Gradually the distance between us and the scouts lengthened. After more hard riding, they could no longer be seen or heard. We caught up with the decoy party as the sun cleared the eastern mountains.

The rest of the day was one of unrelieved torture. We rode forward, we doubled back, we milled the horses around, we dragged brush, we did everything but ride our horses up into the pines and swing from the branches. I should have been more impressed by the superb horsemanship I witnessed, but I was wrapped up in my own misery and barely polite. Hawk tried to make conversation, but I only answered with nasty looks. He ignored me after that. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t like me, either.

We stayed a jump ahead of the soldiers until the sun was low in the sky, when we doubled back in absolute silence and hid in the tall pines as they passed us. The Bluecoats were so close I think I could have touched them. The column was long and noisy. We heard their jingle, clink and creak long before they were in sight. Any element of surprise was wholly on the side of The People.

The soldiers were a hard-bitten crew, their uniforms torn and dirty, their faces hairy. They looked as though they had been following their quarry all summer. Even through my inexperienced eyes, I knew the troopers had been drinking from a bitter cup.

The men looked mostly the same to me, except for the man with stars on his shoulder straps who had only one arm. I knew I had seen him before. “Who is that?” I whispered to Hawk.

“General Howard, Old Day After Tomorrow,” he whispered back, his lips practically on my dirty ear, his eyes on the column.

“Goodness. Oliver Howard. He had dinner at our house last winter,” I whispered.

Father liked to entertain, and many of our guests were government dignitaries and soldiers. I remembered General Howard in particular because he was missing his right arm – a result of the Civil War – and because he gave the blessing on the food one night. The potatoes were cold before he finished.

Quiet, I watched the column pass. I thought about calling out. I guess Hawk knew what I had in mind because he stayed close to me, knife in hand and pointed in my general direction. I thought it prudent not to abuse his hospitality.

After the troopers were well beyond us, heading in the wrong direction, we backtracked and rode steadily until after dark. One of the horses gave out and was left by the way. Methuselah profited by the example; he was a model horse.

When I was about the relinquish hope of ever getting out of the saddle in this life, we slowed to a walk and topped a small rise. Dogs barked.

Below me was a bowl-shaped meadow surrounded by low hills. I squinted to see a camp in the failing light. Fired dotted the ground here and there by tipis and brush shelters.