William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Movement outside caught her eye as four Indians on horseback cut off Seton and Eben from the house. Immediately, she closed and barred the front door, and shuttered the front window. Stuffing her pockets with shells from a box nestled on a ledge nearby, she grabbed the shotgun from where it stood against the wall beside the front door. Her eyes, usually dull with fatigue, were hard and intent.

Lydia went through the dogtrot into the east room. The twin of its opposite number, it was a low-ceilinged cube, bright where sunlight shone through the south-facing window and dim where shadows massed.

A rear corner had been partitioned into a kind of alcove, which was used as a storeroom. The windowless enclosure was thick with stuffy brown gloom.

Lydia stepped inside, looking for the wicker basket containing her mother’s sewing kit with its spare bobbins of thread. She rummaged through boxes of household goods and domestic implements in search of the kit, but couldn’t find it.

Hunkering down, not wanting to soil her dress by kneeling on the hard-packed dirt floor, she searched the lower shelves. The sewing kit continued to elude her. Frowning, she started pulling out boxes and looking inside them.

She grew aware of a commotion outside. Like a garment snagged on a nail, her attention was caught up by the sound of laughter—a sound rarely heard on the hardscrabble, just-getting-by-if-that Fisher ranch.

Lydia’s frown deepened. She disliked something in the laughter, a note of meanness. Or craziness. Or both.

The laughter stopped. Lydia rose to see what it was all about. After the gloom of the storage space, the sunlight shafting through the window was dazzling. She squinted against it, eyes narrowed.

A shot sounded from outside.

Ada Jenks Fisher came barreling out of the west room. Usually too worn out by hard work for speed, she moved fast, rushing along the dogtrot into the east room, carrying the shotgun. Brushing past Lydia, she slammed the front window shutters closed. Made of hardwood several inches thick, they had loopholes for shooting through. “Help me bar the window! Quick!”

A voice started screaming, ragged, high-pitched.

Eben?

Another shot boomed, followed by an outcry.

A third shot.

Silence.

Laughter again, thinner than before.

“Ma, what?”

“Quick!”

Stung, Lydia took hold of a stout wooden bar lying on the floor below the window. With both hands, she lifted it and wrestled it into the pair of U-shaped metal staples bracketing the window frame. Ada’s free hand helped push it solidly into place.

No sooner was the job done than Ada caught Lydia by the arm, clutching her thin wrist. Turning, she started back the way she came, pulling Lydia after her with a wrench that nearly yanked her off her feet.

“Ma! You’re hurting me!”

“Hush up, you fool girl!”

They hustled through the dogtrot into the west room, shadowed in brown murk.

Outside, screaming broke out, raw and terrible. Counterpointing the screams came shrill exultant cries, sounding like a cross between a screech owl and a coyote.

Lydia put her hand to her mouth, gasping. “What is it, Ma?”

“Indians!”

The rear half of the west room was partitioned into two cramped, criblike rooms. Blankets strung on head-high, horizontal poles served as doors. Ada went into a room, pulling Lydia, dazed and numb, after her.

The room was hot, dim, and stuffy. Set high in the rear wall was a small, square window. The shutter was open, unfastened.

Ada put her mouth close to Lydia’s ear, speaking low. “Comanches killed Fisher,” she rasped, “and from the sound of things, they’re doing the same to Eben.”

“Comanches! What’re we gonna do, Ma?”

“You’re gonna run like you never ran in all your born days, missy.”

Ada shoved Lydia toward the window. It opened on a long, grassy field bordered by woods on the east and west. The field stretched a hundred yards north to a dirt road that intersected it at right angles—Rimrock Road. Beyond the road lay a thicket of woods, with Sentry Hill peeking over the treetops.

“Climb out the window and run for the brush.” Ada indicated a patch of woods on the east, right-hand side of the field. “Get under cover as soon as you can. Don’t try to reach the road. It’s too far away. Hide and don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

“What about you, Ma?”

“I’ll follow you.”

Lydia climbed on the narrow, wooden plank bed under the window and put a leg through the open space above it, scraping the back of her thigh against the windowsill. Holding the frame with both hands, she pulled her other leg after her.

She sat on the sill, bent forward from the waist. It was a tight fit.

Frightful noises came from the front of the house, rising and falling.

Lydia paused, hesitant. Ada put a hand on the girl’s back and pushed her forward.

Lydia fell to the ground, feet and ankles tingling from the impact. She turned, looking back. “Come on, Ma,” she urged.

“You go first, gal,” Ada said.

“Ma—”

“I’ll cover you. Don’t argue. Git!”

Lydia started forward, angling toward the treeline east of the house. She felt naked and exposed in the open. The sun shone brightly on green grass.

She was about ten trembling paces away from the house when a Comanche rode out of the west woods. He’d been posted there earlier to keep watch on the road.

He put heels to his horse’s flanks, kicking it into motion, intending to run the girl down. It was better sport than he’d dared hope for.

Ada saw him coming. She shouldered the shotgun, planting both feet squarely on the dirt floor. When the brave drew abreast of the window she pulled the triggers, giving him both barrels. A booming blast of buckshot blew him off the horse.

Stung by a few pellets, the horse reared, shrieking. It raced toward the road.

Ada broke the shotgun, shucking expended cartridges out of the bores. Reaching into a front pocket of her apron, she took out two fresh shells and reloaded.

Lydia stood frozen in place.

Ada cried, “Run!”

“I ain’t leaving you, Ma!”

Ada shook her head. “I’ll hold off them red devils as long as I can. Go, before they get us both. I’m gonna give ’em what for. Don’t let it be in vain.”

“Ma, no!”

Ada smiled sadly. “You always minded your momma. Don’t stop now. I love you, darlin’. God save you!”

“Mama, please.”

“ Run! ”

Lydia stumbled a few steps forward, sobbing. She looked back, blinking away tears. Ada lifted a hand in farewell, and moved away from the window, lost from view.

Lydia staggered away from the house, weaving toward the trees. She caught sight of the dead Comanche sprawled on the ground, his upper body a wet, red ruin from the double-barreled shotgun blast. Recoiling, she lurched away from him, stiff-legged.

Ada nodded approvingly to herself as she saw Lydia closing on the treeline. She had thought about keeping Lydia with her and making a stand against the Comanches. The ranch house had guns, ammunition, and solid walls. But the roof was made of wood. The braves would set fire to it to burn them out. It was better to distract the Comanches, keep them focused on the front of the house while Lydia escaped through the rear.

The plan had almost gone awry thanks to the brave hidden in the west woods. Luckily he’d showed himself in time for Ada to down him, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else posted there. She had to keep the others busy for as long as she could.

Lydia reached the safety of the trees, ducking into the greenery and disappearing inside the thicket.

Ada crossed to the shuttered window in the front and peered through a loophole. She saw three braves, all on foot. To her left, near the corral, Firecloud was hitching the reins of a horse to a top rail of the corral fence. The reins of another were wrapped around his forearm to forestall the animal from getting loose. Two other horses had already been hitched to another section of fence.