Among the men, one figure was easily recognized. The angry red flames silhouetted Clive Fowler’s massive girth and impressive height. He stood before the burning doors with his hands on his hips. Bracing himself, Joel strode to him.
Without turning, Fowler said, “Those doors won’t give yet. Not until they weaken can we open them, and by then they’ll be burnt through.”
The front of the barn was engulfed, obviously drenched in kerosene or some other flammable to be burning so hot. No other entry was possible through the rock walls. Someone could jump through a window, but lifting animals through was out of the question.
“Can you ax through the doors?” Joel asked.
“And send burning splinters into the haymow?”
Fowler was right. The only thing holding the doors closed was a square wooden beam that slid through the handles to keep the animals from pushing through. If only they could get close enough to the beam to slide it out.
Joel ran to his horse and grabbed his rope. He’d never worked as a cowboy, but knowing how to rope had come in handy on several posse hunts. Coming back, he eyed the beam. There wasn’t much to latch onto, and it was nearly flush with the door. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
But it was too late. Already the buckets slowed. Heads raised, the squeaking water pump quieted. All eyes were on him. He stared at the wooden beam until his eyes burned. His hand fed the rope through the loop, going by touch to find the right length. Slowly he raised his arm and began to circle it over his head.
“Now ain’t the time for your show tricks.” But Fowler moved aside anyway.
The rhythm of the lasso rocked Joel all the way to his toes. He swayed with each circle until his whole body was in agreement. Only then did he let the rope fly.
It arched over the space, slapped against the barn, and slid to the ground. Joel gritted his teeth.
“Ain’t that something?” Fowler sneered. “Get the buckets going,” he hollered.
Joel gathered the rope. The smoldering end burned his fingers as he worked the lariat. He’d made a mistake, but he wasn’t no quitter. Silently he began to rotate the rope over his head. It didn’t matter if they’d lost interest. His only aim was to get those doors open before the animals inside were hurt.
This throw didn’t feel any better than the last, but that was just how it fell sometimes. The lariat snagged on the back corner of the beam and balanced on the edge. With a quick flick of his wrist, Joel caught the beam more securely, then with a strong tug, the circle narrowed until it choked down.
He didn’t stop to acknowledge the gaping mountain men. Instead he began pulling the beam through the handles. He’d have to hurry before the rope burnt through.
“It cleared the door,” Clive hollered.
Men rushed forward to swing it open and put space between the burning wood and the inside of the barn. Joel pulled the second door open by the beam still hanging in the handle. Immediately men rushed inside and began to shoo out goats, two cows, and an ox. Others tossed water on the ground to guard against any sparks that had made it through. Lastly Scott Murphy ran out with saddle blankets thrown over the eyes of a horse and mule.
Now that the doors were swung out away from the hay, Clive took his ax and with one swing severed Joel’s lariat from the door.
Joel yanked the raw end away from danger. “Thanks.”
“Too bad your fancy tricks couldn’t save the house,” he replied. The flames reflected in his eyes. “Too bad you tied our hands so we couldn’t take care of our own.”
What could he say? This was on his shoulders. His humiliation was complete.
“Someone will pay,” he said.
“But not Mr. Sanders? Or maybe it was Pritchard? There’s another dangerous man you’ve locked up recently. So glad these hills are safe now that you’ve come.”
Knowing nothing could be said in his favor, Joel strode away to face Doctor Hopkins, the true victim of the night’s devilment.
It was past midnight, and no one but the babies was sleeping. Uncle Fred had saddled his horse and took out after sternly reminding Betsy that her duty was to stay with Sissy, Laurel, and the girls. Had he not instructed her to lock the door and keep the shotgun ready, she might have missed his meaning, but if there was someone out gunning for Hopkins, they could come a-calling, and Uncle Fred knew that Betsy would be ready.
Betsy crouched to throw another log on the fire. The flames revived with the fresh fuel. The dancing light mesmerized her. What was happening right now? Was Doctor Hopkins okay? Would they find him inside the cabin? She shuddered. She couldn’t think such thoughts. Not when she was supposed to be a comfort to the other women.
Surely Pa and Josiah could take care of it. And Jeremiah. He’d know what to do. And Joel . . .
She covered her mouth, her fingers digging into her cheeks. Would they have been in this mess if Joel hadn’t believed her about Mr. Sanders? Then again, they were both just doing the best they could with what they knew.
But that wasn’t good enough.