Justice failed him once. He swore it would never fail anyone again?

South Texas June 1866

 His horse and the clothes on his back were the only things the bank let him keep, and they wouldn’t have done that if the local sheriff hadn’t insisted.

“Can’t leave a young man like him afoot,” the sheriff had insisted. “Won’t be able to look for or get work without a horse. He’ll starve t’ death. You want that on your conscience?”

The bank representative looked ashamed and moved his head slowly from side to side.

“Go saddle up, young Alvarez.” Said the sheriff. “And git off this prop’ty pronto, or I’ll arrest you for trespassing.”

Boyd had done as ordered. Now he sat on the north ridge above what had once been his home, watching the auctioneer hired by the bank exclaim the virtues of all the furnishings in the house. Boyd was glad he couldn’t hear the bids. No one would pay much for the house or the items from inside. With the war ended, most native Texians didn’t have money to spend on stuff they didn’t already own. Too many families were like his with no adult males alive or body whole enough to work. Those who had a little money and one or two men to take charge, hoarded every centavo. No, it was the Yankees and the carpetbaggers who would soon own the Alvarez ranch, and it was all his fault. He took one last look at the graves on the opposite ridge and for once thanked God his mama wasn’t alive to see her home sold.