Chapter 72

Billy Strobaw and Cut Hand had built their home like a blockhouse. Pa and the others could defend it against any attack, but the forge and the stable and the other buildings were vulnerable to torching. I got to the top of the hill in time to see the five raiders who’d splashed across the Yanube turn and approach the house from the west where they figured we were blind. The other six or so thundered up the road brandishing pistols. Except for one, who rode with a long-barreled rifle. The Sharps buffalo gun. He might be able to get in close and punch through the thick, hinged shutters centered with gun slots that protected our windows.

Matthew and I put about ten yards between us and sprawled behind a rock outcrop. So far, the bandits gave no sign they had spotted us on the hill.

“How come you only brought three pigeons?” Matthew called.