Willard ducked as the ball hit just to the left of him. Dust flew, half blinding him. In terror, he backed out of his hiding place and scudded away, weaving in and out so as to make himself a more difficult target.
“There’s the kid! There he goes!”
Willard’s feet literally flew across the ground. The crash of rifle fire was steady, and though he knew differently, he felt like every bullet was aimed specifically at him. He saw a flash of movement by one cabin and kept running, headed for the cabins down by the millpond where there seemed to be fewer riders and gunmen.
* * *
The window in the back of Jessica’s cabin was not meant to open. She dragged a bench over to it, then ran back to the line of hooks by the fireplace and retrieved a large black frying pan. Glass was a luxury on the frontier, and they had paid dearly for it. But she did not hesitate. One swing of the heavy pan and the window shattered. Behind her, Amanda was hugging her two daughters to her, trying to soothe them. Jessica’s baby was on the bed, screaming so hysterically that he could barely get his breath. Gripping the frying pan with both hands now, Jessica hammered at the edges of the window, making sure there were no pieces of glass left to cut them as they went out.
She dropped the frying pan and spun around. “You go first, Amanda. I’ll help the girls, then hand you the baby.”
With her daughters wailing pitifully, Amanda gathered up her skirts and went out the window head first, kicking herself through until she dropped to the ground. Instantly she was back up and reaching her arms through the window. Jessica helped the younger girl up to the bench, then out into her mother’s arms. The second followed.
“All right,” Amanda cried. “Give me the baby.”
Jessica pulled the blanket over the baby’s face, kissed him quickly on the top of the head, and handed him out the window. As Amanda clasped the baby to her, her eyes flew open. She was staring over Jessica’s shoulder. Then she screamed. “Jessie, watch out!”
Jessica whirled. The front door of the cabin had flown open and there was a man with a rifle standing in the frame. The only thing that saved her was the fact that the inside of the cabin was very dim compared to the bright sunlight outside. His head was swinging back and forth, trying to make out what was happening.
Without thinking, Jessica dropped to one knee and scooped up the frying pan. She grabbed the handle with both hands and sidearmed it across the room. It struck the edge of the door just a few inches above the man’s head, but the force of the blow sent the door slamming into his rifle arm. He yelped in surprise and pain, and stumbled backwards. In two great leaps Jessica was to the door and slammed it shut in his face, yanking the catch that held the latch from being lifted from outside. There was a shout, then a stream of profanity. Then the man started pounding on the door with the butt of his rifle.
“Come on, Jessie!” Amanda screamed.
But Jessica knew the catch would not withstand the pounding it was taking if she let go of it. There was no way she could make it out the window before the man would be inside again.
The pounding on the door stopped, and she heard the man step back. Jessica leaned forward trying to hear. The clap of the rifle’s detonation nearly deafened her. The Missourian had fired at the latch at a range of no more than two feet. The ball missed the latch entirely but pierced the door exactly where Jessica had pressed her left hand against it to hold it shut.
Her hand flew backwards, half spinning her around. Falling back two or three steps, she stared dumbly at the ragged hole that went in the palm of her hand and out the back. Blood was pouring out of the torn flesh. She felt her knees start to give way and felt her stomach heave.
“Jessie!” Amanda had seen it all and now screamed out her name with every ounce of strength she had.
It brought Jessica out of her near faint. Gasping as the excruciating pain hit her now, she stumbled to the cupboard where she kept her linens. Dizzy, pale as a new sheet of paper, she pulled open a drawer with her good hand and pulled out a dish towel. Leaning against the cupboard, she wrapped the cloth around her hand.
“Come on, Jessie! Hurry. Before he reloads.”
And in that instant Jessica knew with perfect clarity that she and Amanda couldn’t make it. Not with that man outside. She could still hear him, swearing as he fought to reload his rifle. She swung around, searching the floor in the dim light. Then she saw it. With her left arm cradled against her body, she picked up the frying pan. She moved quietly to the door, took a breath, then carefully removed the catch, leaving the outside latch clear. Then she stepped back.
In a moment, she heard the man’s steps on the porch again and she saw the latch lift. The door flew open with a crash and the man jumped into the room. Amanda was still at the open window and the baby was still howling. The man’s head jerked in that direction and the rifle started up. But he got no further than that. The heavy metal pan caught him right above the hairline of his neck. There was a loud clang, a soft explosion of air, and he went sprawling, the rifle clattering harmlessly to the floor.
Jessica didn’t bother to check if he was out or not. She didn’t have to. She pushed the door shut again, shoved the catch home, and walked swiftly to the window. “You’ll have to help me, Amanda. I can’t use my hand.”
* * *
When they had first arrived in Haun’s Mill, the Smith family had started to set up camp not far from the gristmill. There were two cabins there. One was Jacob Haun’s. The other belonged to a Father McBride, an old man with nearly white hair. Brother Haun had introduced the family to McBride, and Willard Smith and his brothers had been awestruck. McBride had been born in 1776 and as a young boy had seen some of the revolutionary war. He had actually seen George Washington with his own eyes. That had won him the total hero worship of three young boys.
So when young Willard, running in blind panic from his hiding place in the woodpile, saw McBride’s cabin, he veered toward it. Gulping breaths of air in huge, hungry chunks, Willard slid to a stop at the corner of the house and peered carefully around the corner. There was no one there. In three quick jumps he was across the small porch and through the front door.
Slumping back against a wall below one of the windows, Willard tried to get his breath. Outside, all hell was raging. He closed his eyes, trying to calm a heart that pounded so furiously that he thought he might die.
Suddenly his head snapped up. In one corner of the cabin there was a hole in the floor. It was a small root cellar, and the door was laid open. Then his eyes bulged a little. A red smear across the floor led right to the opening. Gingerly now, staying on all fours, he crawled over to the hole and peeked over the edge. Willard jumped nearly a foot. There was a body there. And the body’s eyes were open.
Then the terror left him. It was Father McBride. A large red stain covered most of his shirtfront. He was wheezing, and his face was twisted with shock. Willard was up and in the hole almost instantly. He took the old man’s hand and held it tight. “Father McBride, are you all right?”
Awareness came back into the eyes as McBride groaned. “Help me out,” he whispered. “Get me out of here.”
Frightened beyond reason, mouth so dry he could barely swallow, but filled with compassion for this wounded old man, Willard got his hands under McBride’s shoulder. Crying out, wincing and twisting with agony, McBride helped as best he could until Willard had him laid out on the planking of the floor.
“Water.”
Willard stared at him.
“I need water. Please.”
Willard looked around. A tin cup sat on the wooden table. Not daring to stop and think about what he was doing, Willard ran to it, grabbed it, and dashed outside. The millpond was only a few steps away. But even as he darted out of the door, Willard was spotted. Three men were in front of a cabin thirty yards or so away. They shouted, wheeled around, and started firing. As Willard hunkered down at the water’s edge, scooping up a cupful of water, bullets started pinging in the pond around him.
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“Get ’im!” he heard one of the men shout as he flew back across the open ground to the cabin.
Willard ducked inside. In a moment he had McBride’s head cradled in one arm and was helping him drink. McBride finished and pushed himself up against a log stool. “Thank you, son,” he said in a halting voice. “Thank you.”
A window pane shattered, and Willard instinctively cringed. Another bullet whizzed by his head, coming through the open door, and thudded into the far wall. In one flash of understanding, Willard knew that if he stayed, the men would come for him and find McBride. “I’ve got to go,” he said, reaching out to straighten the old man as best he could.
“I surrendered my gun to them.” It came out as no more than a croak. There was no mistaking the bewilderment in his eyes. “And they still shot me.”
“You’ll be all right, Father McBride,” Willard whispered. “I’ve got to go.” Without looking back, he shot out the front door and was barreling across the small open space to the next cabin.
* * *
“I can’t make it!”
“Yes, you can!” Amanda hissed in her ear.
“I can’t, Amanda.” Jessica’s legs felt like rubber, and there were flashing lights in front of her eyes. She knew that shock was setting in. They were nearly to the creek, but it was not a straight run. A line of half a dozen men had spotted them as they had come out from behind Jessica’s cabin. Some were on foot, some were on horseback. The opportunity to have four running targets in their sights, four targets that couldn’t shoot back, was too good for the men to pass up. The two women zigzagged back and forth, half bent over, Amanda half dragging her screeching daughters, Jessica hugging the baby to her to shield him from any lucky shot. John Benjamin’s cries were now little more than hoarse, exhausted gasps.
Amanda reached out and took Jessica’s elbow. “Come on,” she urged. “If we can get across . . .” She reached out and took the baby from Jessica. “I’ll help you.”
They had reached that point where the millpond was held back by a small dam and the millrace. A twelve-inch-wide plank crossed over the race. Beyond it the banks of the creek rose sharply for several feet. Jessica saw instantly what Amanda was doing. If they could get across the plank and up the bank, the riders could not follow them. They slowed only enough to cross the board without falling off, Amanda hanging on to the baby and trying to herd her little girls as well. As they made the far bank and started clambering up the slope, Jessica tripped and went down. Without thinking, she threw out her left hand to catch herself. As it struck the ground, she screamed out, writhing in agony.
Amanda leaned over her. “Get up, Jessie!” she shouted. “Get up!”
A bullet slapped into the water just behind them. That galvanized Jessica into action. Sobbing now with the pain and terror, she stumbled to her feet and followed Amanda up the bank of the creek. But the effort was too much for her. She dropped to her knees, panting in huge, desperate gulps of air. “I can’t. Oh, Amanda! Please! I can’t. Save my baby.”
Amanda looked down at her, her face stricken. Her younger daughter was shrieking, pulling at her skirts. “Mama! Mama!”
“Please!”
Amanda nodded, reached down and touched Jessica’s face briefly, and then turned and ran into the brush, herding her two girls, clutching the baby tightly against her.
Another ball hit just to Jessica’s left, kicking dirt into her face. The target was down and not moving. Driven by that same inner core of strength that had once taken her twenty-five miles across a frozen prairie with Rachel hanging onto her skirts, Jessica moaned and rolled over. Pushing herself up, she clambered up to the top of the small rise, using her knees, one hand, and her left elbow. About ten yards away there was a dead tree that had fallen to the earth many years before. It was nearly two feet high and over thirty long. Scuttling like a crippled crab, she reached it and, with one last cry of pain, heaved herself over and fell to the soft earth behind it.
There was a thud as a ball whipped into the softness of the rotting bark. Then another. But the log was nearly two feet thick and she knew they couldn’t reach her. Half-faint with pain, soaked clear through, muddy, bruised, exhausted, and terrified that her attackers might come after her, Jessica Griffith lay behind her log. Incredibly, some distant part of her mind kept count as the bullets continued smacking into the log over and over. Just before she reached the count of twenty, her eyes slowly rolled up in her head, and, mercifully, she passed out.
* * *
Inside the cabin next to Father McBride’s, Willard Smith bent over a chair, gulping in air hungrily. He looked around. The cabin was empty. He moved to the door to shut it, then froze. From this vantage point he could see the front entry to McBride’s cabin. The door was still open and, to Willard’s horror, McBride was standing in it, leaning heavily against the frame. Somehow he had managed to drag himself out and pull himself up to a standing position.
The three men who had been coming for Willard saw McBride and changed direction. As they drew closer, Willard noticed now that they had blackened their faces and put red cloths on their shirts and hats, so they looked like Indians. But they weren’t Indians. They had white men’s hair and beards and light skin. The one in the lead had something else in his hands besides his rifle. As the man ran, Willard saw in horror that it was a corn cutter, a knife with a wooden handle and a long, curved blade. McBride straightened and stepped out onto his porch. “Mercy!” he cried.
There was a laugh of derision, and Willard saw the corn cutter come up high as the man came at McBride on the dead run. Willard gagged, then slammed the door shut. He jammed his hands over his ears. It was not enough. There was a strangled cry, then a fiendish scream of triumph.
The slamming door had evidently caught the attention of the other men, for a rifle cracked and a hole suddenly blossomed in the upper panel of the door. Frantic now, Willard turned. His heart leaped. There was a back door! He started across for it, and then stopped in midstep. There had been a sound from the corner. Someone was crying. There was a double bed there. He saw a movement beneath it. In three steps he was to it and knelt down and lifted the valance.
There was a quick intake of breath. A white, very frightened face with large brown eyes was staring out at him. Stunned, Willard looked more closely. There was another face. And another. He dropped down flat on his belly. “It’s all right,” he soothed. He counted quickly. There were six of them. All of them girls. The oldest no more than ten. The youngest, three or four.
Willard didn’t hesitate. Bullets were still hitting the front of the cabin. “Come on!” he said, reaching out for the closest hand. “You can’t stay here.”
As they crawled out, crying and wailing softly, he gave them a stern look. “Everybody take somebody’s hand.” They did so. “Whatever you do, don’t let go.” He forced himself to smile at them. “All right?”
Six heads bobbed simultaneously. “All right. Now, we’re going out the back. When I say run, you run as fast as you have ever run in your life. And don’t let go!”
He opened the back door, looked around quickly. There was no more time to make sure they understood. “All right,” he said, tugging on the first girl’s hand. “Run!”
They were out the door and scrambling toward the millpond. Willard headed for the narrow end of the pond, where the plank crossed over the millrace. Across the stream there was a cornfield. There was also a lot of brush and trees. If they could make that, they would have a chance.
If Willard had any hopes that the sight of little girls might deter the men coming after him, those hopes were soon shattered. A shout went up. He felt a whoosh of air go past his cheek. The pond looked like someone was throwing pebbles into it. But Willard didn’t care anymore. Slowing just enough to make sure the girls could negotiate the board without falling off, Willard led his little parade in full flight away from the cabin.
As the last little girl jumped off the board onto solid ground, Willard’s inst
ructions were forgotten. Screaming and crying, the six of them scattered like prairie chickens, disappearing into the high corn or the thick clumps of hazel brush.
Stunned for a moment, not sure if he should go after them, the boy-turned-rescuer didn’t move. Then there was a shout from behind him. Evidently children were not sport enough to draw the men across the creek. They had turned and were running off toward some other target.
For several moments, Willard Smith just stood there, chest heaving, staring at the disappearing forms of his tormentors. Then, looking around, he found a large tree and moved behind it. The undergrowth around it was thick enough to give him good cover but low enough that he could see over it and watch what was happening at the village. He sank down, feeling the rough bark against his back, trying to ignore the fact that his whole body was trembling violently now.
* * *
The pain was everywhere. In his mind. Throbbing at his fingertips. Behind his eyelids. In big fiery waves through the center of his body.
John Griffith was barely conscious of anything but the pain. But then it all came back in a burst of reality almost more intense than the physical pain. The blacksmith shop. The rifle muzzles firing. He realized with a start that, while he could still hear gunfire, it was now outside, distant, not exploding directly over his head.
He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. The door to the shop stood open, and late afternoon sunlight flooded the room, revealing the horrors that lay around him. Sardius Smith was still lying under the bellows beside his younger brother. The boy saw John looking at him, but he was so terrified that it didn’t seem to register. Alma’s eyes were closed, but then one hand moved, and there was a soft groan.
John tried to raise his head, but the waves of pain washed over him, making him gasp. Turning some more, he could see the legs and feet of Warren Smith near the door. They were perfectly still. John fought back the pain. Clenching his teeth, he rose up on one elbow. He had to help these two boys. The image of his own sons swept before his eyes. Luke and Mark were younger than the Smith boys, but John knew what he would want someone to do for them in similar circumstances. But willpower wasn’t enough. He couldn’t do it. He fell back exhausted.
The Work and the Glory Page 177
