"When I run," Al Harkness said, "nobody 'cept me gets in the way of any bullets I might draw. Think I want 'em shootin' up you or Tammie?"
Al laid a canvas pack sack on the kitchen table. While Ted wrapped the cooked pork chops in double thicknesses of waxed paper and the excess biscuits in single, his father spooned the potatoes into glass quart jars and mashed them down. He packed everything into the rucksack and added a package of coffee, one of tea, some salt and a few miscellaneous items. Donning his hunting jacket, he shouldered the pack. Filling two pockets with matches, he slid two unopened boxes of cartridges into another. Finally he strung a belt ax and hunting knife on a leather belt, strapped it around his middle and took his rifle from its rack.
"Don't try to find me, Ted."
"What shall I say if they come?" Ted whispered.
"Tell the truth and say I was here. They'll find it out anyhow."
"What are you going to do?"
"Lay in the hills 'til somethin' turns up. Can't do nothin' else now."
"Dad, don't go!" Ted pleaded. "Stay and face it out. It's the best way."
"It might have been," Al agreed, "and I was most tempted to go clear in. But it ain't any more."
"Why?"