Tom tucked in behind a stand of barrel cactus, next to a clump of yucca. He threw handfuls of dirt over himself, trying to stain his clothing the color of the sand and clay around him. Sisson ripped up saltbush, then got in the middle of a patch of it. He covered himself with the leaves and branches he had taken. He stuck a couple of small branches into the band of his hat and carefully placed the hat over his face as he lay in the scrubby chaparral.

The worst part was not looking. That was real hard, and John fought against it. He knew that Sisson was right. Sisson was right more often than Tom was, and that was a strange thing, because Tom was smarter than Sisson. But Sisson knew things because he had lived a long time outdoors. And even Tom listened to Sisson, sometimes, and the only one Tom ever really listened to was the Old Man.

No one went against the Old Man. Charlie might have, but he was smart and just picked up and went. Tom would take a beating from the Old Man. They all did. Tom had beat the Old Man once when he was just a kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen. John, who was older, had never even attempted it. Tom and the Old Man had gone at it for nearly half an hour before the Old Man lay in the dirt, wheezing and unable to get up.

Tom, though he was pretty bad banged up, cut and bleeding, his face puffed, strutted, or did whatever it was you did when you tried to strut with a limp, around the property for a couple of hours, feeling like he was the man of the house now, until he came around a corner and caught an oak limb, four inches thick, across the back and shoulders.

The Old Man stood over him, his face a puffy mask of rage, the oak branch held high over his head. “Get up,” he said. “Get up so I can hurt you.”

Tom was still conscious, but he didn't move, not even a twitch. John could see him struggling to breathe on the ground. His eyes would blink open, then shut again as if the effort to hold them open was just too great.