hallmarks of the house was now a slag of melted and discolored glass. The bodies of Dobbins and Toomey, McCann’s only two cowboys, were lying on the porch of the bunkhouse, covered by a single sheet. The smokehouse, granary, bunk-house, and barn had not burned because they had been protected from the flames by the efforts of those who had come to fight the fire.
Cora McCann was showing signs of exhaustion and, like everyone else, was covered with soot and smoke. She sat on the porch of the bunkhouse, holding a picture frame in her hands.
“It’s a picture of my mama and daddy,” Cora said sadly. The picture was of a man sitting on a chair and a woman standing behind him with her hand on his shoulder, both staring stoically at the camera. “It is all I have left of them, and it was the first thing I saved.”
Nearly all of the McCanns’ furniture had been destroyed in the fire, but a few things had been rescued, and they formed a pathetically small pile on the ground at the end of the bunkhouse porch. Within the ashes of the once- beautiful house, the belongings not saved were blackened and twisted beyond recognition, though standing out undamaged, almost defiantly, in the midst of what had been the kitchen, sat the cast-iron stove. Leo was poking around through the ashes, and he opened the oven door.
“Ma!” he shouted. “The biscuits!”
“What biscuits?”
Leo pulled out a tray, upon which stood two dozen perfectly baked biscuits. He took a bite of one, then laughed. “They’re still good!”
“How could that be? I didn’t even bake them,” Cora McCann replied. “I just had them in the oven ready to bake this morning.”
“That’s how it happened,” E.B. explained. “The heat from the house burning was enough to bake them, but the oven protected them from being burned.”
“You want one, Ma?” Leo asked.
Cora shook her head. “No, pass them around to the others. As hard as everyone worked all night, some of the folks are sure to be hungry.”
Because only the very young took biscuits, there were enough to go around. They ate with relish, but the adults and the older children who had worked side by side with the adults through the long night were too tired to participate in the impromptu breakfast. They were also saddened by the death of the two young cowboys who had worked for McCann, as well as for the loss of the McCanns’ house.
“How many were there?” E.B. asked Ian. This was the first chance they had to really talk about it, because the entire night had been passed in the effort to protect the other buildings.
“There were at least nine or ten,” Ian said. “I didn’t get a real good count.”
“Leo said he recognized some of them,” E.B. said.
“Yeah,” Ian said. “It was some of the same ones we run into the day we tried to go through the toll-gate. Slater, Dillon, Wilson, Bleeker …”
E.B. shook his head. “No, it couldn’t have been Bleeker. Bleeker got himself killed, remember?”
“You’re right. It was the other one who mans the tollgate. What is his name?”
“Carver,” Leo answered.
“Yes, Carver. And that new fella that Denbigh hired was with them. Fact is, he was leading them. I can’t think of his name, but he was the fella that came to the dance and didn’t do nothin’ but lean up against the wall the whole time and stare at people.”
“That would be Lucas Meacham,” E.B. said.
“Yes, Meacham. He was with them too.”
“This has gone too far,” Louis Killian said. “If the sheriff won’t do anything, then maybe we need to go to the federal government.”
“What can they do?” Putnam asked. “We aren’t even a state. They barely know that we exist.”
“I know who can help,” E.B. said.
“Who?”
“Matt Jensen.”
“Why would he help? And what could he do anyway?” McCann asked. “He got himself cut up in a knife fight the night of the dance, remember? He’s half dead.”
“Ralph saw Doc Purvis yesterday morning,” E.B. said. “Doc said Jensen was comin’ along just fine.”
“Still, he is just one man.”
“He doesn’t have to be one man,” E.B. said.
“What do you mean?”
“The idea you had the other day of all of us getting together to try and force our way through the tollgate was a good one, but it didn’t go far enough. It could be that Frank Tanner was right.”
“What are you saying? That we should go to war against Denbigh?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. With someone like Matt Jensen to lead us.”
“Do you think he would?”
“Yes, I think he would. He is working for the newspaper, and we already know that John is a fighter,” E.B. replied. “Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if John hadn’t invited Jensen to come for this very reason. Remember, he killed Ollie Butrum in a face-to-face gunfight, and he fought Bleeker and Carver barehanded when both of them had
