Through the glasses, Cable saw the rider come out of the trees on this side of the river. He noticed that the man was bearded and remembered Luz Acaso’s description of the one named Bill Dancey: older by ten years than the other two; the one in charge.

“He must have seen us,” Cable said. “He just crossed over.”

“Waiting for us?” asked Martha.

“No, going for the house.” He handed the glasses to Martha, feeling the children close behind him now.

Davis said, “Can I look?”

“Not right now.” Cable half turned on the seat. “Listen, I want you children to stay right where you are. Even when we stop, stay there and don’t jump off.”

Clare’s dark eyes were round and open wide. “Why?”

“Because we’re not sure we’re staying.”

Cable looked at the boy again. “Davis, you hold on to Sandy. You won’t let him jump out now, will you?”

The little boy shook his head solemnly. “No, sir.”

Cable smiled at his children. His hand reached to the wagon bed, felt the short barrel of the Spencer carbine, then moved to the shotgun next to it and brought it out, placing it muzzle-down between them on the seat.

“Martha, this one’s yours. Put your hand on it when I climb off, but don’t lift it unless you see you have to.”

He drew the Walker Colt from its holster, eased back the hammer, turned the cylinder carefully, feeling the oil-smoothness of the action, and lowered the hammer again on the empty chamber.

“There’s the house,” Martha said anxiously. “Part of it.” She could see an adobe-colored shape through the pines close in front of them.

Then, coming out of the trees, the house was in full view: a one-story adobe with an addition made of pine logs, a shingled roof and a ramada that ran the length of the adobe section. Beyond, part of the barn could be seen.