St. Agnes’ Stand. Thomas Eidson

his mother’s voice warning him against leaning too hard on a broken reed. He ran his hands through his hair, listening for the sound of her in his memory. There was nothing but the wind. She remained, as always, a shadowy presence in his thoughts. Still, there were things he half-remembered, and he felt she would have done the same thing he had; she, too, would have come for the old nun. He felt a little better. But not much.

      Swanson heard a noise to his right and whirled, bringing the pistol up cocked and levelled at the old woman’s head. She stared at him for a second and then walked over and returned the canteen to his pack.

      ‘That’s what guns do,’ she said, the words hanging in the hot air.

      When she didn’t continue, Swanson asked, ‘What?’

      ‘They make you afraid.’ She stood and walked over to him.

      Ignoring the remark, he looked up at her and said, ‘You shouldn’t stand; you’ll be killed.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ she answered, kneeling down beside him, a candle and a small leather purse in her hands, ‘but only if the Lord wants me to die. And I won’t die afraid.’ She smiled at him. ‘Now let me see your leg.’

      ‘It’s fine. It’s just a hole.’

      ‘Let me see your leg, please,’ she said firmly, lighting the candle with a match and sticking it in the sand. ‘From the amount of blood on your pants, it’s more than just a hole, and the children need you.’

      Swanson looked into the woman’s face for a few seconds and realized she wasn’t going to let him alone; he stretched his leg out so she could see it. The wound was oozing badly. She opened the purse and took out a small knife and heated the blade in the flame of the candle. Swanson watched her thin, delicate hands as she worked. They were old hands, mottled with liver spots but steady, and it was obvious she had dressed wounds before. She was wearing a wedding ring and this surprised him. Laying the small knife down, she took a pair of scissors and cut the buckskin leggings so she could get at the wound. It wasn’t pretty. The entry hole was small enough, but the bullet had hit bone and flattened out and the wound was deep and ugly and seeping clear fluid and blood, and it was dirty. The skin around it was a festering purple colour. The woman began to reheat the blade of the knife.

      ‘What is your plan?’ she asked.

      Swanson sat staring blindly at the bullet hole for a few seconds. ‘I don’t know.’

      She seemed a little startled and then went back to heating the knife. He was thinking that if he’d known about the other nuns and the kids he might not have come at all, but he didn’t say it out loud.

      She was watching him closely again. ‘You would have,’ she said after a few moments.

      Swanson jumped. ‘Would have what?’

      ‘You were thinking you wouldn’t have helped if you’d known there were so many of us.’ She waited a second, still staring into his face. ‘You still would have.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact.

      He looked into her eyes, surprised she had guessed his thoughts. Then he shrugged it off. He had never not had a choice in his entire life, even if the choice had been to die. He still had choices. He pulled his eyes away from hers and shook his head, looking out at the brilliant sunlight and the canyon. Sweat was running down his neck.

      ‘This will hurt. Before I start, I want to thank you for saving the children. They were dying.’

      ‘How long had they been without water?’

      ‘Two days. But it wasn’t only the water. It was the fear.’

      Swanson didn’t understand. He waited for her to explain, but she was bending over the wound. ‘So what’s changed?’

      ‘They know God sent you to save them.’ She smiled at him.

      The words seemed to slap at his face. She began to run the knife hard around the edge of the wound, leaving a thin trail of blood welting behind the sharp blade.

      ‘Listen, lady –’ Swanson started to say, before the pain slammed him upside of his head and he went unconscious.

      It was late evening when Swanson awoke. The hurt in his leg was awful. His vision was fuzzy and he couldn’t focus on the white bandage made from a woman’s undergarment, but he didn’t need to see it to know the leg beneath the wrapping hurt as if she’d driven a wooden stake into his thigh. When his eyes finally focused, he saw a younger nun with a pudgy, cherub-like face kneeling in front of him looking concerned. She was maybe twenty. She smiled a gentle smile that filled something up inside him.

      ‘I’m Sister Martha. Would you like some water?’ He didn’t want any. She turned her head and called softly, ‘Sister St Agnes, he’s awake.’

      The old nun came and stood over him. ‘Good. God would have never forgiven me if you’d died.’ Her eyes were laughing good-naturedly.

      ‘What did you do to my leg?’ He was fighting back a moan struggling out of the depth of him.

      ‘It was dirty. I cut the flesh away and opened it up inside and took the bullet out.’ She was walking back towards a small campfire of burning mesquite in the centre of the enclosed ground. ‘It will heal now.’

      It took Swanson a few minutes to regain his bearings and to remember where he was. The younger nun continued to watch him until he returned her stare, then she averted her eyes shyly. His thoughts were on the old nun; this woman who moaned and prayed over the deaths of savages – savages who were out to kill them – but who cut his leg to pieces as casually as if she were cleaning chickens. She didn’t figure so easy. He watched the flickering light from the campfire for a few minutes, thinking about her, before he realized what was bothering him. He jumped.

      ‘Lady, put that out!’ he yelled, rolling toward the fire.

      The two nuns caught him gently by the shoulders. He felt weak. ‘Don’t,’ the old one said, ‘you’ll hurt yourself and you’ll scare the children.’

      ‘Scare the children, hell.’ His voice was rising. ‘You’re going to get yourself and them killed with that fire.’

      ‘I insist you do not swear in front of the children,’ she said, turning back to the fire. ‘They have to eat. As soon as the meal is finished, I’ll put the fire out. Thank you for your concern.’

      Swanson was holding himself up with one arm, staring at the back of the woman’s black robes as she worked over the campfire. He couldn’t believe her, she was crazy. He realized that the younger nun, Sister Martha, was still supporting his shoulder. As he started to pull away, pain tore through his leg and he caught himself.

      ‘Are you all right?’ the young nun asked.

      ‘I’m okay,’ he mumbled, crawling back to the wagons. He picked up the Hawken and scanned the darkening shadows of the canyon. His leg was driving him crazy with pain but he forced himself to think about the Apaches. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he knew that meant nothing. The Mimbres were desert mountain people. They could lie in ambush a yard from a man in barren sand and not be discovered until it was too late. The only chance he had of spotting one was to study the road and the canyon until he had committed every bush, every rock, every patch of colour to memory, and then to wait for some small change. His thoughts were distracted by the sounds of cooking.

      ‘Hurry up, lady,’ he hissed.

      ‘In God’s own time,’ she responded.

      Swanson heard soft scuffling noises behind him and he turned his head to see the last of the children crawl out of the hole in the mountain. It was almost completely dark now and they were small darker shapes squatting forlornly against the mountainside. There was a larger shadow at the end of the line. Swanson watched it suspiciously for a few seconds until he realized it was the third nun.

      ‘Ahhh, Sister Elizabeth, children, there you are,’ the old nun said. ‘Isn’t it wonderful to be out in