Rusty found himself smiling. “If Preacher Webb was to ever give up the ministry, you could take up where he left off.”

“I can’t read the Book.”

“You don’t have to. You know it by heart.”

Rusty lay on the shed’s dirt floor. The dog came up and licked his hand. Rusty said, “Go lay down.”

The dog circled a couple of times, finding a spot that suited him, then settled with his head on the edge of Rusty’s blanket. Rusty doubted that he was of any practical use, like a horse or a mule or a milk cow would be, but he provided company for Shanty. For an old man living alone, that was probably a considerable comfort.

The dog’s barking awakened Rusty. For a moment, while he blinked the sleep from his eyes, he thought the dog had probably rousted a varmint come to raid Shanty’s chickens. Then he heard hoofbeats. He had slept in his clothes, except for his boots. Hastily he pulled them on and got to his feet, rifle in his hand. He did not know how long he had been asleep, but he doubted that anyone traveling at this time of night was burdened with honorable intentions. He walked out to where the dog had taken a stand.

“Easy, boy.” The dog kept barking.

The moon’s pale light showed him several riders. He could not be sure, but there were at least six or seven. He brought the rifle up and cocked the hammer. The horsemen abruptly reined up. All had their faces covered.

Rusty challenged them. “You-all are way off of the main road.”

Someone exclaimed, “Who the hell—”

Someone else said, “It’s Shannon. What business do you have here, Shannon?” The voice was filtered through a cloth sack covering the speaker’s head.

“I’m visitin’. What about you-all?”

“We’ve come visitin’, too. Where’s that nigger?”

“I sent him away for safety.” Rusty found it easy to lie in a worthy cause. “Looks like you’ve missed him.”

“We’ll see for ourselves.”

Rusty raised the rifle to his shoulder.

The rider said, “You wouldn’t shoot a white man.”

“Maybe, and maybe not. But if you move any closer, you’ll be sittin’ on a dead horse.”

A raspy voice spoke from behind the leader. “Rusty Shannon, you’re a damned nigger-lovin’ scallywag.”

He would recognize Fowler Gaskin’s voice if it spoke from the bottom of a well. Rusty said, “If you know me that well, Fowler, you know I’ll do what I say I will. If you-all came here for mischief, you’d best turn around and go back. If you were just ridin’ past, then you’d best circle around and give this place a wide round dance.”

Gaskin argued, “He’s by hisself. He can’t get us all.”