started walking downstream.
Two or three miles later, we come upon a little farm. Corral. Lean-to. Couple shacks. And a jacal. Didnât see no smoke from the chimney, but there was two mules in the corral, and a burro and a bunch of stinking goats. The problem, naturally, was that this outfit was on the other side of the river.
âWeâll have to cross here, Sister,â I told her.
She looked around for a bridge. âCourse, there wasnât one. She turned to me. âYouâre stealing . . . those animals? Weâll drown for those?â
âWe wonât drown, and those animals can get us to Anton Chico. Pickings should be better down there. Then we can take off south, through the desert, toward your Valley of Fire and our graves.â
She didnât move.
âIâll hold your hand.â
She limped to the bank and stepped into the water. Sighing, I followed her. Stubborn. Her head was harder than mine. Frigid water took our breath away. It had been deeper up by the trestle, but it was wider here.
The nun slipped once, but caught herself before I could. She kept moving, making a beeline for the bank. The stones on the bed got slippery, but the water didnât get no deeper than my boot tops, at first. About midstream, Sister Geneviève stepped into a hole. That dropped her only to her waist, but she turned, and the color drained from her face. Next thing I knowed, her juniper crutch was flowing downstream without her, and her eyes rolled back into her head.
I lunged for her, but she splashed into the water before I could save her. Me? I went down and under, came up holding onto my hat, moving for her as she floated after her crutch. Like I said, it wasnât deep, but bitterly cold. I caught a handful of black wool, pulled her close to me, then heaved her up over my shoulder. Even sopping wet, she was light as a deck of cards.
Moving through the water, I carried her, climbed out of the river, and left a trail of water to the lean-to. There, I laid her on straw, then pulled off my boots, added to the water trail, and knelt beside her. She was breathing, but out cold. One of the mules brayed. I rubbed the stubble on my cheeks, trying to figure out what to do.
Finally, I spotted the blood, and gently lifted the black cloth of her dress.
I swore. Quickly, I removed my bandanna, wrung it out, whipped and rolled it as thin as I could make it, and wrapped it just under her knee. Spying a little branding iron in the corner, I grabbed it, tied the bandanna into a knot, then put the branding ironâs stem atop the bandanna, tied the iron to it, started twisting until the bleeding had stopped.
Ainât no doctor, but I have had plenty of experience treating things like knife cuts and gunshots, dislocated shoulders, busted knuckles, and hangoversâthings like that.
Way I figured things, she must have cut her leg on a rock when we fell off that bridge. Sheâd fashioned a bandage of sorts, but hadnât done nothing else. I reckon whatever rag she had for a bandage had washed off when sheâd stepped into the river, the cold water just shocked her, and sheâd passed out.
Good thing, too. Likely, she would have bled to death before sheâd have asked me for help, and I hadnât been looking for some blood trail.
âHey!â I called out to the jacal. âI got a nun here who needs help!â
Nothing.
I shouted out, âHelp me!â My echo was the only reply.
Her crucifix reflected sunlight. I reached down for the silver cross. It was actually a pin, fastened on a rawhide thong. Plain and simple. I unfastened it from the rawhide, pushed up the pin.
One of the mules brayed, and I got me this idea.
Leaving the nun, I left the lean-to, ducked inside the corral, and eased myself to the nearest mule, whispering to it like Iâd known him all my life. I put my hand on his neck, rubbing in circles, moving down to his rear end. I snatched me a hair
Two or three miles later, we come upon a little farm. Corral. Lean-to. Couple shacks. And a jacal. Didnât see no smoke from the chimney, but there was two mules in the corral, and a burro and a bunch of stinking goats. The problem, naturally, was that this outfit was on the other side of the river.
âWeâll have to cross here, Sister,â I told her.
She looked around for a bridge. âCourse, there wasnât one. She turned to me. âYouâre stealing . . . those animals? Weâll drown for those?â
âWe wonât drown, and those animals can get us to Anton Chico. Pickings should be better down there. Then we can take off south, through the desert, toward your Valley of Fire and our graves.â
She didnât move.
âIâll hold your hand.â
She limped to the bank and stepped into the water. Sighing, I followed her. Stubborn. Her head was harder than mine. Frigid water took our breath away. It had been deeper up by the trestle, but it was wider here.
The nun slipped once, but caught herself before I could. She kept moving, making a beeline for the bank. The stones on the bed got slippery, but the water didnât get no deeper than my boot tops, at first. About midstream, Sister Geneviève stepped into a hole. That dropped her only to her waist, but she turned, and the color drained from her face. Next thing I knowed, her juniper crutch was flowing downstream without her, and her eyes rolled back into her head.
I lunged for her, but she splashed into the water before I could save her. Me? I went down and under, came up holding onto my hat, moving for her as she floated after her crutch. Like I said, it wasnât deep, but bitterly cold. I caught a handful of black wool, pulled her close to me, then heaved her up over my shoulder. Even sopping wet, she was light as a deck of cards.
Moving through the water, I carried her, climbed out of the river, and left a trail of water to the lean-to. There, I laid her on straw, then pulled off my boots, added to the water trail, and knelt beside her. She was breathing, but out cold. One of the mules brayed. I rubbed the stubble on my cheeks, trying to figure out what to do.
Finally, I spotted the blood, and gently lifted the black cloth of her dress.
I swore. Quickly, I removed my bandanna, wrung it out, whipped and rolled it as thin as I could make it, and wrapped it just under her knee. Spying a little branding iron in the corner, I grabbed it, tied the bandanna into a knot, then put the branding ironâs stem atop the bandanna, tied the iron to it, started twisting until the bleeding had stopped.
Ainât no doctor, but I have had plenty of experience treating things like knife cuts and gunshots, dislocated shoulders, busted knuckles, and hangoversâthings like that.
Way I figured things, she must have cut her leg on a rock when we fell off that bridge. Sheâd fashioned a bandage of sorts, but hadnât done nothing else. I reckon whatever rag she had for a bandage had washed off when sheâd stepped into the river, the cold water just shocked her, and sheâd passed out.
Good thing, too. Likely, she would have bled to death before sheâd have asked me for help, and I hadnât been looking for some blood trail.
âHey!â I called out to the jacal. âI got a nun here who needs help!â
Nothing.
I shouted out, âHelp me!â My echo was the only reply.
Her crucifix reflected sunlight. I reached down for the silver cross. It was actually a pin, fastened on a rawhide thong. Plain and simple. I unfastened it from the rawhide, pushed up the pin.
One of the mules brayed, and I got me this idea.
Leaving the nun, I left the lean-to, ducked inside the corral, and eased myself to the nearest mule, whispering to it like Iâd known him all my life. I put my hand on his neck, rubbing in circles, moving down to his rear end. I snatched me a hair
Similar Books
