Sergeant Brett zimmer's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Sergeant Brett Zimmer wanted one thing: to get his cavalry unit home to Minnesota. But the war had scattered his men, and now he rode alone behind enemy lines with two horses and a dog. A patrol had just spotted him, and he had no cover for a mile. He crouched low in his saddle. Behind him, hooves pounded the road. Four riders in gray came fast, sabers loose. His spare horse fought the lead rope. The basset hound trotted at his side, ears dragging, nose to the dirt. The dog was old and slow. Brett would not leave him. "Come on," Brett said. He dug in his heels. The horses lunged forward. The patrol gained ground. Brett scanned the road ahead. Fields on both sides. No trees. No ditch. Then he saw it. A weathered wooden building sat at a bend, plank siding gray with age, two lamps burning by the door. A sign read WOODTICK INN. Brett aimed his horses at it. A rider fired. The shot cracked past his ear. The spare horse screamed and ripped the rope from his hand. Brett let it go. He would not stop for it now. He reached the inn and swung down hard. His boots hit dirt. He grabbed the hound under one arm and shoved through the front door. Inside, warm light. A wide room with a plank floor and a stone hearth. A man stood behind a counter, wiping a glass. He froze when he saw the rifle in Brett's hand. "Riders," Brett said. "Chasing me. I need a way out the back." The man set down the glass. He studied Brett's blue coat, then the dog, then the door. Hooves clattered outside. The man jerked his head toward a rear hall. "Barn's out back. Take the left path. Go quiet." Brett ran. The hound bounced against his ribs. He burst out the rear door into cold air. The barn stood twenty feet off. He shoved inside and pressed against the wall, breath ragged. Out front, the patrol reined up. Brett heard boots on the porch. Heard the door slam open. Heard the innkeeper speak, calm and slow. "Ain't seen no soldier. You want a room or a drink?" A long pause. Then curses. Then hooves, moving off down the road, away from the barn. The patrol had taken the bait. They rode on to chase the loose horse. Brett set the dog down. His hands shook. He had one horse left, not two. His spare was gone with its saddlebags, and the food inside. He pressed his forehead to the cold wall and breathed. The innkeeper appeared in the barn door. "They'll circle back by morning," he said. "You can't ride tonight. And you can't stay here free." Brett looked up. Safe for now. But trapped, hungry, and down to one horse, with the enemy between him and Minnesota.