Yankee carpetbaggers were coming down in droves and buying up farms and ranches for pennies on the dollar. All they had to do was pay off delinquent taxes.
But that couldn’t have happened here. Will had sent Mama enough money to pay the taxes twenty or thirty times over.
Will eyed the man. “I don’t like your attitude, mister.”
“Nor I yours. And I don’t like you coming onto my property, asking questions.”
“I’m not on your property. I’m in the road.”
“Good. You keep it that way.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll tell the law, that’s what. Sheriff Rickert takes care of folks like you, folks who try to take what’s not theirs no more. Escorts them away.”
“Rickert? He couldn’t escort a fat man to a pie.”
“Well, he does. Him and his deputies. And if there’s any trouble he can’t handle, there are federal troops stationed in town, too.”
“I heard about them. Heard they’re green as cucumbers.”
“That’s none of my affair. If you want trouble with the soldiers, you’ll have it. But leave me out of it.”
Will stared at the man, wanting to push him, wanting the man to give him an excuse to put a bullet in his guts or to get off his mule and go over and beat some manners into him.
It wouldn’t take much.
But he had other fish to fry. Namely, finding his mama and rescuing his sister. Besides, he’d heard other stories, stories of Reconstructionists hanging folks who gave Yankees trouble.
Especially ex-Confederates.
So Will just said, “I’ll be back, carpetbagger,” then turned and rode off with a war drum beating in his chest.
Where was Mama?
If anyone knew, it would be the Dunnes next door. And there wasn’t much chance of them losing their farm. They had money, and Mr. Dunne, after arguing against secession, had ridden north and worn the blue.
He’d died halfway through the war, but Will doubted the Reconstructionists would let anyone appropriate the ranch of a Union soldier.
So Will headed down the road, hoping Mrs. Dunne would know where Mama had gotten to. The last Will knew, Mama was still having Bible study with Mrs. Dunne every morning, and Rose was still best friends with the Dunnes’ maddening little daughter, Maggie.
A short time later, he rode through the Dunnes’ gate and down the long path to their home, cutting through fallow fields with a feeling of dread growing inside him.
Why weren’t these fields plowed?
The path upon which he rode had seen very little traffic in recent weeks.
The path passed through a grove of live oaks and out the other side to where the Dunnes’ farmhouse stood.
Only there was no farmhouse.
Where it should have been stood only a heap of charred timbers.
It was a punch to the gut. The Dunnes had been nice folks.
Were Mrs. Dunne and her children all right?
Will rode up to the charred remains of the house and dismounted and stared at the devastation.
