Excerpt
Josefa cried out. I heard a shot. The smell of gunpowder from a
smoke cloud expanding behind him reached my nostrils. The Indian
paused, staring at me, and renewed his advance. He coughed up
blood. His eyes glazed. I could see he was trying to comprehend
what was happening—and so was I. Somehow he pressed on.
Josefa took hold of the harquebus by the barrel and attacked the
Indian, hammering him on his wounded back once, twice, three
times. His elbows gave way, and he collapsed, lifeless. But she kept
on beating him, scowling at him in fierce concentration.
“Josefa, Josefa!” I stood up as well as I could manage on my
wounded leg. “He’s dead. Leave him! Stop!” I pried the weapon
from her grasp. She stared at him blankly and then at me. She
embraced me, pasting her body to mine—her face buried in my
chest—and wailed for the loss of her husband.
It was a strange and moving thing to feel her small, fragile body. I
couldn’t recall a time when I had touched a woman other than my
mother. I had gone from reluctantly accepting Josefa’s closeness to
holding her in my arms.
The attack lasted less than an hour and yet I knew the memory of my
wounded thigh and embracing Josefa would last a lifetime. I wasn’t
sure which was worse.
Losada ordered us to eat, but the horses were still saddled and the
beasts kept their loads. I sat on the ground with a big gourd in the
crook of my bent leg, the wounded one extended in front. Luckily,
my aggressor had been too weak to pierce deeply. Upon
examination, I realized only a bit more than the tip of the dagger had
penetrated. Unfortunately the wound opened like a mouth
whenever I bent my knee. The morion served as a mortar in which I
dutifully crushed some sarsaparilla with a stone.
There were not nearly as many wounded as I had feared.
Tamanoa had suffered a burn on his left arm. Beyond that, he had
only minor cuts and bruises.
Libros Libertad 