The ground had been frozen solid and they’d had no tools for digging, anyway, so they had buried Missus Flint under a cairn and set her musket, muzzle down, in the top of the pile of rocks.
When they had turned to go Tim had looked back again the way they had come. Smoke had still curled above the cabin.
Tim studied the stars again, trying to remember the pictures they made and which way was right side up. Then he gave it up and went back to his blanket. As he lay there he remembered a far-off day in spring when he had walked with Kate. All at once she had picked up her skirts and started to run.
He remembered having been in a solemn frame of mind. Somehow he hadn’t caught her spirit. She had stood in the path and waited for him, suddenly serious, trying to share his solemnity.
Now he closed his eyes and her face came clear. He drew his blanket close around him and went to sleep.
Tim woke up before the sun had cleared the hills. Snow had fallen during the night and their blankets and coats were sifted over with flakes. Tim looked down at his feet, wrapped now in the strips of blanket wool. The cold had numbed his feet and hands, and when he felt his face it seemed like ice.
He woke Red and they made breakfast. When they finished eating they pushed on into the wilderness of white. When they had walked for an hour or so they came to a stream that tumbled through a gorge, into a valley below. Their route lay across the stream and they were scouting along it to find a crossing when Tim caught sight of something moving in the trees in the valley below. He grabbed Red’s sleeve and together they watched as three horsemen made their way south along the valley. The horsemen were several hundred yards below, but the air was clear and the sun struck their uniforms. This time there was no room for doubt. They were Yankee soldiers.
Red cupped his hands and shouted. The horsemen stopped, turning their faces up. Tim waved his arms above his head and he and Red jumped carelessly into the water. They ran down the hill, slipping and skidding on the snow-covered rock, their firearms knocking against the coats Missus Flint had made them. The ends of their mufflers flapped behind them.
As they approached the horsemen they looked into the muzzles of Yankee firearms.
One held a pistol. He wore no visible insignia. He had a black pointed beard and bright eyes. The visor of his cap stuck out from under a blue knitted scarf that was tied around his head. He carried a sword in a brightly polished sheath. “Stop there,” he said, “and raise your hands. Who are you and where have you come from?”