Doney pictured the house in siege. They would have to barricade the doors and windows. The enemy would ride into the yard. There would be Dixon in the lead, with the high sheriff behind him, and an army of deputies. Old Milford would shoot first, and then bullets from the attackers would rain like hail over the house. Tom would be killed, because old Milford would never surrender. She began to cry. Tom reached out his hand and tousled her hair.

“Honey girl, quit that. I hadn’t ought to of worried you about it. Go put our dinner on the table. We’ll mebbe both feel better once we’ve et.”

She could not control her tears, but she moved about the kitchen automatically. Everything was cold, but Tom was never particular about hot food. She laid out the cow peas and bacon, the cold corn pone, and poured the thick coffee and chicory into the cups. She ate blindly. She was grateful when Tom asked for a second helping. There was comfort in feeding him. It seemed the only thing she could do for him. She cleared the table and washed the dishes. Tom went to smoke on the porch and she joined him with Milford’s mending. The big man burst through the seams of shirts and trousers as fast as she could bind them. The afternoon was so still that she thought she heard a limpkin crying from the river.

Tom said, “He’s had time to do all the devilment he wanted to. He’d ought to be back by now.”

Two hours before sundown the two Mills boys rode into the yard. There was no trace of the lighthearted nonsense they usually brought with them on a visit. Their dark, carefree faces were almost as grave as Tom’s. They hitched their horses to the chinaberry and came to the porch.

Joe Mills said, “Your daddy told us to come here and wait on him. What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know. Him and me don’t see this the same. What’s he done a’ready?”

“Cut Dixon’s fences and let all our cattle in. They stampeded for the river. We heerd shootin’, but don’t know was it somebody shootin’ at him, or did he shoot Dixon.”

Jerry Mills said, “Mebbe he got jealous and shot the Barnum bull.”

They laughed then, and settled themselves, rolling cigarettes. The three Wilsons arrived with the same meager information, then the Hobkirks and the Dibbles. Within an hour, cattlemen from a ten-mile radius had gathered. At last old Milford rode in. His horse was as wet with sweat as he, its tongue lolling under the bit. Milford shook with fatigue as he dropped from the saddle, but he eyed the group of men with satisfaction.

“I reckon they’s enough of us to settle this our way,” he said.

There was no answer.

Old man Wilson said, “You best tell us what you’ve been a-doin’.”

Milford dropped into his rocker. He reached for his tobacco. “Doney, cain’t you see I’m burnin’ up?”