When Quentin climbed up to where the two boys slept, he didn't know what to take. There wasn't much to consider.

"Quentin, you hurry up!" Granny wrapped up cheeses, potatoes, smoked pork, even the supper that still sat on their plates.

"Granny, I don't know ..."

"Just what you and Randy Junior need to live, boy. Git yer warm clothes and roll 'em up in yer wool blanket. We got no time, now."

Quentin laid his warmest clothes out on the blanket. He reached underneath the straw-filled mattress and pulled out a small wooden box. He delicately removed a faded old photograph of a handsome young woman[describe], wrapped it in his only handkerchief, and placed it gently inside his shirt. He took out two silver dollars and stuffed them in his britches pocket. Quentin had earned the money skidding trees for Henry McNeill, and the old man had told him that he was to save it "fer if yer ever to get real desperate." Quentin didn't know if he were desperate, but he could tell Granny and Pa were worried. He tried not to think about their neighbors from the town riding through the woods in the middle of the night. He tied up a bundle for Randy Jr. and climbed down the ladder. The door flew open and Pa and Randy Jr. came in sweating and panting, despite the chill of the mountain night air.

"The horses is ready," Pa gasped between breaths. "Quentin, you 'n' Granny'll take the mule, cut across the southeast quarter-lot, and head east on the road to Sheperdstown. If you meet anyone on the road, yer jest a boy takin' his sick granny to the doctor in town."

"But Pa, what about you and Randy Junior?"

"We'll go in another direction. Now you two jest git on that mule and move out. We'll come back when this is over. But right now, we can't stay here."

Pa walked over to Granny and looked down into her upturned face. "Mother Clayborne, I'm obliged for what you done to keep me 'n' my boys fed and alright and fixin' our clothes 'n' such. I don't know what's gonna happen now, but ..." Pa paused and looked up at the rough-hewn beams of the little cabin. He gave Quentin a dissatisfied look, then turned back to Granny. "Frankly I don't know which one of you is goin' to look after the other. But let's go."

The two horses and the mule loomed dark beneath the sea of stars that hovered over the barnyard. Pa and Randy put their bundles of clothes and food into well-worn saddlebags. Quentin tied his and Granny's bundles behind the old saddle that clung to the mule's ribs. He boosted Granny up and climbed up in front of her.

"Remember," Pa said again in a low voice. "Yer just a boy and a sick ol' woman goin' fer doctorin'." He mounted and turned in the saddle. "I've done all I kin fer ya, and yer on yer own. Good luck to ya."

"Pa?" Quentin's voice quavered, but Pa didn't turn to look at him.

"It's time to be a man, boy. You take care of yer Granny."

Quentin looked at his brother in the dim starlight. Randy was turned in his saddle, watching Quentin over his shoulder with a mocking, contemptuous sneer. Pa and Randy Jr. were going off together again, and he was left behind with Granny again, Quentin thought. He stared back at Randy, relaxing the tight muscles in his face, not giving his brother the satisfaction of showing any fear or humiliation. Quentin knew he could not beat Randy in a fight, but he had learned to look at him with the blank expression he knew must disappoint the older boy. If he couldn't control Randy, he could at least control himself.

Quentin and Granny watched Pa and Randy round the bend and turn southward into the woods. Finally Granny let out a long sigh and seemed about to speak when the mule abruptly straightened his neck and tilted his ears in the direction of town. Granny and Quentin leaned forward and listened.

"Let's go, Quentin," Granny said in an urgent whisper. Quentin dug his heels into the mule's ribs and they headed southeast, across the open fields toward where the old [town] road turned east and headed into the woods. Behind them they heard the sounds of galloping horses and shouting riders coming down the road from the northwest. Quentin kicked the mule again and slapped him with the reins. They bounced and jostled over the rough, newly-turned furrows of the poor mountain soil. The sweet aroma of damp earth ordinarily swelled Quentin's lungs and made the blood rush to his head, a certain sign of the coming of spring, and of summer to follow. But now Quentin wondered what would become of their lives and the farm. He was riding as fast as he could, away from the only home he'd ever known.

Quentin's thoughts were broken by a short bark. Looking back he could barely make out Lady bounding across the ridges and troughs of dirt, her ears back and her tail streaming out behind her.

"Be quiet, Lady!" Granny and Quentin both hissed at the same time. The dog loped along beside them, glancing nervously back at the cabin and barn. As they neared the edge of the field, where the road bent eastward into the forest, the sounds of men shouting and howling and laughing came clearer. Suddenly it was joined by chickens squawking, and sow and piglets squealing in terror. A shot hammered the darkness, followed by a flurry of shots, and the men all hurrahed as the animals' complaints came to an abrupt halt.

"Open up, secessionist traitors!" Quentin recognized the voice of [name]. "Open up in the name of the Union!" An angry yell rose from the mob.

The mule suddenly realized the urgency of the situation and trotted faster, snorting and tossing his head. Another raucous cheer blew accross the field behind them. When they were a few yards into the woods, Quentin yanked the mule to a halt and turned in the saddle. Through the skeleton trees he could see the cabin and the smokehouse silohuetted against a dim orange glow. As he watched the glow grew brighter, and the men laughed and whistled and fired their guns.

Quentin gasped. Granny stared silently at the flames, her face tight and firm in the eerie orange glow. Quentin could feel anger and disbelief and horror press down on him until he feared he would fall out of the saddle.

"Let's go," Granny finally spoke. "Those men may come looking for us."

Skinny mule legs and wheezing mule lungs carried them as fast down a rough, dark country road as used-up mule legs can. But a sound of galloping hooves grew steadily louder in the darkness behind them. The mule stumbled three times, almost falling. Quentin knew he could not win the race to the next farm on the road, where they might find protection, someone that might bear witness and make whoever was chasing them hesitate. He pulled evenly back on the reins, and the exhausted animal trembled to a halt. Quentin could feel the ribs heaving beneath him, and could feel the steam from the whistling breath. He swung Granny out of the saddle and pulled her running into the forest. After a moment they fell to the ground and looked back. The white mule shone dimly in the starlight. Over the pounding of Quentin's heart, the sound of racing hoofbeats came louder and louder down the road. Finally, it was so loud Quentin thought the horse must be riding directly over his head. But when he looked up cautiously the rider had reigned to a stop next to the mule. There was a jingle of spurs as the dark figure dismounted, a pistol in his hand. Granny's fingers dug into Quentin's arm like an eagle's talons, and Quentin had to swallow back a yelp of pain. The wind stood up the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, and he shivered as the perspiration in his clothes caught the evening breeze.

The rider looked the mule over carefully, then looked over his shoulder into the forest. Quentin and Granny pushed their faces down into the dry, musty carpet of dead leaves. Quentin knew his eyes would draw the man's eyes, as the eyes of any two humans are always drawn to each other. He squeezed the lids shut, and tried to breathe silently. The sound of spurs grew louder and louder as the rider entered the woods and crept forward. Quentin prayed the man wouldn't see him or Granny, that God would fold darkness over them like a blanket. His heartbeat could be heard a mile away, he thought, and holding his breath only made it louder. The spurs jingled closer, each snapping twig and rustling leaf like the blast of a cannon. A whiskey-tobacco stench settled over them, and Quentin feared he would feint or retch.

As Quentin was biting his lip and bracing himself to be stepped on, the forest exploded in a maelstrom of flailing arms and legs, of growls and yelps and grunts and the man cursing. Quentin was instantly on his feet, flailing at the darkness, pummeling the dark figure with fists and elbows, kicking wildly. The man clamped Quentin in his arms and drove him hard against a tree. Quentin staggered, but the man's weight pushed him to the ground. He wailed through clenched teeth, pushing harder than he had ever pushed, trying to throw the bigger man off.

Quentin heard a loud thud, and the stranger's body suddenly stiffened and went limp. Quentin squirmed out from underneath, and squinted up to see Granny holding a tree branch like a club. Granny stood stock still and stared at the prostrate figure below her. Then she stared at Quentin. Lady appeared out of the darkness and sniffed the prone body.

"Let's get out of here, Granny," Quentin whispered. "We don't know if this feller's gonna wake up."

Granny nodded slowly. "Are you alright, son?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm fine." Quentin pulled Granny toward the road, but Granny wouldn't move. She looked at the man and then looked down at Lady.

"I thought we lost that dog a mile back. Maybe she come runnin' up when she seed that man ride by." Quentin looked at Lady, and then at the man. Granny knelt down slowly and held her hand below the man's nose.

"He's breathin'. He's jest out cold. We'd better git, before he comes around."

"Who is he, Granny? Is he one of them soldiers?"

Granny looked up at Quentin quickly.

"Soldiers? Them wasn't soldiers that come to our place. Them was our neighbors, most of 'em."

Quentin stared at Granny.

"Quentin, honey, them was our neighbors burnt us out."

"Why, Granny? They got no call ..."

"It's a war comin', Quentin. A civil war. It's the way folks act in a war. It don't have to make sense in a war. A war is a war. Nothin' makes sense in a war."

Quentin reached down and rolled the man over roughly. They looked at the swollen face.

"Colchester Magrue," Granny said flatly. "I should have knowed."

After Quentin had tied the unconscious Magrue's hands and thrown the pistol's ammunition as far as he could into the forest, he and Granny stumbled back to the road where the horse and mule stood patiently. Quentin tied the empty pistol to the horse's saddle horn and slapped the animal on the rump. "YAH! YAH! Git on now!" The horse galloped back toward town, and Quentin boosted Granny onto the mule.

"He'll be right fired when he come around," Granny said matter-of-factly. "We'd better to put some distance behind us."

Quentin climbed into the saddle and slapped the reins against the mule's neck.

"I don't know what we're in fer, Granny." Quentin kicked the mule's ribs and it trotted faster. A breeze came up and mule and riders shivered.

"I cain't see what we're in fer," Quentin repeated, shaking his head.

"You never know what yer in fer," Granny said quietly, "but we cain't stay here."