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it won’t be long till he’s knockin’ on them Pearly Gates.”
    Rusty could think of few things that would improve the community more than a funeral service for Fowler Gaskin. People would come from miles around to attend, just to be sure he was gone. No hog pen or chicken house was safe so long as he drew breath.
    Shanty said, “He’s been speakin’ remorseful about all the wrong things he’s done. Cries when he talks about his two boys that was killed in the war.”
    For years Gaskin had been using his sons’ death in an effort to arouse sympathy. Most people around here had learned the truth long ago, that his sons had not died in battle. They had been killed in a New Orleans bawdy-house brawl.
    “That’s just to get you to do his work for him, and do it for nothin’. He still hates you, but that doesn’t mean he won’t use you.”
    Shanty shrugged. “I’m just tryin’ to serve the Lord any which way I can. Someday I may be old and sick myself. Maybe Mr. Gaskin will come and help me.”
    Perhaps, when cows fly over the moon, Rusty thought. It was pointless to continue the argument. Shanty was of a trusting nature. Freedom had not come to him until well into his middle age. Up to then it would have been considered presumptuous of him, even dangerous, to pass judgment on anyone white. Now he did not know how.
    Rusty made up his mind to ride over to Fowler Gaskin’s soon and read the gospel to him.
    Shanty gave Rusty a quiet appraisal. “You’re lookin’ kind of lank, Mr. Rusty. Ain’t you been eatin’?”
    “It’s been too hot to eat.”
    “It don’t ever get that hot. That girl’s still heavy on your mind, ain’t she?”
    “Some things ain’t easy forgot.”
    “You don’t have to forget. Just take the things that trouble you and set them on a high shelf where you won’t be lookin’ at them all the time.”
    “I’ve tried, but life has sort of lost its flavor around here.”
    “Maybe supper would taste better to you if somebody else cooked it. I could stay and fix you somethin’.”
    “Thanks, but by the looks of that cloud, you’d better be goin’ home before you get soaked. I’ll fix for myself if I get hungry.”
    Shanty soon left. Rusty knew it was too late to visit Gaskin. Tomorrow would be soon enough, or the next day. The extra time would allow him to think of more shortcomings to call to Gaskin’s attention.
    He was about ready to quit the field and do the evening milking when another visitor appeared. Rusty had counted Tom Blessing as a friend as far back as he could remember. Tom was a contemporary of Daddy Mike Shannon, who had been a foster father to Rusty. As a small boy more than thirty years ago, Rusty had been carried away by Indians after they killed his parents. Unlike Andy Pickard, he had been rescued a few days later. Because of Daddy Mike and Tom Blessing and several others, he had not spent years among the Comanches as Andy had.
    After howdying and shaking, Rusty said, “Follow me up to the cabin, Tom. I’ll fix us some coffee and warm up the beans.”
    “Beans.” Tom gave Rusty the same critical study that Shanty had. “You don’t look like you’ve been eatin’ regular, not beans or anything else.”
    “It don’t taste all that good when you’re by yourself.”
    “You oughtn’t to be by yourself.”
    Tom had been arguing that Rusty needed a wife. He even had one picked for him. But the suggestion stirred up painful memories Rusty was still struggling to cope with. He side-stepped the subject. “I could fry up some bacon.”
    “Sorry, but I ain’t got time. Need to get home and do the chores before it rains.” Tom pointed with his chin. “I happened into Shanty on the road. Said he’d been by here.”
    “He was over at Gaskin’s, doin’ work Fowler ought to do for himself. Fowler needs a load of fire and brimstone dropped on him.”
    Blessing smiled. “If you do it, just don’t kill him. The court docket’s already full enough.” He