Chapter 30
The Fright of My Life!

The rest of that night we listened to more of Claude Tavish’s stories, although by the time supper was over, Pa’d managed to get him talking about something besides the Pony Express. It turned out Mr. Tavish had fought in the Mexican War too, and that kept him and Pa busy till late talking about their recollections. At least it took our minds off worrying about Zack.

I mixed up some biscuits to go with beans and a ham hock Mr. Tavish had boiling on top of the stove. He raved and raved about those biscuits, even though there wasn’t anything to them that he couldn’t have done himself. He didn’t have any baking powder to mix in, so they were flat and hard. But he kept saying he hadn’t eaten anything so good in years. “Anything tastes better if a woman’s hand’s gone into the making of it,” he said. “A man and woman can put all the same ingredients in a bowl, and mix it up, and cook it just the same, and feed whatever it is to a passel of hungry miners or cowboys or anybody else. They’ll all cuss and complain at the man for his lousy grub, but they’ll rave and carry on at how wonderful the lady’s food tastes. I always figured they weren’t treating me none too fairly, but after tasting them biscuits of your’s, little lady, I reckon I know what they been getting at all these years. There just ain’t no denying that a woman’s hand’s got something special in it.”

“They taste about the same as always to me,” I said. “But thank you all the same, Mr. Tavish.”

I listened with interest to the two men talk, because now every story that came out gave me new glimpses into Pa’s past during those years before we were together again.

“Where was you at?” Pa had asked Mr. Tavish.

“Buena Vista, where else!” answered the stationman.

“You were at the center of it all,” said Pa. “Me and Nick never got that close to Santa Anna.”

“Lucky for you! He was a mean cuss—came at us with 15,000 men. But he hadn’t counted on Zachary Taylor! No sir. Us with our 5,000 just waited in the mountains for them to attack. Dreadful night, I can tell you—wind, rain, hardly no sleep. But it must have been worse for them Mexicans, because the next day we sent ’em running!”

“Tell me,” asked Pa. “What did the men think of President Polk?”

“I don’t know, what’s to think? He was president and we was following orders,” answered Tavish.

“Did they think the war was a good one? What about slavery?”

“What about it?”

“Did you talk about how what you were really fighting for was to have more slave states in the country?”

“Tarnation, no! We were just fighting the Mexicans. We didn’t know what it was about. Why, did you fellers in California talk about all that?”

“No,” said Pa thoughtfully. “Back then I didn’t know what it was about any more than you did. I was just curious, that’s all.”

When we went to bed that night, I lay in my bedroll on one of those hard wooden bunks. I couldn’t get right to sleep, and as I listened to Pa and Mr. Tavish snoring, all his stories about the Indians came back into my mind. I should have been more concerned for Zack, but instead I grew more and more terrified for myself! I remembered his words about how savage the Paiutes were, and how they were headed our way, and how many people they’d killed.

Then I started to realize how far out in the middle of the desert we were—twenty or twenty-five miles past Carson City—and how we were all alone. Pretty soon every little noise I heard made me jump, and I started imagining that the place was surrounded by fifty or a hundred Indians, sneaking up on us quietly in the night, to kill us!

In the distance a wolf’s cry rang out. I practically jumped out of my skin! My heart was racing, and I couldn’t imagine how Pa and Mr. Tavish could just sleep so calmly through it all. All sorts of little noises I hadn’t noticed before seemed to be coming out of the night—creaks and groans from the cabin, an occasional whistle of wind through a crack, now and then a bird or other animal, a sound from the stables, the bark of a wild dog, and always the howl of the wolves far off in the mountains.

I had been out on the trail alone many times, but never had I been so scared as I was tonight.

Never had the morning sunshine looked so good! The wind had died down and whatever the spooky noises had been during the night, they had gone away too. The place was calm and cheery; even Mr. Tavish looked more chipper as a result of his company and the discovery of a comrade from the days before the gold rush and California’s statehood. The dull, sad look in his eyes had given way to something almost like enthusiasm.

“Well, little lady, what’s you and me gonna rustle up for breakfast?” he greeted me warmly. “Flapjacks?”

“We need eggs for that,” I said. “And milk.”

“We got no milk, but I just may be able to lay my hands on two or three eggs,” he said with a wink, “if my hens have been the good girls they oughta have been during the night. You just wait here, and I’ll go check the coop.”

He disappeared outside, and returned in about three minutes, face beaming, with two brand-new eggs in each hand.

“We’ll make us up the finest batch of flapjacks this side of the gold diggin’s!” he announced, and immediately began taking down pans and dumping flour into a bowl. I don’t know what he needed me for!

“Here, little lady,” he called out after a minute. “You take over here. We want ’em to have that female touch. I gotta go draw us some water. You get ’em cooking on the griddle there. You’ll find syrup and grease up there on the shelf to the right. While we’re at it, what say we fry us up some bacon to go with ’em?”

I nodded and smiled my agreement. Mr. Tavish left the cabin just as Pa came back in.

“What’s Tavish so all-fired beaming about?” asked Pa with a grin.

“I don’t know, Pa. Talking about the war last night seemed to perk him up.”

“And the presence of a young lady on the premises might have had something to do with it!” added Pa.

Whatever it was, when the stationmaster returned ten minutes later, not a speck of gray stubble was left on his clean-shaven face. He also put on a new clean shirt for breakfast. In the meantime, his young helper, a Mexican boy named Juan who lived a few miles away, had come to help him prepare for Pony Bob’s arrival. By then I had a good stack of pancakes ready, with several more on the griddle. Mr. Tavish rang his bell, and the four of us gathered around the table while he offered a simple prayer of thanks. Pa and I sat down on the bench. Juan pulled up one of the crates, and Mr. Tavish took over at the stove to watch the flapjacks and the last of the sizzling bacon. He wouldn’t hear of me doing any more now. I was his guest, he said.

We had barely started eating when the sounds of galloping horses caught our attention. Mr. Tavish’s smile faded. There were too many horses for it to be a Pony rider!

He threw down the metal spatula with a clang onto the stove and ran to the door. He opened it for a second, then slammed it shut with a thud and pulled the iron bolt down across it.

“Indians!” he cried. “Juan . . . get the rifles and ammo!”

Even before anyone had the chance to ask him if he was serious, one of the two windows of the cabin shattered, its glass tinkling down the wall onto the dirt floor. At almost the same instant, an arrow slammed into the opposite wall.

Mr. Tavish ran to it, yanked it out of the timber, examined it for a second, then swore under his breath. “Paiutes!” The despair in his voice filled me with a dread such as I had never felt before, and hope I never ever feel again in my life!

I looked around for Pa, but there was only time enough for our eyes to meet briefly. In that second, a multitude of unspoken thoughts passed between our hearts. But there was no time even for a word, for the next instant Juan was shoving a rifle into my hand, and Mr. Tavish was showing Pa where to crouch down behind one of the windows. I took the gun without even thinking, and before I knew it I was huddled down a little ways from Pa. Things happened so fast there was no time for me to stop and realize, I don’t want to kill anyone . . . even an Indian!

I don’t know how much time passed. It could have been an hour. It could have been five minutes for all I know. There was a lot of gunfire, both inside and outside the cabin, and several more arrows flew through the windows, both of which were broken. After one of them, I heard Pa shout, “Corrie, you keep your head down, you hear!” His voice held such a fearful yet commanding authority, I didn’t dare crane my neck up any more to try to see what was going on. I’d never heard such a sound in his voice before!

The Indians must have had guns too, because there were far too many gunshots to be coming from just the three guns inside. The rifle I still held in my hand was silent!

“Use that carbine, little lady!” Mr. Tavish called out at me, but I didn’t have words to answer him. I just kept lying there on the floor, trying to stay out of the way. Pa was shooting out the window at the attackers. It all seemed completely natural at the time. Only later did I realize that he was trying to kill someone with that gun he was firing.

“I was praying to God the whole time,” he told me later, “that I wouldn’t have to kill no one. But when his family’s in danger, a man does things he might not do otherwise. And if I had to kill to keep them Indians away from you, Corrie, I would have done it and asked God if it was right or wrong later. I’d have done just about anything to keep their savage hands off you, including getting myself killed trying.”

In the meantime, it seemed as if we were all going to be killed!

Thwaack! An arrow flew through the window above my head, coming at a low angle, and stuck into the adjacent wall next to me only about five feet away. Pa glanced over at it. His face was white, and he was sweating.

“I got me one . . . I got one!” shouted Juan.

“Keep down, you little fool!” yelled Tavish, who was crouched down reloading his rifle. “Just because you shoot one Indian don’t give you no reason to stick your head up like that and give ’em an easy target. When you’ve picked off fifteen or twenty, then you can shout about it!”

His rifle reloaded, Mr. Tavish turned back to the window, one knee bent to the ground, raised the gun to his shoulder, squinted his eye along the barrel, and started firing rapidly again at our attackers, his gun resting on the bottom ledge where broken glass was strewn about.

He only got off a couple more shots; then all of a sudden Mr. Tavish screamed out in pain. I looked over just in time to see him falling backward to the floor, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

The gunfire in the cabin ceased. Juan and Pa looked at each other as if wondering what to do now. The next instant, however, Juan was firing from his vantage point with renewed vengeance.

“Corrie, get over and see what you can do for him!” yelled Pa.

“What do I do, Pa?”

“I don’t know. See how bad it is. Get a towel or something and keep it from bleeding!”

Pa turned back to the window and started shooting again. I crept over to where Mr. Tavish lay. His shirt was torn and red, and the warm blood was dripping down and soaking into the dirt. His face was white, but he managed to give me a thin smile.

“I’m sorry, little lady,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you mixed up in nothin’ like this.”

“How is . . . is it bad?” I asked.

“I’ll live. Them Paiutes ain’t gonna get rid of Tavish so easy, but—” He winced in pain. “Blame if it don’t hurt somethin’ fierce, though!”

“What should I do?” I asked. Thinking back, I realize that I didn’t hear any more gunfire after that. For the next two or three minutes, the whole world centered around me and Claude Tavish. “Should I try to . . . to get the arrow out?” I asked, shuddering involuntarily even as I said the words.

“I don’t know if you can,” he answered, closing his eyes and breathing in a slow deep breath as if preparing himself for the ordeal. “But the thing’s gotta come out.”

“What should I do?”

“Look in there and see how far it’s stuck in. If it didn’t get all twisted or lodged against a bone, you oughta be able to yank it straight out.”

I bent over a little closer, trying to see.

“Get in there with your fingers, little lady! A little blood ain’t gonna hurt you. Ain’t no way you’re gonna find how deep it’s gone unless you get in there and wipe some of the blood away and see where the tip is.”

I leaned closer toward him, but I couldn’t see a thing. His shirt was all red and the wooden shaft of the arrow disappeared inside it. I reached out and gingerly touched the arrow right where it went into his shirt, but the same instant pulled my hand back.

“Get in there, little lady!” This time Mr. Tavish’s words were a command. “You want me to bleed to death? Get in there, and if the arrowhead ain’t all the way inside, then you give it a good hard pull!”

Again I probed with my fingers, tearing at the hole in his shirt to make it bigger. There was so much blood I still couldn’t see. I didn’t even stop to think what I was doing at the time, but later from seeing the blood all over me, I realized that I grabbed the hem of my dress as I crouched there beside him and used it to wipe away some of the blood so that I could see the wound better.

Less than a minute had gone by since he’d fallen. The blood was still warm and wet and oozing from his shoulder. I tore a bigger hole in his shirt and wiped back the blood as best I could. Then I felt all around the arrow with my fingers. The sensation of feeling his wet bloody flesh, with the arrow sticking out, was too horrible to describe. I turned away, my stomach retching. I gagged two or three times, but luckily didn’t throw up. I turned back to him, took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and lips together to keep my stomach down where it belonged, and tried to examine the wound again.

I felt all about. My hands were all bloody by this time, but by now I was determined to get the arrow out. I could feel the jagged hole the rough arrowhead had made. I forced my fingers to move around it, feeling at the base of the arrow. Down low, just at the skin line, I could feel the top end of the stone arrowhead. Feeling that hard piece of stone inside his soft flesh made me gag again.

“Is the head exposed?” asked Mr. Tavish.

“It’s right at the edge of your shoulder,” I said.

“It ain’t all covered up?”

“No, I can feel the top of it.”

“Good. You pull it out.”

I shuddered again, clenched my teeth, and grabbed hold of the arrow with both hands and pulled.

My hands just slid up the shaft, but it remained as tightly lodged in Mr. Tavish’s shoulder as ever.

“Blood’s as slippery as grease!” he said. “Wipe off your hands first.”

I grabbed at the end of my dress again, wiped off my hands as best I could, then wiped off the shaft of the arrow, trying to clean if off right down to the wound.

I clutched at it again, down low right on his skin. This time I could feel my dried hands take hold against the wood. I closed my eyes, then yanked upward for all I was worth.

Mr. Tavish let out a horrible yell, rising up off the ground as I pulled, then falling back down again. The sound of his voice made me let go. When I looked back down at his face, he was breathing rapidly in obvious pain. But the arrow was still stuck in his shoulder!

“Good girl,” he whispered, though his eyes were closed. “One more time and we’ll have it.”

I swallowed hard, then grabbed the arrow again. This time I determined I wasn’t going to let go. I pulled again, but this time when I felt the resistance of the arrow sticking into him, I held on all the tighter and gave one mighty tug.

I fell backward, the arrow in my hand.

This time Mr. Tavish hadn’t screamed out, although I had felt his body rise up again as I yanked. He was lying on the floor, his eyes still closed, breathing rapidly. I can’t even imagine how painful it must have been for him. I don’t know why he didn’t just faint from the agony of it.

“Now go over to the cupboard behind the stove,” he said, still in a faint, quiet voice. “Behind the black pot there’s a bottle of whiskey. You go get it . . . but keep your head down.”

He must have sensed me hesitate, because I saw his eyes open a crack.

“There’s alcohol there on the shelf,” I said.

He forced a smile. “Don’t want alcohol,” he said. “I want whiskey.”

Still I hesitated.

“I know . . . I know, little lady,” he said. “But them rules is to keep the kids in line and not for the likes of old fellers like me. You won’t tell Mr. Russell, will you? Besides, I only keep it for medicinal purposes.”

I got to my feet and ran over to the cupboard. The bottle of whiskey was right where he said it was. He must have had a number of wounds to treat recently, because the bottle was less than half full. I took it back to him and pulled out the cork.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Tavish reached out with his uninjured hand, took the bottle from me, and took a long swig that used up half the remaining contents in one huge swallow. Then he handed it back to me.

“Pour it into the wound,” he said. “You gotta get it right in the hole, or I’ll die of gangrene before the month’s out!”

I put the mouth of the bottle to the hole in his shoulder and poured it in. His face twisted up in an awful look of pain. He sucked in a wincing breath through his clenched teeth, his eyes shut tight. He held his breath for what seemed like a long time, then slowly let it out in a long sigh as his body relaxed.

“Once more, Corrie,” he whispered. “Pour it in again.”

I did, and he winced sharply just like before, though this time it didn’t seem to be quite so bad.

“Now go get a towel. Soak a piece of it in whiskey and stuff it in there and try to bandage me up as best you can so’s I don’t keep bleeding.”

I don’t know when the shooting had stopped. Like I said, I hadn’t noticed anything but Mr. Tavish. But suddenly it did seem awful quiet. I stood up to go find a towel. But as I turned around, my heart sank with an altogether new terror.

There stood an Indian with a rifle pointed straight at Pa!

I stood paralyzed with fear while three or four more Paiutes climbed in through the broken windows, training their guns on the rest of us.