Still more angry than frightened, Martha Winterson had taken Carlyle on her lap and was relating the story of the raid. Barbara and Emma listened closely, while the three younger children stood silently near. Too young to appreciate exactly what had happened, they knew it was something out of the ordinary and they digested it as such. A look of eager excitement on his face, Tad was sitting in front of the fireplace melting lead in a ladle and molding bullets for his rifle.
"That's enough," Joe ordered. "Leave some lead for the rest of us."
"But what if there's a whole mob of them?"
"Everybody still has to shoot."
Martha rose and, despite her swollen body, there was a supple grace about her as she moved across the floor to her husband.
"Now I'll fix that arm, Henry," her voice was faintly apologetic. "There wasn't time to do it before."
She unbuttoned his shirt, removed it, and bared the bloody arm. The bullet had torn through one side, missing the big muscle and the artery, and leaving only a flesh wound. Martha washed the dried blood away and put a cold compress over the still-bleeding wound.
"Would you have some whisky?" she appealed to Joe. "This should really be sterilized."
"Don't have a drop," Joe admitted. "I didn't bring any."
"I did," Emma announced. She reached into her trunk, brought out a brown bottle, and glanced aside at Joe. "I brought it for emergencies only."