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

And a midwife, I reckon.”
    â€œThere is no nun, señor. You are a thief. Por favor, step away. That is a good mule. I do not wish to hurt him when I kill you.”
    Bless that nun, she picked that moment to moan.
    The Mexican didn’t lower the shotgun, didn’t look away from me, but he’d heard. His eyes turned skeptical, but when the Sister groaned again, I could see the hesitation, the doubt underneath that massive beard.
    He stood on the riverside of his farm, so he couldn’t see inside the lean-to, and I wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t just kill me, and his mule, then do his investigating. So I spoke some more. “Her name is Geneviève. She’s with the Sisters of Charity in Santa Fe.”
    He give a quick glance toward the lean-to, but I didn’t move a hair. His eyes was back on me in an instant.
    â€œMister,” I said, “I ain’t got no gun. Not even a knife. And I ain’t wearing boots. They’s in the lean-to, so I ain’t going nowhere. Look inside that lean-to. You don’t want to kill me and find out you made a bad mistake. That nun, and God, sure wouldn’t forgive you for murdering me, who’s trying to save Sister Gen’s life.”
    He had already started inching hisself around the corral, keeping that shotgun aimed in my general direction. He backed up till he had a clear look inside the lean-to, but I didn’t resume breathing again till he had eased down them barrels of that shotgun. Crossing hisself, he seemed to forget all about me, and hurried into the lean-to.
    I joined him, once my legs got to working again, leaving the second mule half-saddled standing in the corral. He had lifted the Sister’s dress, and studied the leg. When he looked up at me, contempt masked his face.
    â€œDid you do this?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t cut her leg. She fell. Uh, she—”
    â€œNo.” His head shook violently and muttered something in rapid Spanish that I couldn’t catch. In a tone of disgust, he spoke to me in English. “Is this what you call doctoring?”
    â€œWell . . . yeah . . . I mean . . .” For a moment, I thought he might fetch that shotgun off the straw and blow a hole in my belly.
    Instead, he untied my bandage, tossed away the cloth, and pulled a handkerchief from his mule-ear pockets. To my surprise, the handkerchief looked clean. His chin jutted toward the whiskey. “Hand me the jug.”
    I’d been demoted from surgeon to nurse. I done as I was told, kneeling beside him on the other side of Sister Geneviève, watching as he splashed that rotgut onto the white cotton, soaking it good, then began scrubbing around my stitches, wiping off the tobacco stains, the bacon grease, all the good doctoring I’d done.
    That whiskey must have burned considerable—it had certainly burned a wicked path down my throat—because, even unconscious, Sister Geneviève’s eyelids tightened. She moaned, turning her head one way and the other. Beads of sweat soon appeared on her forehead.
    The Mexican mumbled an apology in Spanish, wiping her brow with the whiskey-soaked rag, leaving it there, then running them massive fingers of his over my mule-hair suturing. Them stitches still held. She wasn’t bleeding much.
    â€œYou should be a seamstress, señor,” he said.
    I told him, “I am, well, sort of prone to accidents.”
    The Mexican smiled, which surprised me, and rose. “Bring the Sister into my home. We will tend to her there. It is better than here. Cleaner, at least.”
    He must have forgotten that I’d been inside his jacal, and didn’t find it much cleaner than this lean-to. But he was walking away, shotgun in his arms, so I picked up Sister Geneviève and followed. Once I laid her down on the cot in the corner that served as the farmer’s bed, I let my hand slip inside the pockets of her habit. I felt a couple pouches and a purse,