Eyes afire, Rusty bent over his foster father and cried as he had when Mother Dora died.

A cold realization gradually crept over him while he knelt, gripping Mike’s lifeless hand. It staggered him as he absorbed its full import. So far as he knew, he had no blood kin, not anywhere. He did not even know who he really was, and it was improbable that he ever would. Now the couple who had given him a name and a home and the security of their love had been taken from him.

For the second time in his life, he was alone.

Rusty was disappointed at the small number of neighbors who came to pay their final respects to Mike. He had not fully realized the deep feelings many people held about secession, or how much they had resented Mike’s firm stance against it. For some, his record as a ranger and the many times he had volunteered his strong arms for service to the community were not enough to erase the stain of his political leanings.

Rusty told Preacher Webb, “Now I can see who his true friends were.”

“Don’t blame them too much. We may be lookin’ at a war, and war takes a hard toll on friendships. If this one comes to pass, it may even break up families. The Mike we knew couldn’t deny his true convictions. You wouldn’t have wanted him to.”

“I would if it could’ve saved his life.”

“You’d have lost respect for him, and he’d have lost respect for himself.”

“Nothin’ is worth somebody murderin’ him.” Rusty cast a dark look toward the sheriff, who stood at the edge of the small gathering, gesturing broadly as he expressed his opinion that Texas should cut loose as soon as possible. “He don’t seem any too concerned over catchin’ Isaac York and bringin’ him in.”

“There isn’t any proof that Isaac did it.”

“Who else would’ve? You were there. You helped break up the fight between him and Dad. And he’s not here for the funeral. He’s afraid to come because he knows I know he’s guilty. So do lots of folks, whether they’ll admit it or not.”

“Several other neighbors aren’t here either, but that doesn’t mean they murdered Mike.”

The sheriff caught enough of the conversation to arouse his interest. He walked up to Rusty, his face burdened by a deep frown. “Son, you’ve got a right to be upset, but you’ve got no right to accuse anybody without you can show proof. You got that proof?”

“I didn’t see him, but I know. I think you know, too.”