Sawbones by Melissa Lenhardt

wagon, his tiny head crushed, his cord still attached to his mother. Herr Schlek’s body was a few feet away, his head farther away still. Their four children were nowhere to be found.
    Frau Schlek looked at me. Her mouth opened and closed, and with a Herculean effort, she choked out two words. “My baby.”
    I knelt down beside her and cradled her head in my lap. “It’s a boy.” My voice broke on the last word. “A strong baby boy.”
    She smiled the beatific smile of a new mother and closed her eyes. I stayed with her until she died, stroking her hair and talking in a soothing voice of nothing in particular. I placed the broken body of her baby in her arms and covered them with a quilt from their wagon.
    My circuit of the wreckage confirmed what I’d already known: everyone was dead. Four arrows poked out of Walter’s chest like pins in a pincushion. The cook’s tongue was cut out, his scalp taken as well. The anger and brutality of the Indians was plain on every corpse I found. There was no one to help.
    I returned to Maureen and Cornelius. Blood had seeped through the blanket where Maureen’s face had been. I stared insensibly at their bodies, barely registering the rumble of thunder in the distance. A light breeze ruffled the flowers. A gust followed, blowing the flowers from the bodies.
    My gaze traveled to my wagon, somehow still upright. Piper and Púca lay dead in the braces, their legs tangled with each other’s. I walked to the back of the wagon and removed the bucket of water. How it had survived without toppling, I did not know. I walked over to Amos and threw the water on his funeral pyre. It did little good. I returned to my wagon, replaced the bucket, and stood there.
    There was no one to help. No one to save.
    My wagon shuddered and lurched forward. I jumped back, looked around frantically, expecting the Indians to have returned. The scent of roasting meat and silence greeted me. The wagon lurched again, followed by a long, plaintive bellow. I walked cautiously to the front of the wagon where Púca struggled to stand on a broken leg. Blood coated her neck, from Piper or another wound, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Finally, a creature I could help.
    I pulled my gun from its holster, aimed, and shot Púca in the head.

CHAPTER NINE
    The smoke from the barrel of my gun left a jagged path as I lowered my trembling arm.
    “Ma’am?”
    A young cavalry officer sat on a blown horse right outside the line of wreckage. His wispy mustache hung limp with sweat. Dirt coated his baby face, though it did not camouflage his concern.
    “Lieutenant Kindle.”
    “Are there any survivors?”
    “No. Only me. Ten dead. The four children have been taken, as was Anna.” I choked on her name. I turned away to regain my composure. I picked up the bucket and walked toward the river.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To get water.”
    The river was farther away than I remembered. I trailed my hand over the tops of the tall prairie grass, trying to forget the scene behind me, but finding no solace in the beauty around me.
    The jingle of bit and creak of saddle signaled the man’s arrival. “Ma’am.” The voice was deep, confident in the way men in command are, but with an underlying gentleness I didn’t expect. Gentleness and pity would break my composure. I kept walking.
    “I need to get water.”
    I heard the soldier dismount his horse and limp through the grass toward me. “My men will do that.” He grasped the handle of my bucket and tugged so I would stop. I could smell the mud of the riverbank, see the tufts of cottonwood chaff floating in the air, hear the frogs croaking as if the world had not just ended, as if this were any other day.
    He pulled the bucket from my hand. “You’ve done enough.”
    I rounded on him. “Done enough? I didn’t do anything. Save anyone. They’re dead, while I am still here, as useless as I’ve always been accused of being.”
    He studied me out of one eye, half in