They had to go slowly so that they wouldn’t be seen. By now Captain Senn would have spread the alarm. Tim noticed that Red walked with spirit again. Rest and food had made the difference. Shortly after noon they reached another stretch of open land. They faced a field of tall grass. At a distance of half a mile or so, against a forest of dark pines, stood the white frame houses of a little town. Tim hooked his thumbs over his belt. “Unless we make a wide circuit we can’t get through here at this time of day. There must be farms all around the town.” “Let’s settle down a while.” They studied the town. A rider moved across the field at quite a distance, his figure showing above the tips of the grass. They heard the barking of distant dogs. Tim said, “I’m thinking we better travel at night till we get to North Carolina.” Off to the right, with the trees at its back, was a pile of wood, probably left there years before when the land had been cleared. The men took off their haversacks and settled in the grass, leaning against the stack of wood. Mud wasps had made their home in one of the logs and they circled overhead. Red looked at his watch. “Three thirty.” He wound the watch and put it into his pocket again, his chin dropped to his chest and he slept. Tim tried to sleep but found he couldn’t, so he looked at the sky and consoled himself with the thought that one of them should act as a sentry, anyway. He was reminded of the summer before he had joined the Army when he’d worked at Quigley’s farm. He remembered clearing the north pasture, hauling off stones on the old stone boat and shouting to the shaggy-hoofed horses as they reached the wall at the edge of the wood lot. When he said good-bye to Mr. Quigley the old man had shown a streak of sentiment that Tim had never known he had. “You’ve been a good worker,” he’d said. “I’ll miss you like the mischief, but I know you’ll do your country proud.” Tim watched a pair of crows settle in the field close by. They set up a terrible squawking, probably over a bit of corn or a dead field mouse. He turned his hands palms up and laced his fingers together. He made a church steeple with his forefingers, as his father had taught him to do when he was a boy. He remembered the poem that went with the action of his hands: Here is the church And here is the steeple. Open the doors And see all the people. The squawking and jabbering of the crows grew dim in his ears. The shadow of the woodpile wove a pattern in the trees. * * * * *