Bale said, “Only as they concern my soul and body. I might as well tell you that I’m no Copperhead, but I’m not Coming Father Abraham or anything like that. I may be a misanthropist, but not because I’m afraid.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” replied Fanning. He sat up a trifle straighter. “What I meant about Jeb Stuart was this: he came up here last year and paralyzed Curtin and the whole damn state. Burnt stores, stole money, and took away all the horses.”

“I heard about that. Naturally, we get some news out there on the prairie. But he didn’t reach home, did he?”

“He went south at Cashtown. And he’s got a beard like yours. Look out one of our Dutch neighbors doesn’t take a sickle to those beautiful brown—” The grind and groan of metal killed his words; the train stopped, lurched forward, stopped again, started again. At the rear of the coach the baby began to moan once more: ?’la, h’la, h’la.

Bale asked, “Any children?”

“No. I’ve been married only two years. And the war and all. I’m man enough.” He gave a thin laugh. “You’ll have to call on us. Mrs. Fanning would be pleased. You aren’t married, I take it?”

Dan shook his head. “You might tell me some news, if you don’t mind. Grandfather didn’t write often, the last year or two. What about Andrew Leen?”

“He’s in New York. A printer. Married and a father. The younger boy—remember Noah?—he ran away and got killed at a place called Front Royal, in Virginia. Elizabeth married one of the Brennemans, over by Cashtown.”

“Somehow,” said Bale, “I feel very old. I’ve been on the road six days, and every hour I’ve had more and more of a creeping palsy.”

Fanning chuckled. He squeezed the dead cigar between his fingers. There were gauntleted gloves thrust neatly beneath his sword belt. The scabbard thudded against the floor whenever he shifted his leg. “If you don’t mind, Dan,” he suggested, “I’m curious to know your views on the war. You’re not afraid—of course. But convictions without a quoted sentiment—Damn it, you know what I mean. We’ve got a few of your Minnesota troops in the east here. They make ornery soldiers and wonderful fighters.”

“Quite probably,” said Dan, “I would make a wonderful soldier, but I’m not so sure how I’d match up with the rest of Minnesota when it came to fighting. I mean your kind of fighting. Caissons and platoons and sergeants and things like that, of which I know nothing. You’ll have to excuse me, tonight. I’m in more or less of a daze.”