Rusty was wrestling with his own feelings about the secession question. On one hand, he could see his father’s side of it. The fiercely partisan Mike had drummed patriotism and duty into him from the time Rusty was old enough to understand the words. On the other, he could understand why Tom Blessing had joined so many in disillusionment with the federal government. It had long promised to protect settlers but had not delivered. The troops it sent to the frontier were limited in number and too often foot soldiers, incapable of anything more than holding a defensive position. Cavalrymen were so few that they were unable to keep Indians from stealing army horses out of the military’s own corrals.

Yet the same Washington officials responsible for such unwise decisions felt obliged to exert increasing control over the daily lives of the faraway folk they served so poorly.

Some people were saying the whole problem was over slavery, but Rusty did not accept that. Tom Blessing owned no slaves, yet he staunchly defended secession on the grounds that the federals were becoming dictatorial. The only slave Rusty knew in these parts was Isaac York’s man Shanty. Whatever York’s faults, and he had many, he treated Shanty more like a friend and partner than a piece of property.

Maybe the whole notion would run its course and blow over like a whirlwind that raises a lot of dust, then falls away. Rusty did not relish the prospect of having to make a choice.

He harnessed old Chapultepec. The mule had recently caused a fist-fight between Rusty and the Gaskin brothers. Twice Mike had asked Fowler Gaskin to return the animal he had borrowed without a by-your-leave. Gaskin always had an excuse for keeping it a little longer. Seeing Mike’s growing impatience and afraid he was on the verge of getting into a serious quarrel with Gaskin, Rusty rode to the neighboring farm alone, determined to fetch the mule home whether the Gaskins liked it or not.

They had not liked it. Fowler Gaskin had a way of looking pathetic as a beggar on a village square when he wanted something, and he usually wanted something. “Boy, you don’t know how it is to be poor folks. We can’t afford to buy a good strong mule for ourselves. We’d be obliged if you-all’d let us keep the use of this’un just a few more days.”

Rusty acted as if he hadn’t heard. “Where’s he at?”

“He ain’t real handy right now. Tell you what, I’ll have one of the boys take him home the first of next week.”

Suspiciously Rusty demanded again, “Where you got him?”

Gaskin backed away, half a step at a time. “Truth of the matter is, he ain’t here. He’s over at the Joneses.”

By this time the two Gaskin brothers had come up to stand on either side of their father. Rusty could see fight in their eyes.

Anger rising, Rusty was in a mood to accommodate them. He balled his fists. “How come he’s at the Joneses? Thought you borrowed him for your own use.”