Thomas Eidson - St. Agnes’ Stand

Unpleasant as it was to think of the woman dying in this way, it gave him an odd idea, one that just might work. As quickly as caution would allow, he mounted and rode the mule into the shadows of a scrub oak that stood alongside the main ridge trail overlooking the canyon. He held the cocked crossbow in his hands as he searched for the two Indians who had been slapping their buttocks at the wagons. He singled them out because they were the most brazen of the band, most eager to be at the victims behind the wagons.

They were standing behind the boulders on the road now, dancing rhythmically in place, moving their arms in strange gyrations, wildly intoxicated and dangerous. Swanson picked the closest. He guessed the distance at over six hundred feet, very close to the crossbow’s maximum range. The quarrel head would not hit with enough impact to kill, so he slipped a bodkin, stiletto-like, long and slender, razor-honed steel that could sever a spinal cord or cut through four or five inches of muscle and bone, into the firing groove. It was a chance shot and it might give him away, but he needed time.

Swanson aimed a good half inch above the head of the Indian, hoping to catch him through a lung, but the shot was low, taking the brave in the stomach. The man began to flip and writhe on the ground. He would die, but it would be a long, painful death. Swanson took no pleasure in the thought. He kicked the mule into a trot.

Sun, ants and flies had been at the Mexican’s head for three days and it no longer looked human. The fetid stench of both the man and the woman made him sick. The dog would not come close, but the mule was not bothered. To keep from vomiting, Swanson tossed loose dirt on the dead man’s head until it was almost covered; then he tied the dead woman to a travois lashed to the saddle and headed at a trot for the canyon.

It took him half an hour to rope the corpse on to the mule. When he finished, he tied a blanket, cape-like, around the dead woman’s neck and down her back to hide the two sticks of manzanita he had used to prop her upright. She looked grotesque, stiff and bloated, yet oddly militant and alive in her death pose. The effect was exactly what Swanson was aiming for. Strangely, for so warlike a people, the Apaches had a horror of death, and an equal horror of evil spirits. And in death this naked woman, with one breast cut off, the other savagely shredded, her abdomen split from breastbone to where her pubic area had once been, her eyes burned-out holes, looked frighteningly evil.

Once started, the mule would follow the trail to the bottom. Swanson slapped the animal hard on the rump and quickly, shouldering a heavy deerskin pack, moved out in an awkward, limping dogtrot. The pain in his leg was worse, and the wound had begun to bleed again. He stopped midway down the mountain and looked for the mule. It was moving in a careful gait, the dead woman rocking awkwardly on its back, what was left of her red hair blowing in a light breeze.

Swanson crouched in the chaparral until he heard the first frightened yell. The mule was standing at the foot of the slope with the woman still on its back, and panic-stricken Apaches were running away in fear.

He hit the open stretch of rocks between him and the wagons on a dead run, paying no mind to the fire in his thigh. He was past the nearest Apache before the man knew he was there. He ran on, twisting, waiting for the arrow from the warrior’s bow. It never came. Up the slope he went, his legs driving, charging for the gap between the wagons. ‘White man … amigo coming in … don’t shoot,’ he yelled. It did no good. The Hawken boomed out at him. But whoever was handling the weapon was a lousy shot and missed, and he was safe behind the wagons. He sprawled on his belly, breathing hard, pistol drawn waiting for the rush.

‘Get ready … Cuidado,’ he hissed. ‘They may try to rush us now.’ Out of the side of one eye, he saw what appeared to be a blotch of shadow move; he turned his head and looked directly into her face. He was stunned. A Catholic nun, little and worn looking, was on her knees praying, her eyes fixed on the gap between the wagons, the Hawken rifle smoking in her hands. Quickly, he glanced around the small enclosure; there was no one else. Still stunned, he looked back out from the shadows of the wagon into the bright sunlight. The mule and the woman were in plain view not more than fifty yards away. He glanced at the nun and realized she was staring at the dead woman. She was rocking back and forth quietly in her anguish, her lips moving in silent prayer.

‘You okay, ma’am?’ Swanson asked, not turning to look at her. She didn’t answer. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘you need to get yourself ready. We’re getting out of here in a few minutes.’ The nun was deep in prayer and did not answer.

The ruse with the mule had worked better than he had hoped. The Apaches were falling back in panic into the hills. He decided to wait a few more minutes, then take the woman and slip out the north side and head into the high mountains. But it wasn’t to be. The biggest Indian Swanson had ever seen put a stop to the confusion below. He was wearing a blue bandana tied the way slave women did up their hair, a leather vest with silver studs that had probably belonged to one of his Mexican victims, a breech-cloth and white pants tucked in to deerskin boots. He stood a good foot taller than the braves milling nervously behind him. Even at a hundred yards, Swanson could almost feel the man’s rage, like it was a physical thing.

He strode down out of the hills and yanked viciously at the mule’s bridle until the animal reared. But the woman didn’t dislodge and the Indian tore the blanket off the corpse, exposing the manzanita poles that propped her up. He pulled a knife, cut the poles, and then savagely shoved the body out of the saddle. Swanson heard the nun cry out in a gentle, hurt way. The Indian was kicking the corpse now, and the nun was praying out loud. Swanson cocked the crossbow quickly and inserted a quarrel, aiming under the wagon.

‘No,’ the woman said. Somehow the word was not a request, not an order, it was just a statement of what Swanson was going to do. Surprised, he glanced at her. She was still kneeling but now she was looking directly at him. He could tell from the paleness of her wrinkled face that she had spent her life inside a church. The clean neatness of her habit gave her thin, fine features a strange look of calm authority. Her eyes locked on his face with a steady gaze. She looked amazingly crisp and fresh, white against black, amid the dull, hot browns of the desert.

Uncomfortable, Swanson turned back to the Indians. The leader had disappeared, leaving his warriors to kick and slash at the dead woman’s body, their confidence restored. ‘Damn,’ he whispered. Killing the big Apache might have sent the rest of them running. He picked a brave at random and dropped him with a head shot, the others scurried for cover.

Swanson heard the woman suck in her breath when he fired, and now she was praying out loud again. At one place in the prayer he heard her asking forgiveness for him. The thought made him feel awkward.

Neither of them spoke for a long time; the nun watching him and Swanson watching the rocks and hills. He felt her eyes on him. ‘Lady, we aren’t getting out of here without killing some of them.’

‘God didn’t send you to kill.’ Her voice sounded firm but not angry.

‘Ma’am, God didn’t send me. I just came.’ He squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight and scanned the canyon. ‘And if we don’t kill some, they’re going to kill us. Anyhow,’ he said, confused, ‘you tried to kill me.’

‘He sent you.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact. ‘And I only shot into the air.’

That at least explained why none of the shots from the Hawken had done any damage. The nun had been plugging the sky. As for God sending him, Swanson chose not to reply. Let her believe what she would.