By the time they returned to the house, the first neighbors had begun arriving a-horseback, in wagons and buggies. Most brought food in baskets or sacks to help the Monahans feed the expected crowd. Rusty was introduced to so many that he had no chance of remembering the names. It had always been that way when he had accompanied Preacher Webb on his circuit. Prayer meeting was more than a religious event. It provided a rare excuse for a social gathering where the men could swap yarns, horses, and dogs. Women could exchange news about weddings and births and discuss whatever they had been able to learn about fashion in faraway places like St. Louis and New Orleans.

This gathering also provided a forum for extended discussions on secession. Rusty noted that the preponderance of opinion favored pulling out. Monahan’s was definitely a minority view. In another setting the debate might have sparked violent quarreling, but here the visitors respected the host’s views even as most disagreed with them.

Clemmie Monahan walked out onto the porch, drying wet hands on an apron. She told her husband, “Appears to me that just about everybody’s here and lookin’ hungry.”

Her father said, “I sure am.”

Lon Monahan asked Webb, “You want to eat first or do it after the preachin’?”

“Minister first to the body, then the soul will be ready for the Word.”

Old Vince Purdy said, “Amen.”

Preacher Webb broke up the scattered conversations by calling for the visitors to bow their heads. He beseeched the Lord to heal divisions and restore peace to troubled hearts.

He had barely reached the “Amen” when a large man of commanding presence rode up on a big white horse, trailed by three riders whose subservient manner indicated they were in his pay or in his debt. The man wore a long black coat, open so that no one could miss seeing the pistol he carried in his broad waistband.

Lon Monahan was obviously displeased about the late-arriving guests, but he showed himself a good host by walking out to meet them. “You’re late, Colonel, but we’re just fixin’ to eat supper. There’s plenty for all of you. And Preacher Webb ain’t delivered his sermon yet.”

Rusty heard Vince Purdy mutter, “Colonel Caleb Dawkins. I’d rather be bit by a hydrophoby dog.”

Dawkins did not dismount. He seemed seven feet tall in the saddle, a huge man with shoulders that looked wide enough to bump a doorway on both sides and hands big enough to choke a mule. “We have not come to eat or listen to platitudes.” His voice was deep and resonant, like Mona-han’s, and chillingly calm. “We have come to see how many choose to align themselves with traitors.”