Geneva cried, “Leave? But where would we go?”

“I hear that a few folks’ve already gone south to Mexico. Or we could move west out to Arizona or California. Maybe even to Oregon, where there ain’t no north nor south, where there won’t be no war.”

Clemmie demanded, “What about the farm? We’ve worked so long and so hard—”

“The Vanderfords’ve been after me a long time to let them buy it. We could be halfway to Arizona before Dawkins and his crowd even know we’re gone.”

James stood up, fists clenched. “Turn tail and run? That ain’t like you, Pa. It ain’t like us.”

“You’re way too young to remember the runaway scrape, when Santy Anna marched across Texas, bent on wipin’ us all out. A lot of brave folks packed up and ran because they didn’t see any other way to survive.” He looked at Webb. “You know what I’m talkin’ about, Preacher?”

Webb nodded sadly. “I’m afraid I read the handwritin’ on the wall the same way you do.”

Rusty saw anguish in Geneva’s eyes and wished he could do something to ease it. He said, “There ought to be somebody who could do somethin’. The rangers, maybe. There’s more to the rangers than fightin’ Indians. Aren’t we supposed to keep the peace?”

Webb said, “When Texas secedes there won’t be any peace to keep. Not likely to be much of a government, not for a while. May not even be any rangers.”

James declared, “To hell with Caleb Dawkins. We’ll fight him. We’ll kill him if we have to.”

Webb cautioned, “You shouldn’t speak of killin’. Don’t even think of it.”

Rusty imagined he could hear Clemmie’s teeth grinding. She declared, “This place is ours. We built it from nothin’. We’re not goin’ to Mexico or Oregon or anywhere else. We’re stayin’ right here.”

Lon Monahan’s gaze moved to the other members of the family—Billy, Geneva and her sisters, Clemmie’s father. “You-all say the same? Even knowin’ the risk, you’re bound to stay?”

Geneva looked at Webb. “There’d be risk on the trail too, wouldn’t there, Preacher Webb?”

Webb’s eyes were sad. “Indians. Sickness. Outlaws. No tellin’ what-all.”

Geneva said, “Then we’d just be tradin’ one risk for another. Maybe a bunch of them.”

Clemmie folded her arms, her eyes stern. “Here at least we know what the danger is. It’s got a face, and that face looks like old Caleb Dawkins. There never was a time, on the sickest day of your life, that you couldn’t beat the whey out of that son of a bitch. Pardon me, Preacher.”