As he expected, the heifer led him to her new offspring. The calf lay in some heavy undergrowth where she had left it. The heifer tossed her head belligerently as Rusty dismounted and led the horse toward the hiding spot. Warily, for a new mother could be dangerous if anything threatened her baby, he eased close to the calf. It eyed him without fear until the heifer snorted and began to paw. It arose on shaky legs. Rusty caught and lifted it up, stretching it belly-down across the saddle. Its umbilical cord was dried but not yet lost.

He tried to soothe the heifer’s anxiety with a calm voice. “Sook now. Sook.” Holding the wriggling calf, he swung up behind the saddle and put the horse into a slow walk. The heifer slung her head, offering fight, then began to follow, bawling.

He was halfway back to the cabin when he heard a shot. In the crisp air the echo reverberated through timber along the river. He thought at first that Mike had fired at a varmint, but the report had not sounded like Mike’s rifle.

He shivered with a sudden cold fear and put the black horse into a long trot, then into a lope. He came near losing the calf as it struggled and kicked. The heifer fell behind but kept coming. At the pens, Rusty slid to the ground and lifted the calf down, then looked fearfully toward the woodpile, where he had last seen Mike chopping fuel for the cabin.

“Dad! Dad, where are you?”

He heard no answer. He trotted toward the tall stack of dead timber and called again.

Hearing a muffled voice, he checked his stride, trying to determine from where the sound had come. He heard it again, a rasping “Rusty!”

Mike lay on his stomach near the chopping log. He tried to arise, but he could do no more than push up on one elbow, then slump back. Rusty saw blood spreading across the back of Mike’s old shirt and staining the wood chips upon which he lay. The ax was beside him where he had dropped it as he fell.

Rusty fought to keep from crying. “I’ll get you to the house.” Mike cried out in pain as Rusty tried to lift him. Rusty eased him onto his back, placing Mike’s hat beneath his head.

“Don’t move me no more. Don’t move me.”

“You’ll bleed to death if I don’t get this blood stopped.”

“Won’t do no good. Son of a bitch, he’s a better shot than I thought.” Mike coughed up blood.

“It was Isaac York, wasn’t it?”

“Didn’t see.” Mike’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If he’d only made it a fair fight. . .” He reached out. Rusty took his hand. Mike gasped, trying to speak.

Whatever he wanted to say, it died with him.