Watchmen Stand Vigil in City's Wealthiest Homes

Their wives and children went to other cities, but Guzman's father, 82, a retired carpenter whose house was damaged, decided to join them back home in New Orleans. They returned Sept. 1 after talking their way through a checkpoint.

The men say they aren't sure how long they'll stay but have supplies for months: Chef Boyardee lasagna. Uncle Ben's rice. AriZona iced tea. Listerine. Off bug spray. Tylenol. Folgers coffee. A box of citrus-scented hand sanitizer.

At first, the men were watching over the three houses, but then they got phone calls from friends, and friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends, who wanted them to look in on their properties. Now they spend their days visiting every house on their list, clearing debris and making sure things are secure.

"Everyone thinks they are coming back to nothing. They will call and say, 'Is my house on fire?' " Guzman said. "But around here, everything is okay."

The men have also gone out to "save" a Harley-Davidson and a silver Mercedes-Benz S500 from looters. By the time they found the car, its gas cap had been pried open. They tried to leave the city only once, to go across the river to get more supplies, but had such a hard time getting back in (they finally persuaded a checkpoint guard with 15 gallons of gasoline) that now they vow to stay unless forced out at gunpoint.

Security is a major concern. Like a handful of others who have stayed behind to guard valuable property, the men keep firearms handy at all times. Nearby, the owner of the Oriental Rugs antique store was holed up behind wooden boards and had spray-painted a sign that says: "Don't try. I am sleeping inside with a big dog, an ugly woman, two shotguns and a claw hammer."

Some homeowners have hired companies such as Blackwater USA, whose contractors protected members of the U.S. occupation in Iraq and charge up to $1,000 a day for their work.

Crouch and Guzman seem to run into a military or police patrol every day: Lafayette police, Louisiana State Troopers, California Highway Patrol.

Mostly, the patrols want to make sure the men have permission to be in the house but also want to make sure they are okay. Earlier this week, Guzman was on the sidewalk talking to a SWAT team from Texas when his father walked out with his gun in a holster around his waist. Someone yelled: "Gun! We see a gun!" The entire team -- eight young men -- immediately cocked and aimed their weapons at Ernesto Guzman, who is a bony 5-foot-2. The younger Guzman assured them his dad was no threat.

The evenings are quieter. Crouch and Guzman sit on the patio playing dominos and watching the one channel they can get on the portable TV -- Channel 6 out of Baton Rouge. They talk to their families at least twice a day; Crouch's wife has told their three daughters, triplets who are 6 years old, that he stayed behind because he is "saving the house."

He misses them terribly. "The other day they asked if I had saved the house yet, or did I die?" Crouch said.

The men feel strongly that they are right to stay, having spent most of their lives restoring the city's finest houses. They are alarmed about reports that officials are debating whether the whole city should be razed.

"They can't tear this place down," Crouch said. "It's part of history."

By nightfall, they have the area nearly to themselves. Search and rescue teams have retired to their bunkers, and the 6 p.m. curfew means those wandering the streets are mostly people trying to avoid law enforcement. There's occasional commotion, such as the three armed looters police chased into a house in a neighborhood across from where the men are staying, an explosion and the helicopters flying overhead and the Humvees rolling by. But all things considered, New Orleans, the city once known for its wild all-hours partying, is now silent -- somewhat, Crouch said, "like living in the country."