Mike adjusted his coat, for the wind carried a chill. “Ain’t no need. I’m just goin’ to the settlement to have a drink or two and visit what friends I’ve still got left.”

Lately there had been much less talk about Indians than about a proposed Texas referendum on secession from the Union. Most people along the river seemed to favor joining the new Confederacy. Mike vigorously opposed it, so longtime friends had been falling away from him.

Rusty said, “At least, don’t be talkin’ politics. It’ll just get you into another fight.”

“Why shouldn’t a man say what he thinks when he knows he’s right? Them boys’ve got no idea what they’re talkin’ about. Wantin’ to take Texas out of the Union . . . they’ve forgot how hard we fought to get in”

“It won’t make a particle of difference what you or anybody else says in a little cotton-gin settlement most people never heard of. It’ll be decided in places like Austin and San Antonio. That’s where the big votes are.”

“Just the same, if a man don’t exercise his right to say what he thinks, pretty soon they won’t let him say anything.”

“Even Tom Blessing has given up on the Union, and he used to be as strong for it as anybody. He says a little bunch of Yankees up north are tryin’ to boss everybody. Says it’s time to rise up and tell them to go to hell before we lose all our rights.”

Face reddening, Mike shook his finger at Rusty. “Don’t you ever let me hear talk like that comin’ out of your mouth. I was born American. I’ve fought under the United States flag. I’ll not stand idle while anybody talks against it. . . not you, not anybody.” He swung up onto the horse. “Not anybody, ’y God!”

Watching Mike ride off eastward on the wagon road, Rusty felt chastened by the harshness of his foster father’s voice. He should be getting used to it, he thought. Always one to speak his mind and opinions with his fists, Mike had been increasingly argumentative since the secession talk became serious. Moreover, he had taken to drinking considerably more since they had buried Mother Dora at the edge of the oak grove west of the cabin. Nobody had ever quite decided what her ailment was. She had simply faded before their eyes, becoming grayer and thinner, losing strength until one day Mike and Rusty had come home from the field and found her dying.

In a voice so low he could barely hear it, she had asked Rusty to look after his father. He had promised he would, but he feared he had done poorly at living up to the promise. Mike Shannon was too old to take orders from Rusty and too headstrong to accept advice. He had come home from the settlement more than once with his face bruised, his knuckles skinned and swollen.

Some of it was patriotism, Rusty reasoned, but some was simply a result of grief and restlessness, a combination too much for Mike to bear with grace.