A blizzard in the trading post courtyard. Flecks of white filled the air between the inn and the blockhouse. She saw brown arms shaking slashed mattresses and pillows out the windows. Feathers floated up to the gunport. More feathers slowly drifted down to dot the fresh June grass with white. She heard yells and laughter from the inn.
They'd cut me open as soon as they'd cut open a pillow, and think that was just as funny.
"They're getting drunk," Frank said. "On all the liquor in Raoul's tavern. Must be looting the town too."
They'll burn our home. Everything will be gone, the beds and the dishes, the mirrors, the bureaus, the spinning wheel, the clock, the plates and silverware, our clothes, our books and old letters, children's toys, the spices, the cradle I rocked all our babies in. The machines and carpentry tools, and, oh, please, God, not Frank's printing press!
Stop it, Nicole. You're blessed! Blessed that they attacked at dawn when all the children were in the house and not scattered all over the countryside, and now they're safely in here. Blessed that your husband is standing here beside you and not dead on the palisade parapet like Burke Russell.
But even as she thought of things to be thankful for, she remembered what might happen to them in the next few hours.
An Indian charged out of the front door of the inn. He was waving a curving Navy cutlass. He ran at the blockhouse, screaming. His steps wavered, though, and Nicole guessed he must be full of whiskey.
Still she was terrified. What if everyone missed him and he somehow got in and others followed?
"Look out," Frank said, and gently nudged her away from the port. He pushed his rifle out and fired.
"I hit him, but he isn't falling."