It made no sense whatsoever, and I said so to Cousin Simmons. “Well, Adam,” he said, scratching his head, “it’s war now, you know, and in wartime things don’t make sense the way they would in peacetime.” “I had a belly full of war and killing, Cousin Simmons.” “I know that, Adam. So have I, when you come right down to it. Maybe so has everybody here except an old fire-eater like Solomon Chandler. But we can’t stop.” “Why not?” “Good heavens, Adam, we declared ourselves. There just is no stronger declaration of a man’s purpose than to take a gun and shoot someone dead.” “But they shot us first.” “That’s an argument, Adam, and we’re past arguments. Gun shooting is a declaration, not an argument. Nobody’s going to be calm and reasonable about who shot first. There’s been too much shooting already to ever trace our way back. Now we’re enemies until one side or another wins its purpose. If we were to back off now they’d come with their gallows rope and hang up maybe a hundred, maybe a thousand, maybe ten thousand.
