by Steve Hayes
Though his back was to the woman, Gabriel could feel her stare. He felt obliged to say: ‘Won’t be too long now. An’ if you’ve a mind, I still got two biscuits left.’
‘Gabe,’ she said sleepily, ‘you’re nothing short of a Godsend.’ Yawning, she rested her cheek on her folded arms and drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was almost dawn when Ellen next awoke. Overtired, she had slept like the dead, barely moving from the position in which Gabriel had placed her after carrying her – for the second time – from the table.
She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and gazed about her. Nearby, Gabriel sat dozing under a blanket. She smiled, grateful for his kind support. Behind him, she saw Escalero curled up by the stove. Her heart warmed at the sight of the old man. Dear Miguel, she thought lovingly. Where would she be without him? Crossing herself, she thanked God for protecting the three of them through the night.
She would have continued praying, but her stirring had aroused Gabriel. He came instantly awake, the blanket sliding off his lap revealing a .44-40 Remington long-barrel revolver clasped in his hand.
‘My goodness, are you expecting trouble?’
‘Never hurts to be prepared.’
‘No … I suppose not.’ She watched him stuff the big bluish six-gun into his old Levis before adding: ‘Those three men – you think they might return?’
‘I doubt it,’ Gabriel said, not wanting to alarm her.
‘Earlier, you mentioned Apaches. Are there still raiding parties down here?’
‘No. Apaches all went north in ’86 when Geronimo surrendered. Might be some Yaquis or Pimas crossed over from Arizona. Maybe even a few Maricopas. But they’re all mostly sociable.’
‘Then why the pistol?’
‘Ain’t a pistol,’ Gabriel said, stalling. ‘It’s a revolver.’
‘Well, whatever it is, why are you holding it as if you’re ready to shoot someone?’
‘Bears,’ he said, grabbing the first lie that came to mind. ‘Sometimes they get to nosin’ around, catch wind of honey or fresh-killed meat and then break in. Always best to be prepared.’
‘Oh-h … yes, of course. Bears. Odd. I hadn’t counted on bears.’
‘It’s the things you don’t count on, ma’am, likely to kill you the quickest.’
‘Ellie, remember? We made a deal.’
Just then a faint noise made Gabriel whirl around, the revolver seeming to leap into his hand. When he saw it was Escalero getting to his feet he relaxed, gently lowered the hammer and saluted the old man with the Remington.
Escalero, knowing he’d just faced death, humbly bowed his head and apologized for startling Gabriel.
‘He thought you were a bear,’ laughed Ellen. ‘Says they break in from time to time and steal his honey.’
Escalero gave Gabriel a knowing look, just to let him know that he knew there were no bears around, but said nothing.
Gabriel stamped his feet to get the blood going. ‘I better go rustle up some eggs,’ he said. The door slammed behind him.
Ellen looked out the window and saw him entering the barn. Moments later several chickens flew out, squawking.
It reminded her of her childhood after her parents died. Every day, just before dawn, she would leave Cally asleep in the bed beside her and sneak into their grandfather’s barn to watch the chickens laying eggs. Occasionally, she cupped one in her hands. There was something so perfect about a warm, just-laid egg that she regretted having to take them from the hens, knowing that shortly they would be cracked open and their gooey innards spread sizzling in a frying pan.
Her memories made her smile. She felt strangely at home here and wondered why. No place could be more desolate or hostile. And no man could be more different from the young gentlemen she was familiar with in Las Cruces. His reclusive manner, reluctance to talk and the deadly speed with which he drew his gun – all suggested that he was hiding out here, was perhaps a fugitive or even the gunfighter, Mesquite Jenkins. Yet, strangely, she felt no fear when she was with him. On the contrary, she’d never felt safer.
Outside, the stallion suddenly neighed and came charging into view. At first she thought the Morgan was just prancing around, enjoying its freedom; but when it lowered its head and lunged at something, teeth snapping, she realized it was chasing a fleeing rooster. Amused, she turned and looked at Escalero.
The old Mexican seemed to know what she was going to say, and quickly looked away.
‘Now Miguel, don’t try to ignore me.’
He met her gaze and held it.
‘Forgive me, Sister.’
‘I asked you not to call me that, remember?’ Then as he nodded his apology: ‘I know you don’t agree with what I’m doing. And I respect you for that. It’s your right. But at least tell me what you think of Señor Moonlight?’
‘I do not think of him at all, Sister.’
‘Nonsense. I saw you watching him. Like you watch all men I come in contact with.’
‘Forgive me, Sister. I will not do it again.’
‘I’m not scolding you, Miguel. I’m just curious to know what you think of him.’
The old man stalled, twisting the frayed brim of his sombrero between his leathery fingers.
‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘The truth now.’
‘He is a man I would trust your life with, Sister.’
Ellen smiled. It was exactly the answer she wanted to hear.
CHAPTER FIVE
After breakfast, Ellen felt strong enough to take a walk. Escalero got up from a shady spot beside the cabin, intending to join her. But she gestured for him to stay where he was and started down the slope to the stream.
Though just a few minutes past eight, it was already hot and the air so dry it made her trail-raw eyes feel like there was grit in them. Kneeling on a flat rock beside the stream, she splashed water on her face. Its coolness soothed her burning eyes but stung her chapped lips.
Suddenly, soundlessly, he was standing beside her, holding her hat.
‘Better put this on, ma’am, ’fore you get sunburned.’
She placed the hat on her head, asking: ‘Are you ever going to call me Ellie?’
‘You ever gonna tell me why you shaved your head?’
She laughed. ‘Why, Gabriel Moonlight, you’re as pushy as I am.’
‘Wasn’t my intention.’ He turned to leave.
‘Wait. I’ll tell you …’ Ellen ran her fingers through her wispy buttery curls and thought a moment before saying: ‘It’s growing out now….’
He kept silent, hoping she’d continue.
‘Many of the sisters at the convent do it. I didn’t want to. In fact I hated the idea, but …’ She shrugged and self-consciously touched her hair. ‘You may not believe me, Gabe, but I had very pretty hair. It hung halfway down my back. I used to get lots of compliments on it and at night, just before going to bed, I always brushed it one hundred times so it would shine. But long hair gets hot and sweaty under a coronet—’
‘A what?’
‘Coronet. That’s a nun’s hat. These days, coronets are considered somewhat medieval and a lot of sisters in other convents wear much smaller hats. But our order insists we wear one – along with an under-cap that covers our forehead in front.’
Realizing now why the upper half of her forehead was so pale, he said: ‘So that’s what the old man meant—’
‘Miguel told you I was a nun?’
‘No, but he started to call you ‘Sister’ once an’ then corrected himself.’
‘Poor sweet man. I can’t blame him. It’s been awfully difficult for him. He’s worked at the convent for most of his life, and been a close part of mine for almost two years. And then out of the blue I quit the order and ask him to come with me to—’
‘You’re not a nun any more?’
‘I never actually was one. Not officially. I was a novice. I still had a few months left before I completed my novitiate. That’s a training period,’ she e
xplained, seeing he didn’t understand the word. ‘Sort of like, well, like probation. All novices are required to go through it in order to prove they are suitably ‘called’ to the religious life.’
He toed the dirt with his boot and tugged at his thick, graying dark hair.
‘An’ you, you didn’t figure you were “called”?’
‘At first I did. I was absolutely committed. But after a few months I felt isolated and wasn’t so sure. Neither was Mother Superior. We had several long talks about it. I tried to be honest with her, to tell her how I really felt, how I missed being around lots of people, having fun and dancing and playing the harpsichord and, well, that concerned her. She reminded me that giving myself over to God and spreading his word was a full-time, lifelong commitment. I knew she was right and that I was just being weak and tempted by material pleasures … but I still couldn’t decide.’
‘Yet you stayed on at the convent?’
‘Yes. I kept hoping that one day God would give me a sign. But he never did. Or at least, I didn’t recognize it.’ She paused, troubled by her past indecision, then said: ‘But that isn’t why I quit.’
He waited and this time she didn’t continue. He decided that whatever was chewing at her must be too painful to discuss and started to leave.
‘Don’t go. Please …’ Then as he turned back to her: ‘I’m not normally a quitter. In fact once I get my teeth into something I can be most stubborn about not letting go….’
Feeling like he was prying, he said: ‘You don’t have to tell me, Ellie. Not unless you’ve a mind to.’
She wasn’t listening. Her mind was off somewhere, somewhere it didn’t want to be, and suddenly she was crying.
Gabriel stood there, absently toeing the ground.
Crying women made him feel awkward. He wanted to comfort them, as he’d seen his father comforting his dying mother and his Sunday-morning flock; but he didn’t have his father’s passion or gift for words and as a result ended up feeling clumsy and tongue-tied.
He felt that way now. But because Ellen was Cally’s sister, he felt strangely linked to her; after a little, for the first time, he was able to overcome his awkwardness. Kneeling, he put his arm around her and stroked her hair.
She responded by burying her face in his chest and sobbing. He tried to soothe her, but soon ran out of words.
Nearby, the stallion stopped grazing and watched Gabriel trying to comfort Ellen. As if understanding his problem, it trotted over and stood close to them, snuffling softly in its nose.
The gentle sound had a positive effect on Ellen. Sniffing back her tears, she gazed up at the Morgan. It wrinkled its lips at her and pawed the ground.
‘He isn’t going to bite me, is he?’
‘Not unless you’re fool enough to pet him.’
‘Then … why’s he making that noise?’
Gabriel had no idea – probably just to be ornery, he thought.
‘I reckon he’s askin’ you to stop cryin’.’
As if to verify his words, the stallion snuffled again then whinnied.
‘What’s he saying now?’
‘Tellin’ me to shut up.’
Ellen laughed and wiped her eyes with the big red kerchief he offered her.
‘You’re making all this up, aren’t you?’
His wry grin answered her question.
Blowing her nose, she said: ‘I don’t understand what came over me. Crying like a baby, I should be ashamed of myself.’
‘No shame in tears, Ellie. Shame belongs to the folks who cause ’em.’
She smiled and returned his kerchief. ‘I’ll be all right now. So if you have chores to do, don’t let me keep you from them.’
Gabriel hesitated, and she thought he was going to stay. But with a polite tip of his hat he turned and walked up the slope to the cabin.
Ellen regretfully watched him go. She sensed he was hiding the truth from her: that he actually was Mesquite Jennings. But he’d been so kind to her, so honorable in every other way, she couldn’t accuse him of lying.
Turning to the stallion, she said: ‘If only you could talk. You’d tell me all about him, wouldn’t you?’
The Morgan made a gentle snuffling noise. Ellen went to fondle its velvety black nose, then remembering Gabriel’s warning jerked her hand back.
The stallion tossed its head and snorted, as if offended, and backed up.
Ellen laughed. ‘Oh, so now you want to be petted, do you? Very well. Then get back here. Come on,’ she said, offering out her hand. ‘Don’t be stubborn.’
The Morgan eyed her suspiciously.
‘My God,’ Ellen said, ‘you’re just like him. Don’t trust anyone, do you?’
As if to dispute that the Morgan trotted up to her, head lowered as if asking to be petted. But just as Ellen tentatively reached out to rub its nose, the horse jerked its head back, neighed shrilly and galloped off.
Ellen watched as it raced around her in a wide circle, prancing and bucking and kicking up its heels in sheer delight.
What a pair they make, she thought. A man and a horse, two of God’s creatures, so much alike they could have come from the same mold: two loners, though perhaps not by choice, both suspicious and dangerous in their own way, yet sensitive too, and both as unpredictable as a winter storm.
She watched the stallion for a few more minutes, amused by its antics, then, feeling better, she leaned over the stream and washed away her tears. Refreshed, she patted her face dry with her petticoat and started up the slope, the Morgan trotting behind her like an obedient puppy.
CHAPTER SIX
Miguel Escalero sat dozing with his back against the cabin wall, his hands clasped around his drawn-up knees, his big frayed sombrero covering him like an umbrella.
He was dreaming of a December Sunday morning many years ago, when as a boy of twelve he’d seen the face of the Madonna smiling at him from the clouds. No one believed him, of course; not even his parents. They just laughed and told him he was imagining things; that it was just the way the clouds were shaped.
But he knew differently; because the Madonna had not only smiled at him, she had spoken to him as well. In a voice like none other he had ever heard, a voice that was so gentle, so soothing it had calmed all his fears, she told him to give his life to God. And when he asked the Madonna if she meant he was to become a padre, she said no, God had plenty of padres; what he needed was someone to help the sisters at the Convento de Cristo.
Though surprised that God would ask a boy of his age to do such important work, Miguel knew better than to argue with the Almighty. And that afternoon, after repeating what the Madonna told him to his parents – who also knew better than to argue with God – he left the village and walked the twelve miles to the convent where he offered his services to the Madre Superiora – a wise and gentle woman who, after he explained why he was there, and who sent him, seemed most pleased to have his help. After showing him where he could sleep in the stable, she immediately put him to work helping out in the kitchen.
‘Miguel … Miguel, wake up….’
A voice interrupted his dream. Removing his sombrero, he saw it was Ellen.
‘Hitch up the team,’ she told him. ‘We’ll be leaving shortly.’
‘Sí, Sister.’ He rose and plodded off to do her bidding.
Ellen went to the cabin and knocked sharply on the door.
‘May I come in, Gabe?’
‘The señor, he is in the barn,’ Escalero called out.
‘Gracias.’
She found Gabriel cleaning out the Morgan’s stall.
‘We’re going now.’
He accepted the news stoically. ‘Always good to get an early start.’
‘Yes … that’s what I thought … well, actually it was Miguel’s idea. He mentioned it last night and….’ her voice trailed off.
Gabriel went on working, at the same time wondering why the idea of her leaving bothered him. He’d thought about it all morning and part of last n
ight too; but he still couldn’t decide whether it was because in a few short hours she’d come to mean something to him or because her presence helped him to recapture the love he’d felt for her sister.
‘Well,’ Ellen was saying, ‘I just wanted to thank you for letting us stay and … for all you’ve done for us.’
If he heard her, he showed no sign of it.
‘I hope I – we weren’t too much of an inconvenience.’
He shook his head without looking up.
Dear God, she thought, getting him to talk is harder than pulling teeth.
‘Good,’ she heard herself say. ‘Then … I guess I’ll be saying goodbye.’ She turned to leave.
‘Wait …’ Gabriel stopped pitching the hay, leaned on the long-handled fork and studied her with his ice-blue eyes. ‘ ’Fore you go, tell me the truth.’
‘About what?’
‘Why you’re lookin’ for Mesquite Jennings.’
‘What difference would that make?’
‘None, most likely. But I’d still like to know.’
She hesitated, then locked gazes with him.
‘You’re a gunfighter, aren’t you?’
His eyes narrowed but he didn’t reply.
‘You’re a strange man, Gabe. You expect me to tell you the truth yet you won’t even admit what you are.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Sure,’ he admitted. ‘I carry a gun and I’ve used it to kill men. Most of ’em deserved it but not all. Some just had too much whiskey in ’em. Others just picked the wrong man to argue with.’
‘And you killed them all?’
His silence assured her that he had.
‘And I suppose you’re going to say it was you or them?’
More silence.
‘Couldn’t you have just walked away?’
‘Not unless I planned on spendin’ the rest of my life holed up in a cave.’
‘Isn’t that what you’re doing now, hiding out here, in the middle of nowhere, rather than face the music?’
‘Dancin’ at the end of a rope isn’t my idea of music, Sister Kincaide.’ He went back to cleaning out the stall. ‘Now, you can tell me your story or cut dust, makes no matter to me.’
