime of manual labor. “Mr. Blessing, it’s a mercy you’ve come. Mr. Isaac’s mighty low.” The voice was soft and seemed near breaking. Shanty looked at Rusty a moment before coming to recognition. “Why, you’re that Shannon boy. Been a long time. Only you don’t look like a boy no more.”

“Nobody stays young long in this part of the country. Sorry about Isaac.”

“I’m afraid the Lord’s fixin’ to call him to Heaven.”

Rusty was not sure Heaven was Isaac’s true destination. He was about to ask if a doctor had seen Isaac, then remembered that the nearest thing to a doctor anywhere around was Preacher Webb. Primarily interested in ministering to souls, Webb had a considerable practical knowledge about healing bodies as well.

Shanty said, “Last we seen of Preacher Webb, he was headin’ west. Said he had a flock out yonder in need of a shepherd.”

That might have been a reference to the brush men, Rusty thought. One had mentioned occasional visits by Preacher Webb.

Shanty’s eyes reflected a deep sadness. “There’s lost sheep in need of him right here. I hope he comes in time.”

A weak voice called from inside the cabin. Shanty motioned toward the door. “He’s been frettin’, Mr. Blessing, wonderin’ when you’d come.”