“No thank you, sir,” Will said.
Rufus also refused politely.
“Suit yourselves. You taste that coffee, you might change your minds. I brew it strong enough to float a skillet on top, and it’s been cold for hours.”
Will lifted the mug and sipped. The coffee was dark and bitter and cold. But it was still coffee. “Suits me just fine, sir.”
“Likewise,” Rufus said, sipping his. “Thank you for the coffee, sir.”
Forester eyed Rufus for a second. “So you’re free now, huh?”
Rufus sat up a little straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“Hmm,” Forester said noncommittally. “That’s different.”
“Yes, sir, it is,” Rufus said. “I always wanted to be free, and now I am.”
“I’ll bet. No man wants to live like a milk cow. So… cattle, huh? What about them?”
“We’re fixing to go gather some,” Will said.
Forester’s eyes shifted lazily from Will to Rufus and back to Will. He sipped his whiskey, swallowed, and winced. “Burns my stomach, but I keep drinking it. Habit, I guess. Just the two of you going on this gather?”
“Yes, sir,” Will said. “For now, anyway.”
“Where do you plan to gather these cattle?”
“The Thicket, sir.”
Forester took a belt of whiskey, winced again, and shook his head. “Forget it.”
Will just looked at him, waiting for the man to have his say.
“No sense gathering cattle. Somebody will just take them. I used to have a good-sized herd.”
“I remember, sir,” Will said. “You gave me some work down through the years—roping, branding—when I needed money.”
“I remember. You were a good worker. Natural on a horse. Offered you a full-time job, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you turned me down. Had the family to care for and the pig farm to run.”
“Yes, sir.”
Forester nodded and picked up his glass and swirled its contents, staring into the amber liquid with a frown on his tired face. “What happened to the pigs?”
“The Confederacy confiscated them.”
Forester nodded. “And the farm?”
“Carpetbagger got it.”
“And now you want to gather cattle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The bluebellies will take them.”
