The horses grew aware of him, shifted and stamped softly. He held still near the house, listening.
He heard laughter. But not hers. It came from the owners of the horses.
One of the animals stepped to the side, whinnying. Charles held his breath. The laughter stopped. Perhaps that had no connection with the horses. He might be imagining the whole —
The horses had changed position, giving him an unobstructed view of the barn. Inside, outstretched legs projected into his line of sight. The ankles were lashed with rope. The parson and his wife didn't tie people when they called, did they? They didn't visit on a night so brutally cold, did they?
He leaned against the house, his heart beating at frantic speed. Gus was threatened. The woman he cared about was inside — threatened.
Backed against the building, he knew how much he loved her. So deep was the reverse of that emotion, his fear for her, he couldn't move for half a minute. His mind was in confusion. Suppose he took rash action and got her killed?
Another minute went by. Do something, damn you. Do something.
He broke free of the numbing confusion and pictured the back porch. He didn't dare enter that way. It would be ice-covered, noisy. He twisted his head toward the road. The red oaks. Great climbing trees. Could he reach one of the dormers and prize it open? If so, he had a chance of surprising the men holding Gus in the kitchen or one of the back rooms. That they were Yankees he now took as a certainty. Everything depended on surprise and silence.
He stole to the front of the house and over to the stoop, where he sat and jerked off his boots. Then, crossing the porch, he slowly turned and tested the doorknob.
Locked. All right, it had been a faint hope anyway. He put his filthy right sock onto the top step, and his whole body tilted wildly. He went flying off the steps; the edge of one cracked him across his spine. He bit back a yell but made a loud bump. He rolled on his side on the hard ground, listening —
After a few seconds, he exhaled. They hadn't heard the noise. He had to be more careful. The ice was everywhere.
Under the tree, he stretched, grabbed, threw a leg over, and pulled himself up on the lowest limb. From there on it wasn't so easy. He wasn't clinging to bark with his knees and elbows, his gauntlets and filthy socks; he was clinging to frozen grease. He went up with excruciating slowness and nearly fell three times. Finally he reached a large branch that hung over the roof.
Taking hold of a thinner one above it, he stood up, then began to move along the icy branch, sliding his right foot toward the house a few inches, then his left one, then his right again. Progress was slow because of the cold; he had lost nearly all feeling below his ankles.
Save for the stars and the crescent moon, the sky was black from horizon to horizon. Balanced on the branch near one of the dormers, he studied the situation. He would have to lean out, grasp the dormer peak, and hope he could hang on. Attempting to stand or kneel on the roof itself would be futile because of the slope and the ice. He swallowed. Extended his hand. Stretched — His fingers were three inches short of the peak. Still holding the limb above, he stepped six inches nearer the house. The branch sagged, began to crack. "Holy hell," he whispered, gambling, letting go and flinging both hands forward. He felt himself falling, caught hold of the peak. The sudden weight shot excruciating pain along his arms. His knees banged the shakes of the dormer. They would hear that all the way to the Floridas.
He hung from the peak by both hands, then removed his right one, reaching downward to the window. He tugged. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Locked, goddamn it. He let out an enraged groan and yanked a third time, thinking he would have to smash his fist through —
The window rose an inch.
His left hand slipped on the peak, but he held on, panting. He slipped his other hand under the window and slowly, slowly pulled it up far enough to allow him to swing through into the dry, chill dark of some cobwebby place. Eyes closed, he rested on his knees. He felt tremors in his quaking left arm.
He waited until a little of that passed. His vision adjusted, and he picked out certain shapes: trunks, an old dress form. This was an attic. A pale oblong showed where the stairs descended to the house proper.
He heard laughter again, then blurred words from Gus. She sounded angry. Next came a smacking sound. She retorted, still angry. A second smack silenced her. He almost felt the blow himself.
He controlled his rage and stood up cautiously, so as not to creak the floor or thump a beam with his head. He stripped off his gloves, blew on his fingers, flexed them, blew again until he felt circulation returning. He unbuttoned his old farmer's coat and eased the loaded Colt from the tied-down holster.
He advanced to the stairs and crept down, a silent step at a time. The anger thickened, possessing him. At the bottom, he took half a minute to twist the handle, ease the door open — no squeak, thank the Lord — and slide through to the warm hall.
To the right, the kitchen doorway. The voices were distinct.
"Meant to ask you, Bud. You ever been with a female?"
"No, Sarge." That voice was light; the speaker sounded younger than the previous one, who seemed to have an accumulation of phlegm in his throat.
"Well, m' lad, we'll change that pretty quick."
Charles moved, sliding toward the kitchen, his back to the wall.
"Ever spied a plumper pair of tits, Bud?"
"No, sir."
"Want to take a look at them 'fore we start the real festivities?"
"If you do, Sarge."
"Oh, yessiree, I do. Sit still, missy."
"Get away from me." Charles was a yard from the door when Gus said that.
"You be quiet, missy. I wouldn't want to bruise up a pretty little reb like you, but I'm gonna open that dress and have a look at them plump things hangin' —"
Charles lunged to the doorway, thumb and finger of his gun hand ready as he spied the two Yanks. Neither wore a uniform — scouts, then, like himself.
The nearest, a blue-eyed youngster with a scraggly yellow mustache, saw him first. "Sarge!"
The older Yankee blocked his view of Gus, who was evidently seated in a chair. Charles stepped into the room and thoughtlessly made an error; he jumped a pace to the right to see if she was hurt. "Gus, are you —?"
Almost too late, he saw what he had missed before — the horse pistol in the waistband of the younger Yank. Out it came, looming huge. Charles fell to his knees and fired at the same time as the younger man.
Only the drop saved him. The Yankee ball passed over his head. His ball flew into the boy's open mouth and through the back of his head, carrying parts of it and splattering them on the wall. Gus screamed. The sergeant goggled at the boy blown backward against the stove. Then he stared at Charles on one knee, his Colt curling out smoke.
The sergeant was scared and consequently slow. Even while he groped for his side arm, he realized he had no time. Wetting himself, he staggered on a crooked path to the back door.
Charles lunged forward, next to Gus's chair, and aimed at the man's back. "You piece of Yankee shit." He squeezed the trigger and simultaneously Gus pulled his arm.
The ball went low, hitting the sergeant's left leg. With a yell he pitched through the door he had opened a moment earlier. He slid belly down across the porch and dropped off the edge, leaving a blood-swath on the ice.
"I'm going to kill the —"
"Charles."
Pale, she gripped his arm and gazed at him, unable to countenance what she saw. The fever in his eyes, the death's-head expression —
"Charles, I'm all right. Let him go."
"But he may —"
They heard a horse whinny, weight on it suddenly. It went clattering toward the road. Boz and Washington shouted from the barn. Slowly, Charles released the hammer of the Colt and laid the gun on the table. He was shaking.