What was going on here? What was the Southern Repose? And who had put this sign here?
Certainly not Mama. She had never needed a sign before, and she certainly wouldn’t go spending the money on one during these hard times.
Rose?
She was a dreamer, a girl who might cook up a ridiculous name like Southern Repose, but where would she get the sign?
He looked up and saw an unfamiliar man come out of the farmhouse carrying a rifle.
Now, who was that?
Will shouldn’t have come straight here. And he shouldn’t have sat here in plain sight for all the world to see while he was scratching his head over the sign.
Normally, he was a cautious man, a man who liked to size things up before taking action.
Apparently, today was his day for making mistakes. Maybe it was the long trip. Or maybe it was just coming home after all this time.
The man marched toward him, holding the rifle at port arms across his body.
Who was he?
A stranger. A gray-haired stranger with a limp and a paunch. A rare thing in these parts. The paunch, not the limp. Lots of folks hitched when they walked, but few of them had seen enough food over recent years to fill their bellies let alone grow them.
A strange thought occurred to him. Had Mama shacked up with this man? Was Will about to meet a stepfather he’d never known he’d had?
No.
Mama said she’d never marry again.
Still, hard times drove hard choices, and strange times bred strange actions.
Whoever this man was, Will didn’t reckon there was any sense in sitting there unarmed while this fella marched closer and closer with his rifle.
Will leaned and pulled the Spencer from its scabbard and laid it across his saddle and turned the mule a little so the muzzle was pointed in the man’s general direction.
Forty-five yards away, the man came to a halt. “Just keep on riding, stranger,” the man said with no twang to his voice at all. “We ain’t got nothing for you here.”
“I’m no stranger,” Will said, “not to this property. This is my home.”
The man blinked at him a couple of times then said, “No, it ain’t. It’s my home.” His voice was pure Yankee through and through, harsh and uptight. “I bought it and hold the deed.”
“What are you talking about? My mama and sister live here.”
“Would your name be Bentley?”
“That’s right. Will Bentley. Now where’s my family?”
“I got no idea. No idea at all. They were already gone when I moved in.”
“Already gone? Who sold it to you, then?”
“We were riding past, me and my family, and we saw it and went to town and checked, and all I had to do was pay the back taxes, and it was mine, not that that’s any business of yours.”
Will felt sick. This man had bought the place for back taxes?
Will had heard of things like that happening. Quite a lot, in fact. Especially to families whose members had worn the gray.
Confederate scrip was worthless now, and nobody had any Union money. Folks fell behind on their taxes.
