The narrow ventilation openings were set high in the walls so that even if a stray slug went through one of them, it wasn’t likely to hit Cara, Lowe, or Elam. Bo, Scratch, and Brubaker were in much more danger because they were out in the open. Brubaker flung himself from the log in a dive that carried him close to the wagon. He scrambled underneath so that the wheels would give him some cover. The Texans were on the other side of the fire from the wagon, so they couldn’t find protection there. Their only chance was to get into the trees. Bo rolled out of his blankets, came up on one knee, and triggered three fast shots at the muzzle flashes. Then he leaped to his feet and dashed into the pines. Bullets thudded into tree trunks and whipped through the branches around him. Scratch’s twin Remingtons boomed as he retreated into the trees as well. Brubaker’s Winchester cracked from underneath the wagon. The bushwhackers continued firing, too, and for several moments the racket was deafening as shot after shot blasted out from several different directions.
