Preacher's Fortune

by William W. Johnstone

  Over by the wagons, Father Hortensio had turned around and was listening to the story, Preacher noticed. At the mention of his fellow cleric, Father Hortensio crossed himself and muttered something in Latin that Preacher took to mean rest in peace. Old Father Alberto must have come to a bad end.

  “Some of the priests believed that the Indians would never rise against them,” Esteban continued. “But Father Alberto knew there was great danger. He had established a mission near here. He sent word to the other missions in the area that the priests should bring all their holy artifacts to his mission.”

  “And them artifacts was made of gold and silver, I reckon,” Preacher murmured.

  Esteban nodded. “Of course. Some of them were even encrusted with gems. And there were many gold bars as well. Father Alberto gathered them all at his mission, and when our ancestor arrived with a troop of soldiers, he placed the responsibility for the safekeeping of this fortune in his hands. It was up to Don Francisco to save those things for the Church and keep them out of the hands of the marauding Indians, Father Alberto said. Our ancestor had no choice but to comply.”

  “What did he do with the stuff?”

  “The Indians had not yet risen, but violence was imminent. There was no time to take the artifacts and the gold back to Santa Fe or even to Taos. So with a small group of his men, Don Francisco rode west into the mountains and concealed them, thinking to come back later and retrieve the cache once the uprising had been put down.”

  “Only it wasn’t put down, was it?” Preacher asked. “Not for a good many years, anyway.”

  “Sí, that is correct. By the time Don Francisco and his men returned to Father Alberto’s mission, the place was already under attack. The Pueblos killed Father Alberto and his servants, and the soldiers were forced to flee, fighting a running battle as they tried to reach the pass. Many of them were killed. Don Francisco was badly wounded. The few survivors from his troop finally got him to safety, and none of them were from the group that accompanied him into the mountains.”

  “So this Don Francisco was the only one who knew where he had cached all the mission loot.”

  Father Hortensio sniffed a little at Preacher’s use of the word “loot,” but he didn’t say anything.

  “Yes, and he was too badly hurt to do anything about it. He almost died, and he was never the same after that. He returned to his family home in Mexico City after being discharged from the army due to his injuries. No one knew what he had done except him.”

  “But he must’ve told somebody sooner or later, else you wouldn’t know about it now.”

  Juanita said, “Don Francisco was an educated, cultured man, despite being a soldier. His health was always poor after that, but not so poor that he could not write.”

  Preacher nodded. “So he wrote it all in a book, includin’ where to find the gold, and that book has been passed down from generation to generation, until now you two have decided to go after it.”

  “An excellent supposition, but it is not quite that simple,” Esteban said. “No one in our family knew about Don Francisco’s manuscript until fairly recently.”

  “That makes sense. Otherwise somebody would’ve likely tried to find the loot before now.”

  “Indeed. The Alvarez family has always been wealthy, but not so rich that it would have turned its back on such a fortune. Don Francisco never told anyone about what he had done or what he had written. Why he kept it a secret, we do not know. Shame, perhaps. A feeling that he had let down Spain and the Church.”

  “Pride’s a good thing sometimes, but it’s easy for a fella to have too much of it.”

  “Es verdad. Don Francisco’s manuscript only recently came to light, and the secret was discovered at last.”

  “So the family sent you up here to recover the treasure,” Preacher guessed.

  Esteban laughed, but the sound had a bitter edge to it. “My sister and I are all that remains of a once-proud family, Señor Preacher. And our wealth was almost gone. We spent almost all we had left to buy these wagons and outfit them for the journey. Now we must find the treasure, if we are to have anything.”

  Preacher shot a glance at Father Hortensio. “I ain’t sure I understand. Seems to me that when you get right down to it, all that loot really belongs to the Church. It was just turned over to your ancestor for safekeepin’, not given to him.”

  Father Hortensio left his spot by the wagons and walked over to join them again. “This is true,” he said in response to Preacher’s comment, “but the Church is more interested in recovering the holy relics than in the gold bars. An arrangement has been made to give Señor and Señorita Alvarez a portion of the gold in return for their assistance in recovering the other things.”

  “Because they’ve got the book that their great-great-whatever-granddaddy wrote tellin’ where the cache is.”

  Father Hortensio nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

  “Unfortunately,” Esteban said, “Don Francisco drew no map, and the directions he gives in his manuscript are rather vague. It may not be easy to locate the place where he hid the treasure. We will have to search for it, using the manuscript to give us clues where to look.” Esteban sighed. “He was a bitter old man when he wrote it, and I think perhaps he was not quite right in the head.”

  Preacher rested his hands on his knees and said, “Well, that’s all mighty interestin’, and I appreciate you tellin’ me the truth. But that don’t answer all the questions. Who else knows about this?”

  Esteban shook his head. “As far as we are aware, no one.”

  “But you’re afraid somebody might have found out,” Preacher said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t think that the hombres who jumped you in the pass might be after the loot themselves.”

  “Don Francisco’s manuscript was found by scholars from the university,” Esteban explained. “It was among several trunks of old papers that . . . that we had sold to the university.”

  “Do not think badly of us for selling parts of our family heritage, Señor Preacher,” Juanita said softly. “As Esteban told you, our fortunes have greatly declined.”

  Preacher shook his head. “I ain’t here to pass judgment on nobody. That’s more in the padre’s line.” He paused and then went on. “If you gave the manuscript to the university, how’d you get it back?”

  “One of the teachers there recognized it for what it seems to be at first glance, merely an accounting of Don Francisco’s life, and returned it to us, thinking that it might be of great sentimental value. That is when I read it and discovered what it really contained.”

  “You think somebody else could have read it before you got it back,” Preacher speculated.

  “It is certainly possible, though the teacher who brought it to us thought that no one had examined it thoroughly.”

  “No way of knowin’ that for sure, though.”

  “No,” Esteban agreed. “There is not.”

  Preacher thought about everything they had told him. He tugged on his earlobe and ran a thumbnail along his bearded jawline. It all made sense, except . . .

  “How come you went to the Church?” he asked. “You could’ve gone after the treasure yourselves without bringin’ Father Hortensio along.”

  “As you said,” Esteban replied quietly, “everything truly belongs to the Church. It was our thought only to retrieve it and return it to its rightful owners. Don Francisco considered his failure to be a stain on his honor, and therefore on the honor of the Alvarez family. Juanita and I wished only to cleanse that stain. The bishop was the one who suggested that some of the gold be given to us in return for our service.”

  Preacher listened closely, but he didn’t hear anything in the young man’s voice except sincerity. He had known all along that Esteban and Juanita seemed like pretty good youngsters. It looked like his hunch about them was right.

  “What will you do now, Señor Preacher?” Juanita asked. “If it is true that someone else opposes us and seeks the treasure for themselves, t
here may be great danger in attempting to recover it.”

  “Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that.”

  “No one will think unkindly of you if you decide to leave,” Esteban said. “We would not ask you to help us.”

  “We most certainly would not request the assistance of a heathen,” Father Hortensio added.

  Preacher chuckled. “You know, I’m right glad you said that, Padre. You helped me make up my mind.” He came to his feet and tucked his rifle under his arm. “Right now, I’m goin’ to scout around a mite and make sure nobody’s lurkin’ close by. Set up some watches with them Yaquis. We need somebody standin’ guard all night.”

  “You mean. . . .” Esteban began.

  “I mean, come mornin’, we’re goin’ after that treasure, and this here heathen’s gonna do whatever he can to help you find it.”

  EIGHT

  The night passed quietly enough. Preacher’s foray around the camp didn’t turn up signs of anyone sneaking around and watching them, but that didn’t mean they were in the clear. Despite everything Esteban and Juanita had said about no one else being aware of the treasure’s existence, Preacher’s gut told him otherwise.

  While the Yaquis were preparing breakfast, Preacher stood at the edge of camp and looked toward the mountains in the west. They rose steeply, and as his experienced eyes searched them, he didn’t see any passes.

  “You look troubled, amigo,” Esteban said as he came up to stand beside Preacher.

  “I am, a mite,” Preacher admitted. “We don’t know how far into the mountains we’ll have to go to find that loot. It’s gonna be hard goin’ with wagons.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “If there was a safe place to do it, I’d say we ought to leave the wagons and your sister and the padre somewhere with a couple o’ them Yaquis for protection, whilst you, me, and the other two Injuns ride into the mountains on horseback to search for the treasure.”

  Before Esteban could respond to this suggestion, a growl from Dog warned Preacher that someone unfriendly was approaching. As usual, Dog’s instincts were good. Father Hortensio, who had been close enough to overhear the conversation, came up behind Preacher and Esteban and snapped, “This is impossible! I must be there when the holy treasure is found in order to take proper charge of it.”

  Preacher turned to look at the priest. “That sounds like you don’t trust this boy,” he said, inclining his head toward Esteban. “You best remember, after he found the old don’s manuscript, him and his sister didn’t even have to come to the Church and say anything about the loot. They could’ve gone after it and kept it all for themselves.”

  Stiffly, Father Hortensio said, “The Church commends Señor and Señorita Alvarez for their devotion and willingness to do the right thing. That is why the bishop proposed allowing them to retain some of the gold.”

  “But if it was up to you, you wouldn’t give ’em nothin’, ain’t that right?”

  “Such decisions are not mine to make.”

  “It is all right, Señor Preacher,” Esteban said. “Father Hortensio is right. He should be there when the treasure is found. As for my sister . . .” He shrugged. “I would not want to try to persuade her that she should remain behind after coming this far. She has a mind of her own, that one, and is very headstrong in her opinions. I fear that is what has made it difficult for her to find a suitable husband.”

  Preacher thought that any man who wouldn’t be interested in a gal as beautiful as Juanita Alvarez just because she held an opinion or two was a damned fool. He kept that to himself, however, and said instead, “Sooner or later, it’ll come to that, because there’s only so far you can take the wagons into the mountains. And unless we come across some horses, we’ve got only so many mounts. Somebody’ll have to stay behind.”

  “What is it you Americans say?” Esteban asked. “We will cross that river when we come to it?”

  “Close enough,” Preacher said.

  They pulled out a short time later, after a quick breakfast, leaving the Santa Fe Trail and striking out across country toward the Sangre de Cristos. By midday they were in the foothills, with the gray, snowcapped peaks looming ever higher above them. The air was cool, not summerlike at all despite the season.

  Esteban liked riding one of the horses instead of a wagon. He willingly turned over the chore of handling the team to one of the Yaquis and positioned himself and his mount up front, riding along about fifty yards ahead of the wagons with Preacher.

  “Them Yaquis ever talk except amongst themselves?” Preacher asked.

  “Not often,” Esteban replied. “They are a strange people, known far and wide for their cruelty to their enemies. But as I mentioned, they are also very loyal. These four have abandoned their heathen beliefs and converted to Christianity. They greatly admire Father Hortensio.”

  Preacher glanced over his shoulder toward the wagons, where the priest now rode with Juanita. “Seems more like a horse’s ass to me,” he muttered.

  “You are not a religious man, Señor Preacher, despite your name?”

  “I never said that. It’s true I ain’t a Catholic like you folks, but when I was a boy my ma took me to a few brush arbor meetin’s whenever the circuit-ridin’ preacher came through those parts. And since I come to the mountains, I’ve knowed fellas who could spout Scripture just like some can quote Shakespeare. I swear, there’s some old boys who have got pretty much the whole Bible memorized. I’ve heard plenty of it around campfires here and there.”

  “But that is the extent of your religion?” Esteban persisted.

  Preacher tilted his head back a little and squinted toward the mountains ahead of them. “Look up yonder,” he said, pointing.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “You see that peak . . . that one right there . . . with the snow on top and all the different colors on its slopes and the big blue sky above it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mighty pretty, ain’t it?”

  “Beautiful,” Esteban agreed.

  “Well, the way I look at it,” Preacher drawled, “man could never build somethin’ that big and that pretty. The biggest, fanciest buildin’ in the world is nothin’ next to a mountain like that. And no matter what anybody says, I can’t believe that it just happened that way. Somebody built that there mountain, and all the other mountains and deserts and forests and oceans, and whoever’s responsible for all that has to be a whole heap bigger an’ more powerful than folks like you and me—and the padre—can even imagine. That right there . . .” Preacher pointed again to the mountains. “That’s my church. That’s where I see the face of God in those slopes and hear His voice in the lonesome wind.”

  Esteban was silent for a moment, then said respectfully, “I see your point, Señor Preacher. And I believe you are a religious man, no matter what Father Hortensio may think.”

  “Why don’t you just call me Preacher? No need to tag the señor on there.”

  “All right. Men who have fought side by side need not stand on ceremony, eh?”

  Preacher nodded, even though he and Esteban hadn’t really fought side by side . . . yet.

  He would be mighty surprised if it didn’t come down to that before all this was over, though.

  The group pushed on, and during the afternoon they came to a river that flowed on a slightly southwest-to-northeast axis in a beautiful green valley. Preacher reined in, studied the narrow, fast-flowing stream for a moment, and then said, “I reckon this must be the river folks call the Picketwire. That ain’t the real name of it, from what I understand. French trappers called it the Purgatoire, which I reckon must mean Purgatory. But since Americans come to this part of the country, it’s been the Picketwire. We’ll ride alongside it for a ways, but from what I’ve heard, we won’t be able to follow it all the way up into the mountains. This little valley it’s in narrows down to a canyon the wagons would never get through.”

  Esteban looked at him in admiration. “How can yo
u know so much about this land if you have never before been here, Preacher?”

  “I’ve talked to fellas who have, and I listened. A fella who keeps his ears open and pays attention lives a lot longer out here than one who don’t.”

  They waited for the wagons to catch up to them, and as the vehicles pulled alongside, Father Hortensio said excitedly, “Is this the Purgatoire River?”

  “That’s what we was just talkin’ about, Padre,” Preacher replied. “There ain’t no signs, of course, but I think this is the Picketwire, sure enough.”

  “That means we are not far from the Mission Santo Domingo. It was built on the banks of the Purgatoire River, in the shadow of the mountains.”

  “That’s the mission where ol’ Father Alberto worked?” Preacher asked.

  Esteban nodded. “There are quite a few references to the mission in Don Francisco’s memoir. Of course, there will be nothing left of it now, except perhaps some ruins.”

  “Once the matter of the treasure is settled,” Father Hortensio said, “I would like to reestablish the Mission Santo Domingo. That is another part of my charge from the bishop, to investigate such a possibility.”

  “If you did, I don’t know where you’d get your parishioners,” Preacher commented. “In case you ain’t noticed, this is a big country, and it’s mostly empty. We ain’t seen hide nor hair of anybody since we left the Ojeida tradin’ post, except those bushwhackers. And they didn’t strike me as the church-goin’ sort.”

  “I am told there are many Indians in these mountains,” Father Hortensio said. “Perhaps they are staying out of sight because we are strangers.”

  “Last time a bunch of priests tried to convert the Injuns up here in these parts, it didn’t work out so good. That’s the reason we’re here, remember?”

  “Things are different now. In those days, the Indians were still too close to their savage roots to fully embrace the Word of the Lord.”