The Work and the Glory (226 page)

“We’ve got to shut the door,” Evans bayed into John’s ear.

John stepped back. “This is the last one.”

But as eleven-year-old Willard reached the door, his hands flew out horizontally, catching the two side beams and instantly arresting his progress. His mouth dropped open as he bounced back two or three feet. Again he dove for the doorway and again his hands flew out, stopping his entry.

“Willard!” Warren Smith screamed.

“Come on, Willard!” John urged.

The boy tried it a third time, but again it was as though he hit some invisible force at the doorway. John lunged forward to grab him, but Willard, terrified at the sounds of horsemen right behind him, gave it up. He leaped away, running hard for a woodpile a few yards away. He scampered behind it and disappeared.

“No!” Warren shouted as David Evans started pushing the door shut. “Willard!”

John caught Warren and dragged him back. Evans gave them both a hard shove. “Get out of the way! We have to shut the door!”

Warren Smith was flailing at both of them now, desperate to fight his way outside. Then he stiffened with a jerk. There was a heavy grunt. His head turned, mouth agape, and he stared at John Griffith for a moment. Then his knees buckled and he sagged downward, pulling free from John’s grasp and sliding to the floor.

John was stunned. He stared down at Warren, not comprehending. Evans shoved John hard and slammed the door shut, dropping the latch.

“Watch out!”

John would never know who yelled the warning. Someone behind him. He swung around in time to see the muzzle of a rifle poke through a crack between the logs. There was a blinding flash, and simultaneously a searing pain ripped through his gut. He staggered back, smacking against the wooden cupboard that held the blacksmith’s tools. As things spilled off the shelves he felt them bounce off his shoulders. Then slowly he dropped to his knees, clutching at his stomach.

He screamed in agony as his body took another ball, this time high in the shoulder. It felt like his arm had been torn out of its socket. He went down to the dirt floor, gasping in shock and pain, rolling over on his back and coming up against the east wall. Grunting as the waves of pain began to roll over him, he saw bright flashes directly above him. And then he realized what was wrong. The blacksmith’s shop was a fortress, but it had one primary flaw. The gaps between the thick logs had never been chinked. Some were two or three inches wide. Now a dozen guns, maybe more, were jammed through the cracks and were pouring a withering fire into the narrow confines of the shed. The fortress had become a death trap.

No longer sure if the roaring in his ears was from the gunfire or the pain, John Griffith turned his head. A body lay just in front of him. Another man was hunched over the anvil, blood pouring from a wound in his head. “I am shot! I am shot!” he moaned over and over.

John blinked. He wanted to rub his hands over his eyes, clear his vision. But though his brain gave the command, nothing happened. With a curious sense of detachment, he realized he could no longer feel his hands.

John turned his head slowly, as the rifles kept exploding above him. Sardius Smith was huddled under the bellows, his face twisted with terror. Beside him, lying very still, was little Alma. The side of his trousers, up high near the hip, was a mass of blood. Dimly, and with a faint feeling of outrage, John realized that Alma had been shot. He wasn’t sure if the boy was dead or unconscious, but his face was very pale and he wasn’t moving.

“We’ve got to make a break for it, or we’re dead men!” It sounded like Captain Evans’s voice, but John couldn’t be sure. He saw the door flung open and dark figures race across the sudden brightness. And then, though he fought it back with frightened desperation, the blackness slipped across his line of vision, and John Griffith closed his eyes.

* * *

Young Willard Smith could hear men running behind him as he made a leaping dive for cover behind the small woodpile that belonged to the blacksmith. He burrowed in between the boards and logs, momentarily hesitating at the thoughts of black widow spiders, centipedes, or other horrible things that might be hiding in there. But those thoughts left him instantly. A bullet hit a board right over his head with a solid thwack. Splinters sprayed into his hair, some with enough force to sting his head. Another ball thudded into the split log right in front of his face.

Heart racing, Willard peeped out through a small opening. There were men everywhere. Most of them were running up and jamming their guns up against the wall of the shop—an action that struck him as being an odd thing to do. But two of the men had their rifles trained on the woodpile. A third joined them. One of the men pointed and the third one threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired directly at Willard.

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.

“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.