his

He could not afford to lose a drop of the precious water, so he spent most of his waking hours along the ditches in his meadows.

In any case, he had no intention of being caught asleep, so he carried his revolver in its holster on his hip and he took his Winchester with him and leaned it against the fence.

He stopped every few minutes and leaned on his shovel as he studied the horizon, but nothing happened, each day dragging out with monotonous calm.

When, in late afternoon on the last day in June, he saw two people top the ridge to the south and walk toward the house, he quit work immediately and strode to his rifle.

He cleaned his shovel, left it against the fence, picked up his Winchester, and started downstream.

Reaching the house ahead of them, he waited with his Winchester in his hands.

The boy came on to the porch and sat down, his gaze on Morgan as if half expecting him to shoot and not really caring.

The boy licked his dry lips.

Morgan jerked his head toward the front door.

Leaning his Winchester against the front of the house, he walked to the girl.

She was amazingly light, and so relaxed in his arms that he wasn't even sure she was conscious.

He brought his Winchester in from the front of the house, then faced the boy.

They might kill him in his sleep, thinking there was money in the house.

He hadn't shaved for several weeks, his sparse beard giving his face a pathetic, woebegone expression.

Gavin sank down again into his chair and began to rock.

It was the only thing in his life for which he felt guilt.

Beneath his black shirt his frail shoulders shook and croaks of pain broke from his throat, the stored pain shattering free in slow gasps, terrible to see.