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“Where’s your pa?” Molly asked as she returned to their wagon. She’d had to dodge the cattle, and she was relieved to see their milk cows, Billy, and some of their own cattle amongst them. She knew Erin would be happy about finding Billy. He was more than a bull; he was her pet.
“He went after the rest of the sheep,” Theo said as he came up from tending the four.
“He what?” she asked, stunned when she heard the news.
“Pa went after the sheep,” Tabitha told her, the tears pooling in her eyes, trying not to let them fall.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you hurt?”
The young girl shook her head, not willing or able to tell her ma about her impertinence.
“Your husband is doing a very foolish thing. Those sheep aren’t worth his life or the lives of others who would try to save him,” a voice barked at Molly, who whirled to confront him.
“My husband just risked his life to save your cattle,” she gestured towards the cows milling in the center of the circle. “That food on your table is thanks to his work. He has gone out of his way to help you all, and all he gets is derision and no thanks for doing more than his share.”
“He’ll lead those Indians right to us,” someone else contributed, the gang mentality making them brave.
“Those cattle led any Indians right to us,” she countered angrily. She ignored the nay-sayers, knowing there would always be someone to say something negative. “Theo, get me my scatter gun and your pa’s other gun. We better get ready,” she said, seeing others stacking feed and other things from their wagons. “Tabitha, you and Theo start handing me grain bags, and we’ll stack them under the wagon.” She was sorry there was no time to get the poultry down from that side of the wagon. They’d have to trust in God.
“I want you to know I appreciate what your husband done for us,” a voice said as she struggled with a feed sack, taking the other end to help her. “He just saved our cow, and we only have the one,” the woman said tentatively.
“I appreciate that but move,” Molly said as she went to catch another bag the children tried to get over the edge to her.
The woman helped her move four more before someone shouted, “INDIANS!” and everyone went to their spots. Molly got all the children under the wagon behind the feed sacks.
“What about the kittens?” Theresa fretted.
“And the other puppy?” Tommy worried.
“It’s too late. You just hope that no one shoots into the wagon. Keep your brother down,” she ordered, pulling Timmy down below the sacks. “You two, get ready to reload for me,” she said, indicating the gun and looking for the other one. “Where’s your pa’s other rifle?”
“He had it on the saddle,” Tabitha told her as she pulled shot and powder in with them in the cave that the wagon and sacks made, pushing aside a piglet that grunted at her.
“Don’t fire until I give the command!” Wallace was shouting. “Don’t fire until I say!”
They watched as the Indians charged, their ponies able to make it through the grasses almost effortlessly as they came. They immediately split off, some going right, some to the left.
“Fire,” Wallace commanded.
Molly deliberately held off a moment, remembering a conversation from long ago when discussing fighting tactics during the Revolutionary war and some of the Indian wars. Those who all shot at once, didn’t allow for the time it took to refill their guns, and the enemy took advantage of that, knowing they had precious seconds to attack. Sure enough, the Indians who had immediately gone to the sides of their ponies on their arrival, presenting no targets to those with the superior rifle fire, popped back up to shoot arrows at the settlers, some of them flaming. Molly took a bead on one of the leaders and pulled the trigger on the shotgun, handing it to Tabitha immediately to refill it. She watched as the man she had shot fell from his pony, a look of surprise on his face for a moment before he dropped dead. By then, the gun was back in her hand and she took aim on another rider. This time, she thought it was a clear miss but maybe not. The shotgun shot wide and peppered the horse of the rider she had been aiming for. The pony screamed in pain and pitched the rider. Someone else shot him when he stood up.
Several people were staggering their shots, realizing if they didn’t have more than one rifle or handgun, they had to alternate shots fired at the circling Indians. Wives frequently refilled their husbands’ guns for them, blowing down the barrel, so it wouldn’t explode with the gunpowder they poured down it, then quickly ramming down the rod to set the shot and handing it back to the men. Very few, like Molly, were shooting their own guns.
Suddenly, shots came from beyond the circle of Indians. It seemed to surprise and confuse the dedicated assault on the wagon train. Any pause in their circle was deadly, and the settlers took advantage of the momentary lull to fire on the invaders. Taking as many of their dead or wounded as they could, the Indians headed north again. This was one wagon train they weren’t going to be able to loot so easily.
“What turned them?”
“Where did those shots come from?”
“I didn’t hear no shots except from our own guns. What are you talking about?”
Molly didn’t leave her spot in case the Indians returned. Checking the children and the animals, surprised to see the pigs hunkered down in the shade, she shook her head at the animals. They were smarter than people gave them credit for. She listened to the men outside their safe, little cave under the wagon as she looked at each of the children.
“Ma, can we get up?
“Is it over?”
She nodded towards the inside of the circle and began to back out herself. She saw Timmy pulling the pup towards him and remembered their poultry on the far side. Going around the back of the wagon, she forgot about the mare tied off there as well and King and nearly tripped over him. She examined them both and found neither of them were hurt. The poultry were not so lucky. An arrow was still quivering, or so it appeared, in the side of the box where someone had shot it through one of their geese. It was in the same cage as their mean drake, and he was letting everyone know his unhappiness with loud honks. She pulled the arrow out, thought a moment, and slipped it into the wagon to show Erin later. She glanced around, hoping to see her, worried where she might have been during this attack. Reaching up, she gently unhooked the cage with the geese, the weight staggering her as she brought it to the ground.
“Is he dead, Ma?”
“What killed her?”
“Oh, the poor goose,” she heard the children. She pulled open the door, smacking back at the mean drake that hissed at her as she grabbed the neck of the dead goose and pulled her free of the cage. Latching the door, she left the cage on the ground and went back into the relative safety of the circle.
“Three dead, one from the stampede,” someone was commenting.
“You might as well add one more. That fool Herriot went after his sheep.”
They quieted when they saw Molly step on a wheel, pull a bag from her wagon, and proceed to pluck the feathers from the dead goose.
“It got hit?” a voice asked her.
She looked up to see Mrs. Henderson, one of the few kindly women they had met.
“Yeah, one of our geese. Almost got our drake,” she mentioned as she plucked.
“You worried about your man? I heard he’s out there,” she nodded towards the prairie.
“He’ll get here when he gets here,” she answered, not willing to worry about Erin until she saw her, but yes, secretly, she was worried.
They sat there in companionable silence as the men folk discussed whether they should travel a few more miles while there was daylight or camp here for the night. The necessity of water seemed to be a deciding factor. She noticed no one mentioned going to look for Erin. Molly finished plucking the goose in time to gather up her children, load up King and the grain sacks, the caged geese, and get on her wagon. There was no sign of Erin as she unfurled her whip and got her wagon in line with the others, the mare trailing behind on her rope, the pigs doing their best to stay in the shade under the slow-moving wagon.