Through the night woods beyond the reach of the sugarbush trails the horse went on, now at a walk, now at a trot or canter, following the rough path of mostly frozen mud but for several points where the great spruce grew close both sides where the hardened dense shrunken drifts still lay, through which he floundered, sometimes up to his belly with Connie’s feet scraping against the deeper of the drifts. She did nothing more than hold the reins loose; the horse did not so much know the way as discern the only track there was and went forward along it. The night was dark here with even the rotting snow a dull shade of the darkness. Above the containing bowl of the farm hillside the distant roaring of the ice going out was almost lost, more a disturbance in the current of air than actual sounds. Then they rounded the shoulder of the mountain and the only sound then the suck and scrape of Pete’s feet as he moved over ground that stride by stride changed degree of freezing. Still he trotted more than walked. Once one forefoot struck rock and he lost footing and regained it before Connie even felt herself began to slide, the horse making great thumping bursts from his nostrils.

She smelled the woodsmoke before she saw light from the house and then saw the light from a distance off. She pressed the horse to canter. The bear and catamount hounds Ballou kept chained roared. Connie began to call out for Marthe Ballou and the door opened as she drew near, throwing a splay of light onto the frozen mash of the dooryard. Ballou stood in the door in his long underwear, holding across his chest a rifle and wearing unlaced boots on his feet. She pulled Pete up a dozen paces from the door, just at the edge of the light. The great hounds strained. The horse sidestepped back and forth, snorting nervous air.

“Looka that,” said Ballou. “Pelham girl in long pants ‘stride a plough horse. Me, I always thought woman look second best the back of a horse.”

“I need your wife, old man.”

“Any girl come galloping up here middle of the night, she need my wife. Days now at least. Time was, not so long pass, had to wait learn was me or Marthe she be after. Not no more. But maybe so hey? Maybe you just thought Marthe be your cure. Maybe you truly be needing old man Henri to fix you scratch, hey?”

Connie raised her voice, calling the woman’s name.

“Aw, pipe down, she hear ya. Heared you comin fore them damn dogs even start up. She getting dress is all. How that chicken do this bitter time?”

Pete was dancing from the dogs. She took the reins tight and wheeled him to face Ballou, letting the man view more horse than her. She said, “The chickens did fine.”