Snippet #1925599

He could see the entrance wound and knew right off the bat that there couldn't be an exit wound. It seemed to be what the Americans used against the Mexicans called buck and ball; a large bullet followed by small pellets that shredded through men like a poorly-made flag. Of course, these white folks weren't as tough as his kinsfolk, or even some of the Mexicanos he'd treated. No, indeed, this white woman was going to be dead within the next few seconds. He took ahold of her hand and did what he could to comfort her, speaking a prayer quietly in his native tongue before allowing the girl to clutch a set of Christian rosaries tightly.

"Go with what Lord yours. Your time good. Save room for me, ah?"

She wasn't paying attention, he didn't think, because she was dead within the span of his next breath. With a bowed head, he closed her eyes, performed the last rites that he knew to the best of his knowledge, and covered her head with the bandana that had bunched off of her head in the action. There was nothing left to do but let her pards know what had happened to his knowledge. He followed his path from the room he'd occupied for medical service back through a hall and to the woman that he had relieved from caring for the wounded girl, news hanging on his tongue as he approached.

"No good. Buck and ball, up into chest from stomach. Breathing bad. Spirit away. What her name was, ah?"