“Silas, you got any tobacco? I’m plumb out.”

The guard he had seen first moved toward the voice. “Yeah, but be careful when you light it. If the captain sees it, we’ll all catch hell.”

“Reminds me of an officer I had in the army. Mad about somethin’ all the time. He’s sure got it in for them Oldhams.”

“With good reason. We almost had Farley Brackett, ‘til Buddy charged in before we was ready and got his horse knocked out from under him. Damn, but that Farley’s a crack shot.”

“At least Buddy’s better than Clyde. Never saw a man who could disappear so quick when he hears a gun go off.”

While the two guards continued their conversation, Andy circled around them. He was almost to the back of the house. He worried over a dim patch of moonlight he had to cross before he could reach the porch. He worked along carefully in the shadow of a shed, looked hard in all directions, then passed quickly through the stretch of open ground. He stopped in the darkness of the porch, listening for any indication that someone had seen him. He could still hear faintly the guards’ conversation. The only other sound was crickets in the trees.

The back door was open for ventilation, so he need not worry about noisy hinges. Inside the house, he found himself in a hallway that extended all the way to the open front door. He saw the dark outline of a guard sitting on the edge of the front porch.

The floor creaked under his weight, giving him a moment’s pause until he saw that the guard was not responding. He decided that nervousness exaggerated his perception of the noise.

Jeremiah Brackett slept in the southwest corner room, Farley had said. The doors to two other bedrooms opened into the hallway. Bethel and Elnora Brackett slept in those, he reasoned. He had no wish to awaken them. Startled, they might cry out and bring the guards running in.

His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He could make out a bureau with a mirror on it and a pitcher and bowl. Brackett’s bed was pulled up next to the deep window for fresh air. Brackett snored softly.

Andy touched his shoulder and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Mr. Brackett. Wake up.”

The farmer jerked. His snoring ended abruptly with a choking sound. He raised up from his pillow, looking around wildly.

“No noise, Mr. Brackett,” Andy whispered. “There’s a guard sittin’ on your front porch.”

“Who are you?” Brackett demanded hoarsely. “If you’re here to rob me you’ve come to a poor place.”

“You remember me. I’m Andy Pickard, from over at Rusty Shannon’s.”

“The Indian boy? What do you want?”

“I’ve come on an errand for Farley. He says you’ve saved some gettin’-away money for him.”