The Cowboys, Part 8

So now my sister Pearl is sharing her palfrey with the damsel in distress, as my own ride trots alongside. We’re heading through a dark passage. Suddenly, bang! — we hear the sound of a pistol.

I look over and see that my sister has been shot: there’s blood trickling from the side of her head. Her riding-mate is screaming. I quickly dismount to help Pearl; she’s barely breathing, and blood is now streaming out of her mouth. “Look,” says the damsel, pointing, “there’s a house over there; maybe someone can help us!” 

So I hoist Pearl’s body over my shoulder and run toward the house while shouting: “Help, help! My sister is shot! Please call a doctor!” 

A man steps out of the house. I yell: “Are you a doctor?” — “No,” he says. — “But will you help us?” I shout; and he invites us inside. 

I heft my sister’s body onto the kitchen table and shake her while saying: “Pearl, please don’t die!” The damsel from Zacatecas is beside me, weeping. The house’s owner anxiously attempts to sterilize some utensils with the flame from a match, in case we need to do surgery, while I work to clear the blood from the wound and assess the damage. — However, at a certain point, I can no longer find a pulse. . . . Lifting my face to the ceiling, I raise my hands and scream out: “Why, God, why!”