Woods Runner by Gary Paulsen Page B

travelers were so thick Abner had trouble moving the wagon through.
    “Are they running from the redcoats?” This from Annie, who teared up when she saw a little girl trudging along and holding a doll by one arm.
    “That. And more,” Abner said. “Not just the soldiers—like I said, some of them aren’t that bad. I mean, a while ago, we were all loyal Englishmen. It’s more what redcoats signify—the English Crown has become a way of life these people no longer want. Part is they’re scared, don’t know what will happen, but along with that, these people are sick of being told what to do by a crazy king who lives three thousand miles away and doesn’t care about them one way or the other.”
    “What do you mean, ‘crazy’?” Samuel asked.
    “King George,” Abner said, “they say he’s teched, crazy as a bag of hazelnuts. They’ve got people to catch him when he runs wild, put his clothes on when he tears them off, watch him when he sleeps so he doesn’t kill himself—he’s no man to run a kingdom.”
    “Did he start the war?” It seemed a logical question; the war was so crazy. Maybe a crazy man started it.
    “Probably not. It began on this side of the ocean inBoston, not over there. People were sick of being treated like livestock.”
    The dogs had been going ahead now and then to greet some people, their tails wagging, holding back with others, but now they dropped well back and Abner stopped the wagon. “British coming.” If he hadn’t seen the dogs, he would have known anyway; all the men who looked like patriot soldiers evaporated off the trail into the brush.
    The soldiers came marching in a file. Not Hessians but regular British soldiers. There must have been two or three hundred of them, as near as Samuel could estimate, marching in loose route step, followed by supply wagons. They did nothing threatening, they didn’t stop at all, except to work around wagons that couldn’t get out of the way soon enough.
    Abner watched them go by in silence, nodding at some of them, and when they were gone, he started up the mules. It was late in the day and he said, “Why don’t we stop for a good meal tonight?”
    They had been eating corn and the venison, which was about gone. Samuel had been thinking he should take his rifle and head off into the woods for another deer tomorrow. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean have somebody cook us a meal … say the people in that farm over there.” He pointed to a farm set well back off the road, with neat white fences and a white painted house. “Right there.”
    Samuel and Annie said nothing. The house reminded Samuel of Annie’s home before the Hessians and he wondered if she felt the same.
    As they had gotten closer to the city, there had been more and more cleared farms. Some were nice, even beautiful. Some had been attacked and burned—probably by the Hessians—but many had not. It made no sense, nor did it follow any logic—like so much of what had happened.
    Abner pulled the wagon into the long drive and then the yard. There was a wooden watering trough by a hand pump and the mules went to it and started drinking. Abner, Samuel and Annie climbed down from the wagon.
    “Let them drink,” Abner said. “Mules won’t blow themselves by overdrinking the way horses do.”
    There was a barn—painted red, as Caleb’s had been. Samuel sneaked a look at Annie, but she seemed to take it in stride.
    A man came from the barn. He was tall, thin, and had a tired felt hat, which he pushed to the back of his head. He started to say something but before he could get anything out, Abner held up his hand.
    “Name’s Abner McDougal. Honor to the house and we come in peace. I have a fine surface-sharpening stone wheel and I repair and sharpen all tools, in the house and barn, all work for one good meal for me and the bairns.”
    “Well …”
    “Also buy and sell rags. Have some nice linen rags if thelady of the house needs some soft garment material.”