“Pa!” Amelia had been wailing, again and again. “Pa!” He was hot and tired—he had been astir and slaving for many hours, and he hated Amelia and the stock. It will serve her right, he thought, if she hollers and hollers until she has lost her voice and can only croak like a frog. Only when he heard the rapid stutter of many hoofs behind him, was he prompted to turn his head, and then his red rage began to shrivel.

Five men were looming close at hand, and they looked like a whole army. After all, after his scheming and caution and hard work, he was going to lose his herd. These men would take them—five men, and they had guns. Their horses were coated with dust; the long, curved scabbards rattled and clanked … Henry pushed old Belle toward the fence … ja, ja, he was afraid.

They drew up in a fierce circle around him and Amelia. Ach, they were going to shoot without another moment’s delay. “Hey,” a dry voice said, “any Butternuts around here, farmer?”

Henry took a deep breath. These men were blue—a bleached and unwholesome blue, but it was not the color of the enemy. High boots on their legs and—

“Cat’s got his tongue,” a soldier grunted. They turned toward the girl. An older man asked, not unkindly: “How about it, sissy? Seen any rebels?”

Amelia whispered, “No, sir.” The cows were all bunching along the fence-side, ahead, and beginning to eat.

Niede cried, with huge relief, “I thought was rebels sure, mister! No, they’re gone.”

“When?”

“A-Friday.” He wondered why he should be so humble and fawning before these rigid figures, when three of them were young enough to be his sons.

“No more left in the neighborhood, eh?”

Henry said, expansively, “There was an army of them here on Friday. I guess some is left on the roads up north. Folks say they seen ’em. But I guess most is gone to Harrisburg.”

The oldest soldier had a scrubby beard; his eyes looked like black nail-heads driven deep in saddle leather. There were wide yellow V’s, whole slabs of them, on his arms. “Same story, Andy. Reckon we better report.” He spurted a long string of brown spittle into the road: it rolled like a ball. The horses turned, with much creaking and jingling. The older man swung back, and jerked his square head at Henry. “That town Gettysburg, ahead?”

Niede nodded. He kept wondering whether these men might not be fancying his cattle, after all. He had heard that even the Northern soldiers were apt to steal from farmers unless they were watched closely … “They’re all Dutch, around here,” he heard the man with the yellow V’s say to the others. “Well, boys, let’s git back to Buford.” The dust foamed in choking clouds; long after they had vanished in it, you could hear the rumpety-rump of hoofs flogging back.