Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs Page A

plunderers, and I could tell he sported long side whiskers, an auburn mustache and goatee. He snapped a shot over my head, screaming to one or all of his companions: “Kill that white-livered son-of-a-bitch!”
    I tried to extract the shell from the rifle, but it remained stuck, so I hurried back inside the store, drew a ramrod, and, with R.C. Phillips’s help, rammed it down the barrel, pushing the hot brass cartridge out. In my haste, I had grabbed the wrong ammunition, but now I rectified this situation, and, armed with the appropriate caliber, I returned to my position, sweating, shaking, pale, but determined.
    “Get in, you sons-of-bitches!” repeated the vile cry of one of the brigands.
    More gunfire, and I realized my defense of Northfield was not a lone act. A shotgun roared, and across the street I saw men and boys of our town hurling stones at the men on horseback as they thundered past, firing pistols, ducking behind the necks of their mounts like red Indians. Impressive warriors…I will say that much for them, and brave, I suspect, but not as courageous as the people of Northfield, who rose to meet the threat. Boys and men, young and old, throwing stones at highwaymen firing huge pistols. Comrades, that is what I define as grit.
    Another shotgun blast. And another. Rifle fire from across the street. Another shot from a nearby window upstairs. The popping of small pistols. Shattering glass and pounding hoofs.
    Grit!
    We were not prepared for a murderous invasion. We are peaceable city folk, but we would account well for ourselves on this day.
    The man with the goatee jumped up from behind the dead horse serving as breastworks, pounded on the bank door, and shouted: “For God’s sake, boys, hurry up! They’re shooting us all to pieces.”
    At that moment, his companion in front of the bank tried to mount his horse, but a lad—Elias Stacy, I would later learn, a fine boy of strong Canadian stock with two brave brothers—ran forward and shot him in the face with a fowling piece.
    “Cole!” the man cried, falling back into the dust. “Cole! I’m hit, Cole! I’m hit!”
    Elias Stacy whirled and ran back to find cover behind the crates stacked in front of Lee & Hitchcock’s store.
    Grit, indeed. What bravery he had shown, and he was not finished. “Help me load this piece or give me another gun!”
    “Keep your head down,” I told him, and took aim.
    In front of the Scriver Building, the man with the goatee squatted beside his friend, who was halfway sitting up, shaking his head, not seriously wounded for Stacy’s weapon had been loaded with only chicken shot. I took aim again. A bullet whistled over my head. “Get back inside,” bellowed a man on horseback, “you damned bastard!” I rushed my shot, did not have a proper target, anyway, and saw the wooden post splinter, then the man with the goatee crumpled, whirled, snapped a shot. My .45-70 bullet had gone through the post and struck him in the hip, a scratch shot, but one I’d gladly take.
    I leaped back as a bullet ripped past my ear.
    The shakes worsened.
    “Be careful,” another voice told me, calm but firm. “They have been shooting merely to warn us, frighten us. Now they are intent to kill.”
    I blinked. Governor Adelbert Ames, newly returned to Northfield from his stay down South, stood beside me. “Take a deep breath,” he said to me. “Don’t stay in plain view too long.” He smiled. “You are doing fine, Anselm.”
    “Would you…?” I offered him the breechloader.
    His head shook. “You are the better shot, Anselm. Continue the fight, my good man. Can you shoot the other horses in front of the bank?”
    I reloaded, drew back the hammer, and prepared to chance yet another shot as Elias Stacy darted across the street and dived through an open door, pleading again for someone to give him a weapon to use against these bushwhackers. I aimed at one of the other horses, but the rifle shook violently, and I ducked back, the