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county.
    “Rusty’s got thin enough to hide behind a fence post. He don’t sleep enough and don’t eat right. Still grievin’ over that girl he lost. He’s got a good crop in the field, though. As for Shanty, you know how it is with them darkies: you can’t tell their age by lookin’. That black skin hides the lines.”
    Andy said, “I’ll be goin’ by to see Rusty once we’ve delivered this other prisoner.”
    Blessing frowned. “The word’s already out that you’re on the way with Jayce Landon. There’s liable to be people waitin’ for you. If I was you I’d deliver him in the dark of the night.”
    Farley had been listening to the conversation. “And act like we’re afraid of his friends?”
    “He’s got more enemies than friends. If I was you, I’d be afraid of them all.”

CHAPTER THREE
     

    Rusty Shannon leaned on his hoe and looked beyond the waving green corn toward a dark cloud boiling on the horizon. One more soaking rain should finish bringing the corn and his other crops to maturity.
    I wish Josie could have been here to see this, he thought. But the prospect of rain brought no real pleasure. Very little did anymore, not since Josie had died.
    A rider approached him, mounted on a mule. Rusty recognized Old Shanty’s slight, bent form and walked out to the edge of the field to meet him. He removed his hat to wipe sweat from his brow and the reddish hair that had given him his nickname. Sprinkled with gray, it was uncut and shaggy because he’d lost interest in his appearance. He had not shaved in a week.
    He lifted his hand in what he meant to be a welcoming wave, though it fell short. “Get down, neighbor, and give that old mule a rest.”
    Many white men would not shake hands with a black. Rusty did so without thought. Shanty had been a friend too long for racial proprieties to stand in the way.
    “How do, Mr. Rusty. Kind of hot. Buildin’ up to a summertime shower, looks like.”
    Shanty always addressed him as Mister. He had spent a major part of his seventy or so years as a slave, and old habits died hard, if at all. He had inherited a small farm from his former owner. For a time he had had to struggle to hold it in the face of opposition from some in the community who resented his being an owner of property. That battle had been fought to a standstill with help from Rusty, Andy, and others like Sheriff Tom Blessing who had kindly feelings toward him.
    Since losing Josie, Rusty had found it difficult to arouse much interest in his own farm. He frequently rode over to Shanty’s place to help him with heavy work that had become too much for the old man to handle alone. In return Shanty felt obliged to repay in kind, whether Rusty needed his help or not. He had spent more time in Rusty’s garden than Rusty had.
    Rusty said, “I judge by the direction that you’re not comin’ from your own place.”
    “I been over to Mr. Fowler Gaskin’s, helpin’ him work his vegetable patch. Hoed his weeds. Picked him some squash and beans and tomatoes so he’s got somethin’ to eat. He’s a sick man, Mr. Gaskin is.”
    Rusty snorted. “Sick of work, mostly. That old reprobate has enjoyed bad health ever since I can remember.”
    Gaskin was notorious for sloth, feigning illness and using his age as a crutch. He had made an art of chiseling others into doing for him the work he did not want to do for himself. His neighbors had long since learned to watch their property when he came around because he was likely to leave with some of it.
    Rusty said, “You’ve done a lot of work for him, and I’ll bet he hasn’t paid you a dollar.”
    Shanty shrugged. “Mr. Gaskin’s a poor man. Besides, the Book says I am my neighbor’s keeper.”
    “He never was your keeper. He did his damndest to run you out of this country. He was one of them that burned your cabin down.”
    “We never did know that for certain sure. We just supposed. Anyway, I can’t be grudgin’ agin a sick old man. He says