Free The Diary Of Mattie Spenser by Sandra Dallas Page B

burnt the place, leaving only a dead man, whose face had been hacked away.
    While Luke and Mr. Osterwald hitched the Osterwald horse and the buttermilk to the wagon, then saddled Traveler, I snatched up quilts and food, and in a moment we were ready. Luke helped me into the wagon, then turned and told Mr. Osterwald to get in beside me, for he would warn the neighbors farther south. Mr. Osterwald protested, but Luke said firmly, “You left your own people to come to us. Now it is my turn. Mrs. Spenser is good with a shotgun, and she’s not one to lose her head.” My heart swelled up with pride at this bravest and noblest of husbands, and I thought it was little wonder that with gallant soldiers like Luke Spenser, we licked the Old South.
    I swore to match Luke’s steadfastness, and though I desired him to carry me to Mingo himself, I would not complain. Instead, I entreated Mr. Osterwald to climb onto the seat next to me, wished Husband Godspeed, and raised my hand in a cheery good-bye. To my surprise, Luke swung Traveler next to the wagon seat and kissed me full on the mouth—with Mr. Osterwald looking on! Then my brave boy took off like thunder across the prairie.
    All was chaos in Mingo. The stage station is built of bricks made from earth and straw mixed together, then baked in the sun, making them as hard as stone. It is called adobe, and is thick enough to stop arrows and even bullets, and it was a far better place to make a stand than our portal. There was a terrible din within—women shouting, children crying, and knitting needles clacking, for nothing is so important that it keeps women’s hands from work. The rooms were very crowded, and I thought we might be in greater danger of suffocation than from the arrows of savages.
    Most of our fellow worshipers were there. Mr. Osterwald joined Mr. Amidon, the Earley boys, and others (including Miss Figg), who were posted about the station as lookouts. I spied Mrs. Osterwald with her son, Brownie, who, I have learned, is simple. Mrs. Smith stood guard over the cookstove with the “stumpet,” Mrs. Connor. I guess Missus is not so particular about the company she keeps when there is food to be had, even if it was squirrel stew, which was never a favorite of mine.
    Despite the excitement, I paid close attention to Mrs. Conner, so’s I could describe her to Carrie. I confess, she seemed no different from any other woman working a hot cookstove. She is plump and pretty, with bright red cheeks, due to the heat, I think, and not to rouge. Slatterns do not wear satin and lace here, not whilst they cook squirrel stew anyway, and I could not detect even a flash of the red stockings that were her trademark. She wore a dirty apron, pinned to a slimsy dress, whose sleeves were rolled up above the elbows. Her hair was untidy, falling about her face. I was much disappointed.
    I found Emmie Lou, who looked pale and frightened. “Don’t worry,” said I. “There are enough men out there to whip a thousand of the savages.”
    “It’s not the Indians that scare me. I think I’m going to be sick.” To my look of confusion, she explained, “My time has come. All this excitement has brought it on.”
    “Lordy, here?” asked I, stupidly. “Now?”
    “The baby says when. I don’t.”
    “Then you have a right smart baby, for there are a dozen women here to help,” I told her, and we both laughed. Then her face twisted in pain, and not knowing what else to do, I went to Mrs. Smith for help.
    “Hell’s bells, why did she pick a time like this?” asked Missus, who was indeed a cross old soul that day. She held a plate of food close to her face and ate from it, using her spoon like a pitchfork. I wanted to repeat what Emmie Lou had said about the baby picking its own time, but I did not think Missus would understand our little repartee.
    “You take over the cooking, Elode. You never was much help with birthing,” said Mrs. Connor in a way that made me think they were better