“John.” Fear and anger were finding their way into Sisson's voice. “Tom's your brother. He ain't as good as you thought he was, once. And he ain't as bad as you're thinking he is now. He's your brother. That's all. Now get ahold of yourself.”

“We're going up into Hendricks's place,” Tom said. “And put that fucking gun down, John.”

“I ought to shoot you. That's what I ought to do. And maybe that's what I'm going to do.”

“Find yourself some whiskey, did you?”

“Tom,” Sisson said, “he's pretty upset. You take some care now.”

“He's pretty drunk. That's what he is. We still got business to take care of. Thems ain't out there having Themselves a party. Thems's still looking for us. We got a hard ride to Hendricks's barn, to put up there for a bit. Now let's just get ready to ride.”

“Whose whiskey, Tom?” John was still holding the gun pointed more or less at Tom.

“I don't know, John. Might be Hendricks's or one of his men. Right now, it looks pretty much like yours. Or you're its.”

“It's yours, Tom. I know that, and I know that's what this whole thing is about. It's all about whiskey. Not the draft, not gold. Whiskey. Your whiskey.”

“John, shut up,” Sisson said. “Would you please just shut up? Come on. Let's get out of here.”

“You know I'm right, Sisson.” John turned toward Sisson in a big, sloppy gesture that put the barrel of the gun pointing to the ground. Tom stepped in, pulled the gun, and kicked John in the knee. When John went down, Tom took the gun, which went off, blowing a hole through the roof of the line shack.

Tom handed the gun to Sisson. “Take this. Don't let him have it until he's sober.” He looked down to where John was on the ground, holding his knee up to his chest. “And brother, you best remember, drinking don't ever improve stupid.” And back to Sisson. “Help him to his horse or shoot him. I don't much care right now.”