Both men nodded and went quickly to their work. Elizabeth held a hand out to the second man, stopping him. “Juan. Take care of my children, please,” she muttered quietly. Turning, she followed Miguel to the hands’ house, where she housed her ranch hands and cowboys. She would need clean bedding, boiling water, needles and sutures, the tools of her trade, and her medications. One American had already died on her ranch. If she could save the second, she would.
***
The man in the wagon was well built, with dark, wavy hair and a handsome face. He was also disturbingly pale. Lifting the vest from his chest, Elizabeth could see why. The gunshot wound to his shoulder was deep, and he had lost a lot of blood. She turned her eyes to the wound on his thigh and breathed a sigh of some relief. That wound could have been worse, with the great vein that ran through the leg. The bullet had merely grazed the muscle, though, and passed cleanly by. That wound had lost some blood, and might delay his ability to walk, but was not as serious as the one to the shoulder.
“Move him to the bed we have prepared,” she told the two men at her side. “Quickly. Carefully. Very, very carefully.” She watched quietly as the men lifted the American from the wagon bed and carried him toward the house. He was badly wounded, but his wounds were not fatal. Not yet.
Once he was in the room and lying on the bed, Elizabeth sent the men from the room. Healing was women’s work, with men getting in the way and interfering more often than anything else. She had a skill for healing, and had been working with injuries since she was a young girl. If she needed help setting a bone, she would call the men back. Turning, she considered the man on the bed, and wondered. This was a good-looking man, with clear skin and breeding beneath the dirt on his face. He had been traveling for weeks, given the state of his clothing, and hadn’t been living well. That was to be expected, though, when men were in the wilds. His face and clothing were not meant for rough living. This was not a man meant for gunfights and death alone in a deserted forest. What was he doing here?
She bent over and carefully pulled the cloth from his chest, then used her scissors to slice his shirt up the front. As she pulled the pieces away, she gasped and pulled back. The wound to the shoulder was worse than she had anticipated. The bullet had ripped through the skin and muscles of his shoulder, leaving behind torn and broken flesh. It was lodged up against the bone, its side gleaming dully against the ripped and bloody muscle around it.
Elizabeth swallowed and sat back, pushing the wisps of her long, dark hair from her eyes. She’d seen wounds like this before, and she knew the consequences. The wound on the man’s thigh required nothing more than stitching, and would be relatively simple. This wound, on the other hand … she would have to pull the bullet out and cleanse the entire area, then stitch the torn muscle back together in layers to encourage healing. The flesh would either knit back together or not, and there was a chance that the man would die of blood loss or infection. He may not live through the surgery. He may never recover the use of his arm. If he did live, he would have to rest and avoid any movement for at least three months. If he did live, he would have to remain at her ranch for at least that long.
Elizabeth sighed again and took up her needle, reaching for the cat gut thread that would bind the wound. The man would not be convenient, but it was not in her nature to allow a man to die.
***
Elizabeth walked slowly out of the room several hours later, wiping her hands on a rag. She had done the best she could for the man, and thought that she may have done enough, but knew that time alone would tell. Looking into the courtyard, she saw that night was almost upon them; the sky had faded to a rosy purple, and the shadows were long on the ground. Her son and daughter were in the corral, working with one of the young horses from last year’s crop. The colt had been weaned for over a year but still pining for his mother, and required a gentle touch. He enjoyed the company of the children, and consented to eat and drink only when they were there. Elizabeth watched Pilar, who was more talented with the horses than her brother, and smiled. The girl would end up running the ranch one day, Elizabeth knew, and probably doing a better job than she herself did.
Pilar looked up and saw her mother at that moment, and came running.
“Mama, how is the American man?” she asked breathlessly.
Elizabeth shrugged eloquently. “He is alive, for the moment. I do not know if he will last, and I do not know how well he will heal if he lives, but I have done my best for him.”
“He will live,” the girl said confidently. “I am sure of it.”
Elizabeth let her eyes rest on her daughter, wondering. She believed her daughter that the man would live, she realized; Pilar had premonitions and feelings unlike any other person Elizabeth had ever met. It was unnerving, at times, but often accurate. She wondered if her daughter had been gifted with a sort of Second Sight, or if she was merely emotionally connected to the people around her. Either way, it was a good thing that they were isolated; that kind of premonition was too often taken for witchcraft in other areas of the world, and it would have put the girl in danger. Shaking her head, she turned to her son, who had joined them. This one, on the other hand, was as sturdy and practical as anyone; Elizabeth was often shocked that the two were related.
“Santiago, I need to know what else was at this camp of the Americans. Perhaps there is something there to identify this man, help us find his family.”
Santiago nodded slowly. “Blankets and saddle bags for horses, but no horses. They must have run off during the shooting. There were four dead bodies, but only one of them was American,” he answered.
Elizabeth bit her lip. “We must bury the other bodies out of respect, and to avoid suspicion. They were killed on our property, and it will go badly for us if they are found here.” She looked up at her son. “Santiago, can you find this place again? If I send you to take care of this, will you be careful, and do what must be done?”
“Of course, Mama,” he answered, eager to help.
“You must be very careful. These men may not have been alone, and there may be others looking for them. No one can know that you were involved, or that you saw what happened.” Elizabeth looked closely at Santiago, concerned. They didn’t have many problems in this area, but she had heard of a group of banditos(italics) making trouble recently, and knew that all of Mexico was an open hiding place for lawless men. If her son – or her ranch – was seen to be part of a killing of such men, and the rest of their gang heard about it … Santiago reached out and grasped her arm, nodding, and she nodded in return. “You will leave in the morning with the wagon. I will send several of the men with you to help. Bring back the dead American, any of the Americans’ baggage, but bury the rest of it. We do not want to be accused of theft.”
Pilar grabbed her hand as she turned away, and pulled her back around to face them. “Mama, should I go as well?”
Elizabeth shook her head gently. “No, Pilar, this is a job for the men. I will need you here with me, in case this American wakes up and needs more help.”
“Why do you want his things, Mama? Why not bury them with the others?”
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “We do not know who this man is, my love. Perhaps his things will help us identify him, and tell us whether he is an enemy, or a friend.”
***
Elizabeth walked back to the room where the American slept and looked down at the injured man, his right arm immobilized in a sling. His wounds had stopped bleeding, and some color had returned to his cheeks, but he was not yet safe. The wounds could become infected, or refuse to heal. If they did, the infection could move to his blood, and from there to his entire body. If he awoke, he may not thank her for saving his life, given the pain he would feel. She did not think that he would wake soon, but if he did, she wanted to be nearby.
She moved to his side, gathering the things he had brought with him. His gun holster was empty, though she assumed he had been holding his gun when he was shot; the weapon must still be in the clearing