But he did worry about the enemy that worked from cover, that shot at sleeping men, that broke ditches and burned property and sent unsigned threats to women. That made his fight a battle in the darkness and his strength was the strength of light, of frankness, of honesty. His mind was not adapted to scheming and skulking.
To drive his foe into the open was his first objective and that night he set out.
"You call it recognizing a state of war, I believe," he told Jane with a twinkle in his eye when she queried his going.
"Tom! You're not going—"
"Not going to take a chance," he said soberly. "It's just a diplomatic mission, you might say."
He put her off and rode out of the ranch gate. It was dark and when he had progressed a mile he halted his horse, dropped off, loosened the cinch so the leather would not creak when the animal breathed, and stood listening. Aside from the natural noises of the night, the world was without sound.
He drew his gun from its holster and twirled the cylinder. Usually he carried the trigger over an empty chamber; tonight it was filled. And inside his shirt was another gun.