“Hell of a shape for Texas to be in.”

Rusty reined his mule to a stop and turned loose of the plow, raising a hand to the brim of his hat to help shade his eyes. He was not surprised to see a dozen men riding in from the direction of the settlement. It was safer these days to travel with company. Groups of riders had become commonplace, some on legitimate business, some up to no good. He could tell from a distance that these were white, not Indian. “Stay there,” he told the mule, though he knew it would not move a foot without being compelled to.

He walked to a rifle leaning against the rail fence that protected his cornfield from cattle. He cradled it across his left arm, trying not to appear threatening but letting them know he was of a mind to defend himself.

He recognized one of the riders and growled under his breath. Fowler Gaskin, and behind him his nephew, Euclid Summerville.

Some of the others were known to Rusty, but some were not. They were grim-faced as they rode up to the rails and stopped. Gaskin stared at Rusty with all the malice he could muster. He had hated Daddy Mike, and after Mike’s death he had transferred that hatred to Rusty. The old man could not be happy without hating somebody.

Summerville demonstrated less hostility. It took energy to hate properly, and he was not one to put out that much effort without a pressing need.

Gaskin demanded, “Where’s that Indian kid that likes to beat up on people?”

Rusty had sent Andy out with Tanner to look for two strayed mares. “You know he’s not an Indian, so why don’t you stop callin’ him one? Anyway, he’s not here.”

“Damned good thing. He always makes me feel like he’s fixin’ to put an arrow in my gut.”

Rusty said nothing that would dispel the old man’s misgivings. Because of Andy, Gaskin seldom came around anymore. Rusty wanted to keep it that way.

A broad-shouldered man edged his horse forward. He was some twenty-five years older than Rusty and looked every day of it. Rusty had encountered Jeremiah Brackett many times in town, though he had never had occasion to visit the man’s farm. “Shannon, we heard you had some Unionist visitors the other day. I’d like to know what they wanted and what you told them.”

Brackett had been an officer in the Confederate Army and wounded more than once. Not all of his wounds had been physical. It was said around the settlement that no one had seen him laugh since the war.