He heard the desk drawer slide, wood dragging upon wood. It rattled as Brackett reached inside. Andy heard the drawer being closed again, slowly and carefully.

All the caution went for nothing, because Brackett knocked something off of the desk. It crashed on the floor. Andy’s heart leaped.

He heard a woman’s startled cry from one of the bedrooms. The guard jumped to his feet, pistol in his hand. Mrs. Brackett came into the hallway, carrying a lighted lamp. Andy desperately signaled for her to blow it out, but it was too late. The guard stood in the front door, eyes wide.

Andy recognized Buddy Oldham.

Jeremiah came out of the parlor. Buddy took a quick glance at him and jumped off of the porch. He turned and fired a wild shot into the hallway. He shouted, “Git him, Clyde. It’s F’arley Brackett!”

Andy realized that in his confusion Buddy had mistaken the father for the son. Both Oldhams fired again. Elnora Brackett gasped and dropped the lamp. It smashed, spreading kerosene on the floor. Flames hungrily followed the flow.

Clyde Oldham shouted, “We got him. Shoot! Shoot!”

A dozen shots exploded from the darkness, smashing into the walls.

Bethel rushed from her bedroom and gasped in horror. She ran to her mother, twisted on the floor. Andy helped her drag Elnora away from the flames.

Jeremiah hobbled to the door, waving his arms. “Stop firing! You’ve hit my wife!”

Andy heard the thud of a bullet as it caught Jeremiah in the chest. It was followed by another. The farmer grabbed at the door facing, sighed, and fell, his body sliding down the wall.

Andy lay flat on the floor and motioned for Bethel to do the same. He shouted, “Quit firin’. Farley Brackett’s not here.”

The firing tapered off, then stopped. The two guards who had been in the backyard rushed into the hallway from the far end. They wasted only a few seconds surveying the situation. One went to the front door and called to his companions, “It’s over with. We got two people shot in here.”

The other guard trotted into the nearest bedroom and returned with a heavy quilt to spread over the flames. He stomped on the quilt until the fire was snuffed out.

Clyde Oldham entered the hallway, trembling with excitement. “We got him. We got him.” Buddy followed, pistol in his hand. It was still smoking.

Andy’s fear receded. In its place came outrage. “You sorry son of a bitch, you shot Farley’s mother and father. Farley ain’t here. He never was.”

Buddy argued, “But I saw him.”

“You saw Jeremiah, and you killed him.”

Clyde recognized Andy for the first time. “You’re Rusty Shannon’s Indian.”

Defiantly Andy said, “I’m nobody’s Indian.”

Someone found another lamp and lighted it. A policeman of severe countenance motioned for the holder to lower it while he looked first at Jeremiah, then at Elnora. She was still alive and moaning. He gave Clyde Oldham a look of loathing.