Twenty nineThe girl rode alongside him, Curly grumbling and groaning some half a dozen paces behind as Simms set a steady pace across the plain towards the town of Glory. The trail took a winding course, often hidden beneath the snow, but Simms had the advantage of his old army compass, which he referred to often, checking the direction.
“What is that thing you're forever looking at?” asked Tabatha when Simms snapped the lid of the tiny contraption shut for the umpteenth time that morning.
“I got it from an old friend of mine, half a lifetime ago. Never had much need to use it until now, what with all of this snow.”
“It tells you which direction to head for?”
“If you can read it, yes. See this here needle,” he pulled it from his pocket again and opened the lid. She drew her horse close
