"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." "Thank you, Emma." Martha Winterson pursed her lips, dampened one side of her cloth with whisky, and said, "Now this may sting a little." While her husband gritted his teeth and made a face, she applied the antiseptic. "The bullet wasn't that bad!" "Now don't be a baby," Martha chided. "You won't feel it in a little while." "Probably won't be able to feel anything," he grumbled. Martha applied a clean bandage and Henry put his shirt back on. He wandered restlessly to look out of a front window. Anger flared in his face. Henry Winterson cherished his house. Nobody was going to destroy it and go unpunished. "Wish they'd come," he said nervously. "Wish they would. The day I left Vermont my brother Enos said, 'Henry, what are you going to do if Indians attack?' Those were his very words. That's exactly what he said to me. 'If the Indians attack,' I said, 'I'm going to shoot them dead in their tracks.' And by gosh, I didn't. But I aim to." Joe said worriedly, "You might get a chance soon enough." This was not real, he thought curiously. It was a charade that all of them were acting out, and as soon as they were finished acting the Wintersons would hitch their horses and go home. Jim Snedeker might have waited in a house such as this one while Indians prepared to attack it, but such things did not happen to Joe Tower. Then he reminded himself forcibly that they were happening to Joe Tower. A cold shiver ran through him. "Hey, Pa!" Tad breathed. "Look at Mike!" The dog was standing very still, ears alert and nose questing. He moved a step, as though to verify some elusive message that was reaching him faintly. His hackles rose and a low growl rumbled in his throat. He was looking toward the rear of the house, and when a door was opened for him he padded into a back bedroom. At the same time they heard the crack of a rifle and a sodden "splat" as a bullet thumped into an outer log.