An hour passed with sporadic firing. Gus made the rounds then, asking his friends and family how many bullets they had left. Karl and Gus were down to one each. Marty had three, Jeff and Per two, and Bridget had one. She had kept the back door clear but didn’t know if she had hit anyone. Marty gave one of his bullets to Bridget. Karl knew then he could never shoot her, no matter how dire their situation. He just couldn’t do it. He was certain Gus felt the same way about Per. While there was life, there was always hope. With so little ammunition left, the group decided to all congregate in the front room, back to back, so someone would see if anyone came into the house from any direction. They determined to save their ammo for that eventuality.
This was not a time for small talk. The tension grew as they waited for the inevitable final attack. Karl put a hand on Bridget’s belly and pulled her close. They hadn’t even told Gus and Per yet that she was pregnant. Somehow this didn’t seem like the right time either; it would only increase their regret if the worse happened. Bridget found herself wondering how many other people had landed themselves in similar circumstances in the settling of the western frontier. Or for that matter in the highlands of Scotland or the deserts of Egypt. Simply put, there were things worth dying for. She wasn’t dying for the house or the barn. If she died this day, it would be protecting the people—Buddy jumped in her lap at that point—and yes, the dog, who had become so dear in her life.
“One of us should write a quick letter of what happened here, um, just in case.”
It was Bridget’s idea and a good one. They should have thought of it sooner. At the very least, Hobie Pike shouldn’t get away with this. The baby began gurgling and Per jumped up and left the room. When she returned with Henry a few minutes later, she handed Bridget a piece of paper and a pencil. As fast as she could, Bridget recorded the events of the cattle rustling, the shoot-out, the ambush attempts and the final attack. When she finished, she looked up.
“Where should we put it? We don’t want them to find it.”
“In the room under the trap door?” Gus suggested.
“It might never be found there.”
‘I know,” Bridget smiled.
They all looked at her.
“Inside the soup tureen.”
Per grinned. “Men would never look there.”
“Won’t the soup ruin it?” Jeff was confused.
“It’s empty, and it has a lid. This paper might not be found for weeks or months, but it will be found.”
The thought of someone else using their dishes didn’t disturb the women at all. It made no sense for any useful items to go to waste. Bridget had just had that thought when a thunderous crash jolted them all. Before they even had a chance to stand, the front door crashed open. The outlaws had used a large log to devastating effect and several barreled through the door.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Hobie Pike sneered, pointing his gun directly at Bridget.
The tightknit group looked at one another and lowered their firearms. They knew if they started firing, some outlaws would die, but so would several of them. Karl was more than surprised that the attackers hadn’t come in guns blazing, and then he realized Pike would want them to suffer, now that he had the upper hand. Seeing the man up close, the rancher almost wanted to laugh. Pike was on the small side, the kind of scrapper that made big noise so everyone would pay attention to him. His eyes were bloodshot and kind of sunken in. His clothes, denim trousers and a blue shirt, looked well worn and slept in. Of course, the Burgens didn’t look much better, he supposed.
“Let’s see, who will I kill first?” Why don’t they look scared? They should be shaking in their boots.
Bridget held onto Karl’s hand and felt a peace within her. Per and Gus also held hands, and Gus had an arm wrapped around his wife and the baby. Henry babbled on at the little duck toy he held, still oblivious to the danger. Jeff and Marty both looked defiant. Two of Pike’s men stood near the door with him, and another two, guns drawn, watched from the other side of the group.
“You, girlie, come here.” Pike pointed to Bridget.
This was it. Decision time. Bridget squeezed Karl’s hand and tried to rise, but he squeezed back, holding her in place.
“How ‘bout if I just put a bullet through your man’s brain?”
Bridget had no doubt in her mind Pike would do it. Bridget wrenched her hand from Karl’s and stood. She had taken one step toward Pike, trying not to show her revulsion at his leer, when he grunted loudly. She watched, almost as if it was happening to someone else, as he fell forward, the gun falling from his hand. She heard the terrifying Indian “whooping” sound at the same time she saw the arrow sticking from his back.
Then Karl grabbed her wrist and dragged her down as Gus and the other men snatched up and began firing their guns, dropping the other outlaws in the room. Suddenly there was silence, one of those deafening silences that fray the nerves. The women were afraid to look outside and afraid not to. The men may also have felt afraid, but that didn’t stop them from cautiously walking through the front-door opening. Five or six more outlaws looked dead, several arrows sticking out of most of them.
Only two Indians stood near the corral. Gus recognized one as the father—or was it the uncle—of White Eagle. Their eyes locked for a moment. The Indian warrior nodded and the two men disappeared into the woods. Lord, it was over.
The first thing the men did was check all the outlaws’ pulses. They only found one still alive, one of the men in the house. It was possible one or more had slunk away in the night, but they didn’t think so. If Bridget’s original count was accurate, all 15 men were accounted for. She patched up the injured man as best she could—he was gut shot and, although she removed the bullet and repaired the damage as best she could, it didn’t look good for the man.
As they didn’t want to get the Indians in trouble, Karl persuaded Bridget to carefully remove the arrows from the dead outlaws, a grisly task at best. Then the men loaded the 11 smallest bodies into the wagon, and then the injured man on top, not feeling too much guilt at what a horrific ride that would make for him. They rolled the other three in blankets and secured them to the backs of three horses. Gus, Jeff and Marty took the bodies to Vale, while Karl, Bridget and Per stayed to set the property to rights as best they could.
As Per tended to Henry’s needs, Karl concentrated on repairing the front door and Bridget chinked the bullet holes throughout the house. As she did so, she wondered how the sheriff and townspeople would react when the men brought in 14 bodies. Gus had assured them he had a good relationship with the sheriff, which put her mind at ease.
And then she realized her mind truly was at ease. The danger had passed. Yes, they would need to rebuild the barn, and quickly, before the snow came, and repair any other damages to the house and property. She knew there would always be challenges. She glanced at her husband, diligently repairing the door, and at her sister, cooing at Henry as she changed his diaper, and thought, I am so lucky.