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 the night air.’ Her voice was as light and breezy as if they were on a summer picnic. ‘Children, I’d like you to meet the man who has come to take you out of here.’
Swanson shot her an angry glance, but she wasn’t looking at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said loudly, leaning over a large pot, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.’
Swanson waited a few seconds and then said, ‘Nat Swanson.’ He turned his head towards the night and the canyon sounds.
‘Nat Swanson,’ she said gaily. ‘What a strong-sounding name. Children, come for your dinner and say hello to Mr Swanson. Jessica, you first.’
‘Hello, Mr Swanson,’ the small voice said.
Swanson watched the darkness for a few seconds longer, but the innocence of the voice tugged at him and he turned, instantly bothered by what he saw. Jessica was small, maybe nine, thin and dirty looking in a rag dress; her tiny face seemed far too old.
‘Hello, Jessica,’ he said, glancing at the nun. She was smiling approvingly.
There were twins, Betty and Nan, perhaps ten or eleven, but it was difficult to be certain because of their starved condition. Next came a gangly girl of about thirteen wearing a filthy calico dress and swollen with child.
‘Tell Mr Swanson your name, child,’ the older nun said softly. The girl didn’t speak. She stood holding her stomach awkwardly as if she wanted to set it down and watched the flames of the fire. ‘Well, that’s okay,’ the nun said pleasantly. ‘Mr Swanson, we don’t know this lovely child’s name yet, but we have christened her Millie until we do.’
Then two little girls, Bonnie and Anna, six or seven years old, came into the light of the campfire. They were holding hands as if they were lost and they were as dirty and poorly clothed as the others. The last child would not leave the shadows until the third nun brought him forward.
‘And this, Mr Swanson,’ the old nun said proudly, ‘is the man of our party, Matthew.’
The boy was in the worst shape of all of them. He was perhaps eight. His face had been disfigured by fire. Swanson had seen those kinds of scars before. They had been done on purpose. He was almost naked, and he limped badly on a leg that had been broken and not set.
‘Nice to meet you, Matthew.’ The boy stared at the ground. He looked ashamed to speak. The third nun was holding him gently by the shoulders. Swanson glanced at her. She was tall and thin, in her thirties, and had a very pleasant face. He remembered her name was Sister Elizabeth. She was proper, proud and pretty, and he watched her for longer than he felt comfortable. She was a handsome woman. She was staring at the top of the little boy’s head.
After the last child had been served, the old nun put dirt on the fire and seemingly total darkness fell on the party. Swanson sat by the wagons, listening to the night, amazed the Indians had not fired on the campfire light. It was still and hot. Somewhere off in the distance a hunting owl sounded, once, then twice more. He focused on the sound and decided it was the real thing, not an Indian imitator. Sister Martha brought him a plate of beans and half a cup of water. He ate, thinking about the children and the old nun. Then, with his plate half full and without realizing it, he fell asleep.
The cave had the faint odour of burned incense and a snug feel about it. The three nuns and seven children fitted nicely into it, and there was a clean starkness that reminded the three sisters of a monastery, and this gave them great comfort. The children were asleep in a long row on the soft, sandy floor. They lay peacefully on the blankets spread for them, and for the first night none were crying, none shaking. The heels of Sister Martha’s plain black shoes thumped softly against the large rock she was sitting on. Her face was beaming and she was leaning forward with both of her hands on her knees, the heavy cloth of her habit spread over the rock. Sister Elizabeth was kneeling nearby, rubbing a pan that had been used for supper with clean sand. A large candle burned on a smaller rock near the back wall of the cave casting a warm glow over the children’s faces, softening the gauntness and sadness somewhat. In the deeper shadows sat Sister St Agnes, her thin back propped against the sandstone wall, her eyes closed.
Sister Martha looked lovingly over the faces of the children. ‘Wasn’t he wonderful to come?’ she whispered. ‘He’s a sainted man to risk his life for theirs.’
Sister Elizabeth poured the sand from the pan and set it aside, reaching for a plate. ‘I don’t think we should enroll him among the saints.’ Her voice was low and carrying a practical edge to it. ‘We don’t know why he came.’ She scrubbed hard at the plate.
