“These people’s name is Monahan. Lon Monahan is a good farmer and a good man. You’ll like him. You’ll like the whole family.”

Rusty was not keen on making new acquaintances right now. They would try their best to make him feel good, and he didn’t really want to feel good. Mike’s death hung over him like a dark cloud. He was not yet ready for the sunshine.

Webb added, “They’ve got a daughter about sixteen or seventeen. Her name is Geneva. Pretty as a china doll.”

That’s an old bachelor for you, Rusty thought. Go miles out of his way to keep from missing a pretty woman. He suspected Webb’s definition of pretty was undemanding.

Rusty found the Monahan farm larger and neater in appearance than the Shannon place. It bespoke prosperity, at least by the modest standards of a Texas still in its settling-down stage. The main house was built of sawmill lumber rather than logs, though an older double log cabin still appeared to be in use. He suspected it had been the Monahans’ first home and had been set aside for older family members or the boys of the family, a fairly common usage in such cases. Like the main house, the newest, largest barn was of lumber, the smaller barn and sheds older and of logs. A low rock fence surrounded a large garden. Out past the big barn, two men were building a new corral, stacking trimmed oak branches between double oak posts to form a fence. It was typical wintertime work for a farmer who had nothing to do in the fields.

Webb said, “There’s Lon Monahan, out yonder with one of his sons. We’ll stop and say howdy before we go up to the house.”

Monahan’s sun-bronzed features, droopy-brimmed felt hat, and brogan shoes would mark him anywhere as a farmer no matter how far he might stray from the plow. He wiped a huge hand on the bib of his faded overalls before reaching out to shake with Webb. “I swear to God, Preacher, it’s damned good to see you.”

Webb said, “You remember Mike Shannon? This is his boy Rusty.”

Monahan’s grip was strong enough to crush bones. His broad, easy smile added to the creases of middle age but made Rusty feel at ease with the farmer. He did not always meet strangers well. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Monahan. Preacher has told me a right smart about you.” He hadn’t, really, except to warn that Monahan’s language tended to be salty.

“I knew your daddy in the Mexican War. Hell of a good feller. I hope he’s well.”

Rusty looked at the ground. “No, sir, he’s dead.”