“Some other time,” said Carver. “Not now. We could hardly ride into town and murder the mayor and the sheriff all in one day without some sort of excuse. It would create unfavorable comment. This deal down at Alvin bears the brand of Freel’s deep-seated planning. It’s likely they’ll come after us themselves the next time they try it, just so as to give it the earmarks of a lawful attempt to arrest. Meantime we’ll have to work up a background of our own. The county seat needs cleaning up wholesale. If a man’s going to live anywhere he might as well have decent conditions. Once folks get that in their minds we can defend ourselves and still render a patriotic service to the county as a whole.” “All right,” Bart agreed. “After you’ve unfurled the flag I’ll lead the last desperate charge with the whole county cheering. But it still appears to me that it would be simpler for me to lay out behind the hedge somewheres and do a little bushwacking myself.” “Meantime, just in case Freel sends out another hired killer, I wouldn’t lay myself open to any chance stranger that comes dropping along,” Carver advised. “The first stranger that shows up anywhere within three hundred yards goes down in the smoke,” Bart assured. Molly Lassiter came from the house as Carver turned to leave. He did not come often of late and she walked with him a short distance up the trail. “We’ll start cutting next week,” Carver stated. Their talks were largely impersonal these days. “Harvest is crowding close to us now.” “Bart expects to start cutting Monday,” she said. “How many bushels do you think your wheat will thresh out?” “It’ll run close to twenty,” he estimated. “Maybe more. We ought to get fifteen thousand bushels or better.” “And more next year,” she said. “You’ll put out more wheat this fall, won’t you?” “Likely,” he answered. “I hadn’t quite made all my plans for next season.”