Hiram had the .410 in hand when reds and blues reflected off crystal his grandmother had given them as a wedding gift. He turned to his wife and said, “je suis désolé ma jolie”. “Don’t be sorry”, she said “We didn’t ask for this”. Hiram’s sons were still in the barn finishing chores. The youngest, who would later die providing suppressing fire until the wounded from his platoon could be heli-evaced from a hillside in Vietnam, was mucking a stall as his brothers struggled with a bent sickle bar mower. They too heard gravel shoved by skidding tires. Hiram didn’t wait. The deputies were two steps on the porch when bird shot ripped the air and sent them to the ground in a heap. A windshield buckled with his second shot from the bird gun. Hiram thrust a .45 in front of him and the car doors hiding the sheriff's men caved in with angry lead hail. From behind his own door jamb, Hiram's accented French barked across the smoke filled yard to his sons in the barn, "remember who brought them here". The first shots slammed into the poplar siding of his home. Hiram emerged from the kitchen side of the house and another deputy collapsed against a fender. The remaining seven guns roared and Hiram’s left hand disintegrated into pulp spinning him a turn."