Not long, Grawson remembered.

He had watched the two men, gallant Frank and the moody Edward Chance, back to back, with their white shirts, open at the throat, the red sashes, the long-barreled single-shot weapons held before them.

Damn Clare Henderson, cursed Grawson, not opening his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cold of the window.

Chance was to die. That had been understood. What had Clare told Frank, who wanted her and her house, and her people, so bad he would kill for them? What had Chance done to her? Grawson rubbed his nose with one pawlike hand. Not a goddam thing, I’d guess, he said, but crazy Frank, he’d do anything for her. And I would too, said Grawson to himself. I would, too. Amusing, swift, graceful Frank-a rider, a sportsman, a marksman-my brother, my brother.

“He won’t fire,” Grawson had told Frank.

And Frank had agreed.

It was the thing to do, not to fire. That was Edward Chance’s job. He could not kill the man Clare Henderson wanted. In honor he could not refuse to meet him. Had he not been engaged to Clare himself?

Chance had wanted medicine, a profession. It would mean waiting years. He had no feeling for the cotton, for the land, for the tradition.

Chance was no better than a Yankee.

So he wouldn’t marry her. So he couldn’t. So he had to wait. But she would not. And how would she understand him?

I wonder, mused Grawson, what she told Frank.

He could imagine her twisting that scented, lavender handkerchief, the white face, the long black hair-the wringing hands, the tears. No one would protect her. No one would stand up for her. Her fathers and brothers were dead, honor-ably. If they had been there Chance would have been horsewhipped.

And so Frank Grawson had begun to take target practice, walking a dozen paces, turning, waiting for the handkerchief to drop, lifting his weapon, firing a single shot at a playing card tacked to a tree now some twenty-four paces away.