James thought he could see something moving on the eastern horizon, but it might have been the tears he was trying to force back. “I didn’t go to bring trouble down on you-all. All I intended to do was to stop a thief.”

“Just don’t stop any bullets.”

He looked at Michael. “I wish I could say good-bye to your family. To Marie and Mordecai.”

Michael nodded. “They’ll understand.”

Isaac Blackwood had been watching the horizon. He turned. “They’re comin’. Boy, was I you I’d skin out yonderway, across the river, then stay in the timber at least till night catches you. You know where our place is at?”

James knew only vaguely; he had not been there.

“Well,” Isaac said, “was I you I’d go around. It’d be like Finis to try and turn you in to get himself better fixed with the authorities.”

The man was a Blackwood, but James felt obliged to say, “I do thank you, Isaac.” He hugged Petra and then his brothers. “I don’t know when, but I’ll be back.”

He turned to Annie, who was weeping silently. He touched her wet cheek with the palm of his hand. “It’ll be all right, sis. Now, don’t you go marryin’ the first old boy that comes along.”

He swung up onto Walker, having to lift his leg high to clear the roll of blankets. He rode down to the river in a long trot and put the horse into the water. Over the sound of the wind he heard a shout and turned to see the soldiers spurring hard to catch him. He leaned over Walker’s neck to make himself less of a target. He heard a couple of musket balls whiz by, missing him by a comfortable margin. He tried to push the horse for more speed, but Walker was swimming, doing the best he could.

The swimming speed was much less than the running speed on the ground, and the soldiers quickly closed the distance. Before James was out of the water on the north bank, some of the soldiers had put their mounts into it from the south. A couple held back to fire at him before he could disappear into the woods. The first shot went wild.

He did not hear the second shot. He felt it like a mule had kicked him in the ribs, knocking most of the breath out of him. He almost fell from the saddle and grabbed and held on, struggling for breath. He brought a hand up to his right side and felt blood there, warm and sticky. The wound burned as if it were being seared by a branding iron. The pain was sharp; the bullet had glanced off, but he suspected its impact had cracked a rib. His head swam; he was not sure he was going to be able to stay on the horse. But he had no choice. He sensed that those men back there had every intention of killing him. Self-defense didn’t mean anything if a man never lived to get to the courtroom.