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“You know you can’t bargain with such men.” Francis stared out his window, seemed to be counting the men against them outside.
“I know that!” Sara said. “He gets us out of here he’s going to line us up and shoot us. Seems he has the law out here in his pocket as well.”
Justin looked around inside the house, at Missy trying to be calm as she cowered, at the table with a half-eaten meal.
“Are you willing to talk?” the voice boomed at them from the riders.
“No!” Sara yelled, though her voice broke with a choked-back sob.
The crack of a rifle and a bullet slapping against the side of the house was their answer.
Scamp fired from the roof and Justin saw a rider tumble from his saddle. The others scrambled off their horses or moved back. Justin fired the muzzleloader, felt it slam hard into his shoulder, and couldn’t see through the black powder smoke if he’d hit anyone. He got busy reloading it, the chief problem with such a gun.
Bullets began to pound into the thick adobe sides of the house. Many were hitting the upper side of the house, aimed at Scamp, who was most exposed up on the roof. Justin could tell from the sound of the shots from above that Scamp was moving back and forth behind the two-foot high adobe bulwark so he could fire from a different location each time.
“Justin, you’d best take Scamp a box of ammo up there. We sure hadn’t planned on anything like this.”
“Like as not they may try a sortie or two, but I doubt they risk much since they have the upper hand and Button as well,” Francis said. “This little place is a mere bauble to a man like that, if you can imagine the sheer greed. Grab, grab, grab, all on behalf of his employer who is miles away.”
“Can you please do me an enormous favor, Mr. Gallagher, and quit speaking?” Sara spoke through clenched teeth.
“Who me? Well, I’m not someone to go on talking when I’m asked not to do so.”
Sara sighed.
Justin leaned the muzzleloader against the wall and grabbed a box of ammo that would fit the rifle. He hesitated for a moment at the door, listened to bullets thudding into the adobe of the front of the house. No sense waiting. The shooting outside wasn’t going to let up. His heart felt like it had lodged somewhere in his throat.
“Just keep moving,” Francis said. “It’s hard for a rifle to hit a moving target.”
“Will you please . . .?”
Justin didn’t hear the rest of what Aunt Sara started to say. He burst out the door and ran to his left, heard the whiz of a bullet that sounded like an angry bee zipping past his head, then the thump as it smacked adobe. He dove and rolled, clutching the box of ammo.
At the corner he scampered up and ran toward the back of the house, then clambered up the ladder.
Scamp spun and pointed the barrel of the rifle at Justin. Scamp’s eyes were open wide.
“Here.” Justin held out the box.
“Good.” Scamp relaxed. I’d just about run out. He stayed low to crawl over and get the box, shoving shells into the magazine as fast as he could.
“How’re you doing?” Justin asked.
“I ‘spect we’re goners this time. I’m sorry I might’ve snapped at you earlier. It’s best we make peace among ourselves since we might soon be stretched out next to each other.”
Justin looked hard at Scamp’s face, hoping to see a smile, to know that he was kidding. But he wasn’t. He saw a sober, sad face that looked back at him, with a single tear running down one cheek. That didn’t stop Scamp from turning to scurry back to the front of the house and start returning fire.
Wiping at tears himself as he climbed down the ladder, Justin paused to pull out his shirt tail and rub angrily at his face. When he thought he’d rubbed out every sign of being a big baby for a moment he took off and ran back toward the front door.
He’d hardly gotten inside, just ahead of a bullet thumping the outside wall behind him, when Francis said, “Here they come.”
Justin grabbed the muzzleloader and looked out the window. Three riders holding torches galloped toward the house. A rifle crack from the roof sent one of them tumbling. Justin fired and thought he got one of them, though the shot that did it might have come from Sara’s rifle. All Justin could see for a second was smoke. He could hear the thundering hooves of an approaching horse, though.
Francis left his place at the front window and rushed to the door, leaped outside, and fired both barrels of the shotgun before the last rider could get to the house. The torch fell to the ground as the rider tumbled to the other side of the horse that spun and galloped back the direction it had come.
A fusillade of angry shots came toward the house. One bullet whooshed in the window above Justin’s head and slammed into something on the far wall.
Francis rushed back inside, hunched by his window again as he reloaded the shotgun. “That was a silly waste. I doubt he tries that again soon.”
“Will you please . . .?” Sara started to say. She stopped. The irritation seemed to slide from her face. “Justin, you’d best see to your friend.”
Justin looked at Francis, saw a smear of red growing larger on one side of his white shirt.
Sara closed the front door and slid over to Justin’s window as he crouched to crawl across to Francis. A bullet swept across the table they’d been eating at and the empty wine glass was one of the items thrown to shatter against the far wall.
“Now isn’t that just the height of uncivilization,” Francis muttered. He held a hand to his chest. Blood seeped out between his fingers.
Justin knelt close and unbuttoned Francis’s shirt. “What’s this?” He pointed to the vest that held coins.
“Probably what saved my life. Those jaspers are pretty good shots.” He looked down, lifted his hand. “Looks like the bullet defected off the vest and just tore a hole in my side.”
“Clean out the wound good,” Sara called over to Justin as she fired her rifle out the window. “There’s an old sheet over by where I sleep.”
Justin got a pan of water and a clean rag of the sort they used to clean the dishes. He dabbed at the wound until the bleeding slowed and it looked cleaner. Then he tore the sheet into strips, rolled one strip into a pad and tied the ends of others together. He put the pad over the wound and had Francis hold it in place with a finger. Then he wound the extended strip around Francis’s chest three times until he felt it would press firmly to hold the pad in place over the wound.
“You do good work. If you ever go to war, perhaps you can be a nurse.”
“Don’t pick on the boy,” Sara said.
“Well, it’s a shame. Grown men shooting at the likes of Justin here, who’s only fifteen. Scamp up there’s fourteen, isn’t he?”
Justin nodded.
“And Button, she was about the same.”
“She is about the same.” Sara fired twice out the window, perhaps more out of anger than aiming at anything.
“You’re right. Sorry. They’re holding her and would have every reason to keep her alive.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard you say you were sorry about anything.”
“You’re apt to hear it again if we don’t find some way out of this mess.”
Justin put aside the pan. His hands were shaking.
“Are you scared, son?” Francis whispered.
“To the core of my bones. Everyone’s fighting hard, but I fear I caught my father’s disease. I just want to dig a hole and hide in it. I should be thinking about what I could do for Button.”
“Can I give you a bit of advice?”
“I don’t know, after that splendid bit you gave me about how to get Button to like me.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I guess I’m just one sorry man right now. But listen.” Francis waved Justin closer. “People can live under the allusion that they are one way or the other, that they’re cursed. Yet being a coward isn’t something you inherit. There’s a tendency to think things are caused by some outside source. But the truth of it is that it’s all usually inside you, and up to you to handle. Each person has to pass an individual test to measure up. What tips the scales is how much you care about the thing for which you would risk everything. Do you like Button that much? Do you love your family here enough to perhaps sacrifice everything?”
Justin would have liked to nod, or speak. But his throat closed tight and angry tears made it hard for him to see. He brushed hard at his eyes, took up the shotgun, and moved to the window.
He stood there like stone for a moment or two, not glancing toward his Aunt Sara or Francis, just staring out the window. Something was missing. It took a second to sink in. The shooting had stopped, as abruptly as it had begun. In a way, the silence was worse. It felt like a pending weight about to crush them.
“I don’t think they’re going away,” Sara said.
The sky was dimming rapidly. Justin could barely make out the area from which the men had been shooting. He saw no one, but dared not hope this was over.
“Like as not they took notice of their ammo and will let us stew overnight before they try something in the morning,” Francis said.
“Is there anything you don’t have an opinion about,” she snapped.
“Well, one or two. But I’ll leave those be for the time being.”
Justin couldn’t hear his Aunt Sara’s teeth grinding, but imagined he could. He wished he could have seen Francis’s lame skill at wooing before he ever listened to him about Button.
As the sky grew darker Justin could see camp fires in the distance.
“Looks like they’re setting up to stay the night.” Francis had lifted himself enough to peer out the window.
“If you’re fit enough to keep watch I’ll make us all some coffee. Like as not we’re going to need it.” Sara took her Winchester over and handed it to Francis. He grinned up at her, though Justin thought the grin looked a little forced and hid a grimace behind it.
Justin stared out into the growing night, his insides a boiling torment. What he came up with was an awful thing to ask of himself, but he was hatching an idea. He thought and thought, even tried to talk himself out of it. But no, he would never be able to face himself again.
Francis must have seen something on Justin’s face. Sara was fussing over getting a pot of coffee going while clearing up some of the damage from all the gunfire. Like as not they were going to see more of it and it would help if they didn’t trip over a bunch of broken glass and dishes as they moved about. He waved for Justin to come closer.
Justin looked outside, then to Aunt Sara. He eased over close and bent down to Francis.
“If you get some wild and crazy notion, just be careful,” Francis said. He took his belt knife out of its sheath and handed it to Justin. Then had a second thought and dug his derringer out of his side pocket and slipped it into Justin’s hand. “Mind what I said and have a care.” He gave Justin a broad wink, but with the lines of pain etched on his face along with a patina of sweat it looked more ghastly than encouraging.
Justin didn’t know what to do with the knife, so he dropped it butt first into his left boot. He pulled his pant leg down to cover it. He shoved the derringer deep into his left side pocket. Sara was coming toward him as he looked up.
“I’ve put together some bread, a bit of jerky, and a canteen of coffee for Scamp. Take it up to him while we have a little lull, Justin. When it’s darker maybe we can grab a bucket of water from the well out front. We’re all going to need our wits about us as this stretches into the night.” Sara held out a basket.
Justin glanced to Francis, then back to her. He left the shotgun leaning by the window. “Okay.” He swallowed hard and carried the basket out the door.
Night had settled in, so he took each step with care. Clouds slid across the sliver of moon and few stars, making it darker than usual. He felt his way to the ladder and climbed up, calling out as he neared the top, “Scamp?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s me.”
Once up on the roof he let Scamp come to him. He handed over the basket. “You okay?” In the dim light he couldn’t see any wet on Scamp’s cheeks, so at least he wasn’t crying.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The voice was resigned, that of a boy who expected to die before the next day was over.
Justin fought for something to say, but could think of nothing. “I’ve got to get back,” he said.
“Okay.” The word was a sigh, perhaps the last word they’d ever exchange between them. Justin almost reached out a hand to pat Scamp on the shoulder, then thought better of it.
Justin eased his way back down the ladder. At the bottom he stood for a moment. This was it. Either he did it, or not, was never going to do it.
He spun and started off in the dark, back toward the goat pasture, headed away from the house. And he wondered too if this was the last time he would see any of them. But there was no going back. He wouldn’t let himself.