“You’re thinkin’ of Isaac York. I can tell by the look in your eyes. Forget that. Come to my house, and come prepared to travel.”

While the grave was being filled in, the visitors began to drift away. Preacher Webb waited. He talked quietly to first one and then another but did not take his eyes from Rusty for long.

Fowler Gaskin had surprised Rusty by coming to the funeral though without his two sons. He hung back until almost the last, then approached Rusty, his voice tentative. “Boy, I hate to be askin’ you at a time such as this, but I know Mike’s clothes won’t fit you. I was wonderin’ if you was of a mind to give some of them away? I sure could use a good winter coat.”

The audacity of the man caught Rusty standing on his left foot. “The dirt hasn’t even settled over his grave and you’ve already come scavengin’. Get the hell out of my sight, Fowler!”

Gaskin backed off. “Just felt like I ought to ask before somebody else comes along and carries everything away. After all, me and your daddy been neighbors a long time.”

“A lot too long.”

Gaskin gave Rusty a hard look while he mounted his slab-sided old mule. He kicked the mule vigorously and rode off, mumbling.

Rusty noticed Webb watching closely. The minister said, “First time the Gaskins catch you gone, they’ll help themselves to whatever they want of Mike’s stuff.”

Rusty had not thought of that. “We’ll head them off. You probably know some poor folks who could use Dad’s clothes.”

“They’ll be grateful to you.” Webb’s expression darkened. “I heard you tell Tom Blessing you have somethin’ to do before you leave. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Would you have me turn my back on what happened to Dad?”

“Better than to do somethin’ you might be sorry for the rest of your life.”

“I won’t be sorry.”

The Isaac York place lay north and a bit west of the cotton gin and general store that were the nucleus of the settlement. Rusty had been there just once, when Mike was trying to trade mules. York had been half drunk, and the black man Shanty had done most of the dickering for him. It had struck Rusty odd, seeing a man supposed to be a slave assuming that kind of responsibility for his owner. Mike had not been one to take advantage of a drunk, but even if he had, Shanty had been too sharp a trader to let him get away with it.

Rusty had hardly slept last night, trying to decide what his course should be. By rights he should shoot York down like a dog, but he would not shoot him in the back. He would prefer that York be looking at him, knowing what was coming and why.