Read Online Valley of Fire by Johnny D. Boggs - Free Book Online Page A

from the tail and hurried back to the lean-to.
    Beside the unconscious nun, I worked on that stickpin, bending it back and forth till it broke off from the underside of the crucifix. I hurriedly tied one end of the hair to the big side. Wetting my lips, I pushed the skin on the sister’s calf together with thumb and forefinger, then pushed the pin through.
    First time, it didn’t work. The hair slid off.
    Did the same the second time. I started to think that I might have to find a knife, heat it up somehow, and cauterize the cut. But the fifth time, the horsehair went through like it was suture thread and the stickpin was a surgical needle.
    Taken me twelve stitches, but I made them tight so she wouldn’t have no ugly scar. I tied it off, bit off the hair-thread, and looked down at my handiwork.
    Actually, I stared at the nun’s leg. It was a work of God. Pure. Slim. Beautiful, even with the blood and bruises. I pulled down the black wool.
    She moaned a bit, turned her head. I felt her forehead, but she wasn’t feverish. Still, I fetched a saddle blanket off the corral post, and covered her with it. Then I ran to the jacal.
    Someone lived here, that was a fact. A man. I could tell.
    The bed in the corner was unmade, and the place stank of dirt, man-sweat, and tobacco. The skillet by the fireplace was full of bacon grease, and the coffee left in the cup looked thicker than blackstrap molasses. Finding a trunk next to the bed, I opened it. One of the shirts looked passably clean, so I ripped off the sleeve and tore it into strips. I smudged one in the bacon grease, then found a twist of tobacco on the table, bit off a chunk, and started chewing. On my way out the door, I spied something else, so I picked up the jug, and ran in my bare feet back to the lean-to.
    Geneviève still slept. I lifted up her dress, saw she was still bleeding a mite between them stitches. I spit tobacco juice on it. Spit three or four more times to get that cut good and juicy because I knowed that the best thing you could do for a gunshot wound was to spit tobacco juice into the hole. It would fight off any blood poisoning. Big Tim Pruett had told me that, right before he died, and Big Tim had been one to ride the river with. Next, I slapped the bacon-greased rag over those stitches, and used the rest of the strips to fashion a bandage. I tied them good and tight, but not too tight, as I didn’t want to cut off all the circulation.
    I loosened the tourniquet. Color flowed back into her pale legs. Blood didn’t soak the bandage.
    Satisfied, I hooked the tobacco out of my mouth with a finger, pulled the cork out of the jug, and taken a swallow. I coughed, gagged, wiping the tears from my eyes and the snot dripping from my nose. I had me another pull, laid the jug beside the sister, and went to the corral.
    Well, I had one of them mules saddled, reined to the corral, and was working on the big Jack when I heard the shotgun. Knowed it was a shotgun on account I heard the first hammer clicking, then the second. The second hammer taken some time to get set, which troubled me, because I feared it might accidentally go off. I turned around slowly, raising my hands, but not stepping away from the mule. I figured the man with the shotgun, iffen this was his mule, wouldn’t be inclined to send two barrels from a shotgun and risk wounding or killing one of his mules.
    He was one big Mexican. Looked to be the size of Goliath, with a beard like Moses. He sounded like I’d always figured Moses would have sounded. Strong. Deep. Demanding.
    â€œStep away from Juanito, señor, so I can kill you without harming my mule.”

C HAPTER S EVEN
    Luckily, he spoke and savvied English.
    My head tilted toward the lean-to. “There’s a nun lying yonder. She cut her leg real bad. I need to get her to the doctor in Anton Chico.”
    â€œThere is no doctor in Anton Chico.”
    â€œWell, there’s a church. And a priest.