Sergeant Brett zimmer's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

The river blocked them, so they turned and followed the bank downstream. Brett kept his eyes on the water for a shallow crossing. Instead he found a house. It stood two stories tall, gray-blue, with a steep dark roof and a screened porch. Warm light glowed in the windows. Number 726 hung above the door. Brett reined up. His stomach twisted with hunger. He had counted his supplies at dawn. A little hardtack. One strip of dried meat. Not enough for three men and three horses. "We need food," Brett said. "The horses too. Hungry men make mistakes." Joel looked at the glowing windows. "You want to knock on a stranger's door? Behind their lines?" "I want to reach Minnesota," Brett said. "We won't get there starving." He swung down and told them to wait by the trees. His brother's old basset hound lifted its head from Joel's saddle, ears hanging low. Brett walked to the porch alone. He kept his hands open and away from his rifle. He knocked. A dog barked hard inside. The door cracked. A black-and-white dog pushed its broad muzzle through the gap first, chest white, back glossy and dark. Behind it stood an old woman, gray and small, holding a lantern. She looked at his blue coat. Her face went tight. "I'm not here to take anything," Brett said. "I'm asking. Three of us. Two nights without a real meal. We can pay." He held out the coins from his pocket. The woman stared at the coins, then past him at the two men waiting in the dark. The black-and-white dog sniffed his boot and wagged its tail slow. That seemed to settle something in her. "Put the money away," she said. "My son wore that same blue. He didn't come home." She stepped back and opened the door wider. "Bring your horses to the shed. There's oats. I'll fry what I have." Brett called the others in. They led the horses to the shed and filled feed bags with oats. The animals ate fast. Inside, the woman set out bread, salt pork, and beans. Joel ate with both hands. Peter said thank you three times. The basset hound and the piebald dog curled together near the stove. Brett filled two sacks with what she could spare. Bread, dried apples, a wedge of hard cheese. Enough now for the long ride north. His shoulders loosened for the first time in days. At the door the woman gripped his sleeve. "Union riders passed this morning," she said. "They asked about three men on stolen-looking horses. They're watching the fords north of here. All of them." Brett's relief drained out of him. The hunger was solved. But every crossing home now had eyes on it. He thanked her and stepped into the dark, the food heavy on his back and the news heavier still.