The woman finished cutting and threw the last of the bones and waste into a cracked china bowl on the hearth. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat in her rocker. “That’s foolish talk. I can shoot a rabbit as good as any man, with a pistol even. This summer I grew enough corn to feed a regiment and vegetables too. Then there’s Old Buck in the village in the valley. He heads up a bunch o’ Union men, part of a band they call True Heroes of America. They hide men out so they won’t have to fight with the Rebel Army. Well, Old Buck has a store, and if I need a thing, Old Buck gives it to me. ‘Nate Flint’ll pay when he comes home,’ he says. I look at him straight last time an’ says, ‘Maybe Nate Flint will never get home.’ And Old Buck purrs jus’ like a hooty owl and says, ‘Mebbie I’ll fall outa bed tonight and break my neck.’”
The men settled on a bench across from the rocker and all three were quiet, just sniffing the strong aroma of stew.
The woman stirred the pots with a hand-cut wooden spoon. She tasted the stew and sat down, leaning forward toward the men. “Tonight I will finish the coats,” she said. “By morning it will be two nights of sleep and plenty of food to give you strength. You better go.”
Tim said, “We have to go, ma’am, much as we might like to stay. About the coats, have you used all your blankets to make them?”
The woman’s brows went up. “I never did see such men as you. I got two left, and one’s aplenty. I mean to cut the other one into strips and roll them for carrying. You can wrap your feet and legs when the snow gets deep enough that the cloth won’t wear right through.”
“But, ma’am.”
“It’s windy hell you boys are lookin’ for. Take my word. Don’t be soft in your heart toward me.”
After supper the woman leaned over the rough plank table that stood at the side of the room, near a pallet she had made herself to sleep on. She pulled the lamp close and blew out the flame. “I’ll have to be beggin’ some oil from Buck the next time I go down. I can pay him with animal skins.”
Red scratched his beard. “Why don’t you spend the winters in the village, ma’am? Slim and I are worried about you being alone up here.”
The wind whistled at the corner of the cabin and the fire blazed up, filling the room with pumpkin light and jagged shadows. “I spent last winter in the village,” she said, “but I figured to spend this winter here. Nate and I, we made this place with our own two hands and a few odd tools. We lived in the village once and Nate used to hunt. But everyone else was a hunter, too, so we couldn’t make out that way. One day he says, ‘We’re cuttin’ loose from this village, little girl. We’ll build a cabin in the mountains where no man can tie a string on me.’” She faltered. “But you may be right.”