Sawbones by Melissa Lenhardt Page A

profile, as if trying to place me, or understand me. I was familiar enough with the puzzled expression of doubting men to predict where this conversation was heading. I did not have the energy or the brazenness to argue with the men who had saved my life.
    “I apologize.”
    “I wish we’d arrived sooner.”
    I looked down at my bloodstained hands and noticed a broken stick protruding from the man’s thigh.
    “Is that—?”
    “An arrow? Yes. I hoped you could help me with it.”
    “Right. I’m—”
    My introduction died on my lips when he looked at me full on for the first time. The long red scar running down the left side of his clean-shaven face was too distinctive to be denied. When my eyes met his, I knew beyond a doubt the officer I helped at Antietam stood before me.
    “I—”
    “I’ve also been shot in the shoulder.”
    “Let me see.” I stepped forward and raised my trembling hands. I grasped them into fists to still them.
    “You aren’t well.”
    “I’m fine.” I lifted my hands in surrender. Thank God they did not shake. “Would you like to unbutton your coat?”
    He unbuttoned with his right hand and winced when he tried to take it off with his left. I pushed his hand away as I pulled the coat open at the shoulder. I slipped my forefingers through the bloodstained hole in his shirt and pulled, exposing the wound.
    I slipped my right hand beneath his coat to his back and probed around the wound with my left. The man stiffened. “It didn’t quite make it through,” I said. Blood seeped from the wound, but would be easily staunched with a tight bandage.
    I stared at the arrow in his leg and wondered how in the hell I was going to remove it.
    “Can you walk?”
    “Yes.”
    “Come with me.”
    I focused on my wagon and blotted out the activity around me, the officer’s orders to bury the dead. I climbed into my wagon. Clothes spilled out of Maureen’s trunk, and our box of kitchen wares had been ransacked, but my medical trunk and bag were untouched at the front of the wagon. I picked my way through the clothes on the floor and retrieved my medical bag. “Do you need my help removing your coat?”
    He unbuckled his holster and handed it to me. Together, we removed his navy wool coat. His scrutiny was unnerving. I hoped he did not recognize me. If he did, would he have known my name?
    I doused a square of cloth with whisky and cleaned around the wound. “A pressure bandage should suffice until I can take the bullet out.” I mumbled to myself as I worked.
    “General Sherman mentioned you.”
    I pulled the bandage tight around his back and across his chest. “Does that hurt?” I asked.
    “No.”
    I smiled and continued to wrap. “You are a poor liar—” I paused and looked at him questioningly. I did not know his name.
    “Kindle. Captain William Kindle.”
    “Lieutenant Kindle’s uncle.” I tied off his bandage. “That will do for the moment.” I was trying to avoid the wreckage of the wagon train and to avoid Kindle’s penetrating gaze, which left me few places to focus. I dropped my head to assess the arrow protruding from his thigh. “Now for your leg. There isn’t much blood, which concerns me.”
    “You’re afraid the arrow is plugging its own hole.”
    “Yes.” I eyed his suspenders. “I need a tourniquet.”
    “By all means.”
    I looped the suspenders loosely around his knee, moved them up above the arrow and tied them off. “Sit here.”
    He sat on the back of the wagon while I climbed inside. Images flashed through my mind: Frau Schlek’s gaping stomach, her husband’s head caked with blood and dirt, Maureen’s mutilated face. My back to Kindle, I covered my mouth and fought against nausea. Could I do this? I had to, needed to. He was grievously injured. If I didn’t help him, I was sure he would die. I dropped my hand from my mouth. I couldn’t live with myself if another person died today due to my cowardice. I pulled a bottle of whisky from my medical