by M. A. Armen
McClain turned slowly to look at the kid, taking in the shiny Colt on his thigh, the well-oiled holster. His face remained unreadable as the kid crossed to confront him.
“I’m Hal Peters.” The words were a challenge.
The saloon waited, tense and silent, for McClain’s reply. It came flatly, after a long moment.
“So what’s your beef?”
Peters glanced contemptuously at the army scout, spat at the man’s feet. “I don’t drink with Injuns—no matter who says so.”
For an instant McClain’s eyes blazed, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Then his face went flat and expressionless. He shrugged. “They probably don’t serve milk here, anyhow.” The gunfighter drained his glass, tossed some coins on the bar, and started for the doors.
With a quick, lithe stride, the kid intercepted him. “I hear you’re a fast gun, McClain. I say I’m faster!”
McClain met his narrow, brazen glance steadily. “I don’t give a damn what you say.” He brushed past the kid and disappeared through the batwings.
For a moment the room remained frozen, thrown off by the unexpected reaction. Then, cursing, Peters thrust his way outside. His companion and the rest of the saloon followed.
The stranger, a speculative frown on his face, remained seated until the room cleared. Then he rose, recovered his whiskey bottle from the bar, and moved casually after the others.
Crowded on the steps, the men watched in bewilderment as McClain’s mounted figure galloped into the distance.
“Goddamn lily liver! He was scared t’draw on me!” Peters glanced around triumphantly. “Scared yellow!”
The barkeep shook his head. “No way, Peters. You just got lucky. Five years ago McClain would’ve killed ya!”
“Like hell he would!” Peters leaped angrily off the steps, swung aboard his horse, and dug in his spurs. The animal sprang away down the street, the other young cowpoke thundering after him.
As the crowd choked on their dust, the stranger shoved his whiskey bottle into the waiting mule’s saddlebag, mounted, and jogged off in the direction taken by McClain. He was near the end of the street when the barkeep suddenly noticed him.
Startled, the barkeep darted into the saloon. He reappeared an instant later, shouting angrily.
“Hey! Hey—you on the jackass! Y’owe for the whiskey!”
The stranger continued on his way, the shouts either unheard or ignored.
With the town behind him, McClain slowed his horse to a jog and turned from the main trail to thread his way through a forest of towering boulders which jutted unexpectedly above the flat expanse of mesquite and scrub. The small stream was still there, just beyond the rocky maze. Nurtured by its moisture, several paloverdes shaded its rippling passage, their graceful limbs heavy with golden blossoms. They transformed the spot into a secret, sheltered oasis. In years past McClain had always watered here on his way to or from the town. It had invariably been deserted, showing no sign of other human use, and so he had come to regard it as his own—his private haven for rest and refreshment. He smiled bitterly, thinking that this was the only thing from his past which had remained the same, had held a welcome for his return.
He walked his horse into the water, dropped the reins, and sat waiting, allowing the thirsty animal to drink its fill. There was no sound except the rippling water and the soft, sucking noise the horse made. McClain’s body responded to the tranquillity here, losing some of its weariness. He let his thoughts drift, pushing the aching memory of Em away determinedly, forcing himself to contemplate the future. He was alone with no one to care where he went or which trail he traveled. He realized that he didn’t care much, either. Without somebody who needed him, the future didn’t matter. All he wanted from it was peace—an absence of booming guns and blood and tattered banners and the cries of the dying. He’d wanted to share that future and its hope with Em. Now he just wanted to be left alone.
Suddenly his horse lifted its head, pricking its ears forward. It nickered questioningly toward the brush on the other side of the stream. An answering nicker brought McClain sharply out of his reverie. An instant later Hal Peters rode into view and halted, smirking at McClain across the slim margin of water.
“Figure t’hide out from me, McClain?”
McClain replied evenly, “Don’t push your luck, kid.”
The kid’s blotchy face flushed angrily. “You're the one needs luck. Now git down an’ draw or I’ll shoot you outa the saddle.”
McClain sighed wearily. “What’s the matter? You tired of livin’?”
Peters motioned toward the silver coin which dangled from the gunfighter’s neck, the outlines of a shamrock beaten into its surface. “I aim to have that lucky piece of yourn.”
McClain’s eyes went dangerous as broken glass. The coin was all he’d ever known of his father. He said flatly, “Lots of men wanted it.”
“I’ll count to three.”
“Save your breath.” McClain dismounted, moved away from his horse, and stood facing the kid, arms hanging loose, waiting.
The kid stepped carefully to the ground, backed up a few steps, his eyes steady on the gunfighter.
“Say when,” said McClain
“Now!” yelled the kid.
Streaking, their guns cleared leather and exploded into the silent, outraged air.
On the trail beyond the bouldered maze, the stranger on the mule heard the violent sound and halted. His startled gaze searched the tangled rocks for an instant. Then he urged the mule among them. As he rounded a boulder, Hal Peters came charging toward him, whooping triumphantly and waving McClain’s lucky piece in the air.
He veered sharply around the stranger, shouting as he passed, “I shot Glint McClain! I shot Glint McClain!”
The stranger’s blue eyes darkened with concern. He whipped the mule to a jog, zigzagged through the boulders until he reached McClain’s horse. It stood ground-tied a short distance from the stream. McClain was crumpled at its feet, a bloodstain widening slowly across his shoulder and chest.
The stranger dismounted quickly, dropped down beside the fallen man, and lifted his head gently, feeling his neck for a pulse. The gunfighter’s eyes opened. He stared up at the stranger, groggy recognition pushing through the glaze of pain.
“Don’t need you. Need a priest.” The words were slurred, barely audible.
The stranger fumbled in a pocket, drew out a rosary and held it for McClain to see. He said quietly, “I am a priest.”
Their eyes held for an instant, then McClain dropped into black unconsciousness.
Chapter Three
McClain wakened slowly and painfully. He saw that it was night, that he was looking at the stars through the screen of a crude mesquite awning which stretched above him. His shoulder and chest throbbed with a dull, hot ache that seemed to spread across his body like giant, clenching fingers. It brought back the memory of Hal Peters facing him across the stream, of the kid’s gun erupting a split second before his own, of the searing agony as its bullet tore into him.
Alarm surged through McClain. Where was he? Who had brought him here, and why? As he fought to mend the torn strands of recollection, he became aware of heaviness against his wounds. He tried to lift his head, but he was too weak.
Forcing back the pain which movement brought, he inched his good arm upward and explored the heaviness with his fingers. Astonished, he realized that a poultice was bandaged tightly against his wound with leather thongs. It brought back sudden memory of the stranger’s face looking down at him. Hope flickered in his mind. He turned his head carefully.
Startled, he found himself staring at what appeared to be a large silver crucifix. It was only a few feet away, gleaming against the lights and shadows of a leaping fire. McClain blinked, struggled to orient. Suddenly his vision cleared and he saw the stranger bending over a small campfire. His back was to the gunfighter, and he was stirring something in a pot which hung above the flames. What McClain had thought was a crucifix was a
ctually the silver handle of the sheath knife which hung at the stranger’s waist.
McClain tried to elbow up, sank back with a moan as pain seared his shoulder and chest. The stranger turned, his face brightening as he saw that the gunfighter was fully conscious.
“Lie quietly or you will bleed again.”
McClain nodded weakly, motioned toward the silver-handled knife. “Thought I was dead—that was a crucifix.”
The stranger grinned, his teeth flashing whitely in the firelight. “For you it was, in a way.”
“How do you figure?”
“The bullet in your body was deep. Without the knife’s long blade, I could not have removed it.”
McClain studied his swarthy face with a mixture of curiosity and puzzle. “Sure went to a lotta trouble for an hombre y’don’t even know.”
The stranger’s blue eyes widened bewilderedly. “Don’t know! But all men are brothers, my friend.”
McClain eyed him narrowly, unable to decide whether he was faking or sincere. Suddenly a horse stomped in the nearby brush and nickered. McClain stiffened, alarm flooding his features.
The stranger reassured him quickly. “Rest easy. It is only your horse. He is tied at the stream with my own animal.”
McClain glanced around, recognizing his surroundings for the first time, wondering why they had seemed so unfamiliar.
The stranger seemed to read his mind. “You were gravely hurt, my friend. You have been delirious for two days. That is why I could not move you from this place.”
McClain stared at him, stunned. “I been layin’ here two days—knowin’ nothin’?”
The stranger nodded soberly. “I applied poultices and herbs to your wound. But it is only by the will of Heaven that you survived.”
“Looks like the will of Heaven got a lotta help from you,” replied McClain dryly.
The stranger shook his head, smiling. “It is I who received help from Heaven, my friend.”
“Anyhow, I’m obliged. I owe you, and I won’t forget it.” McClain’s voice was gruffly sincere. He was unaccustomed to being helped, or to needing it.
Suddenly he remembered the moment when the stranger found him, the rosary dangling from his fingers. He asked sharply, “Before I passed out, didn’t I hear you say you’re a priest?”
“I am, indeed. My name is Father Miguel.”
McClain eyed him skeptically, noting the sinewy strength of his body, the small knife scar on one cheek. “Sure don’t look like much of a priest.”
Miguel seemed amused. “What do I look like?”
McClain started to shrug, winced with pain. “Maybe a greaser bandido on the run.”
Miguel grinned wickedly, jerked a finger toward McClain’s poultice. “You don’t look like much of a gunfighter, either.”
Their eyes met and held. Then they burst into laughter, deciding they liked each other.
After a moment, McClain said ruefully, “I’m not much of a gunfighter anymore—lifted too many cannonballs in the army. Got arthritis in my fingers.”
Disturbance rippled across Miguel’s features. “So that is why Hal Peters was able to shoot you!”
McClain nodded wryly. “Stiff hand slows your draw considerable.”
Miguel was soberly thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. “But you still have your reputation. That is the main thing!”
McClain shook his head. His eyes turned brooding. “I’m through with gunfighting. War killed my taste for it. There’s better ways t’settle things.”
Miguel nodded sympathetically. “During the fever, you told much about your suffering in the army—the many battles you fought.”
“How much?” Suspicion sharpened McClain’s voice.
Miguel met his hard look and replied quietly, “I know you are a deserter.”
“Figure on turnin’ me in? That why you doctored me?”
The notion seemed to interest Miguel. “How much is the reward?”
“Enough t’buy whiskey.” McClain’s eyes were granite now.
The priest considered for an instant, then shook his head. “It is against my vows to reveal a confession.” He grinned. “And anyway, I have whiskey.” He crossed to where his saddlebags lay, pulled out the bottle he had taken from the saloon, and extended it to McClain.
McClain took it, the doubt on his face becoming amusement. “Gracias again.”
The words brought a sudden cloud to Miguel’s features. “It is the saloon owner who should be thanked. In the excitement, I forgot to pay him.”
“Forgot?”
Miguel nodded unhappily. “It is a terrible thing, I know. But it is true.”
“Why didn’t you go back?”
“And leave you to die? Heaven would never forgive me!”
McClain studied the priest’s shocked face suspiciously, again unable to decide whether he was faking or sincere. At last he shook his head, giving up the puzzle, tilted the bottle, and drank.
More than a week had passed, but Hal Peters still boasted about his shoot-out with Glint McClain. Lounging against the bar, the gunfighter’s lucky piece dangling from his neck, he repeated the story for everybody in the saloon who would listen.
“I tell ya, when he got off his horse, he was shakin’ like a leaf. Didn’t wanna draw on me for nothin’!”
“I knew McClain a long time, kid. Never once saw him run scared.” The challenge came from a leather-faced waddy with a score of saddle years behind him.
Peters glowered at him. “I shot him, I tell ya! ” He jerked a finger at the lucky piece. “This here’s the proof!”
Another taunt came from somewhere at the far end of the bar. “You coulda found that, Peters.”
The leather-faced waddy agreed coldly. “That’s for sure, Peters.”
The kid stepped away from the bar and scanned the line of skeptical faces hotly. “You don’t believe me, go take a look at the body. It’s layin’ right by the stream.”
There was a small silence. Then the waddy drawled casually, “Might just mosey out an’ do that, kid.” He paid for his whiskey and crossed toward the batwings.
With over a week of rest behind him, McClain was fast regaining his strength. His wound had closed rapidly—a tribute to his basic good health and, according to Miguel, the benevolence of Heaven. The two men sat beside the little stream near their camp, McClain with his wounded arm in a tattered sling fashioned from an old undershirt, Miguel whittling on a stick with his silver-handled knife. They were lazily relaxed, enjoying the pleasantly warm day, the gentle breeze which stirred the paloverde trees and sent their golden blossoms to drift across the water. A casual intimacy had sprung up between them, but doubts about Miguel’s veracity still lingered in McClain’s mind.
“You sure can handle that knife.” McClain was watching Miguel’s whittling fingers idly. “Everything from stickin’ fish to carvin’ wood.”
“A fine blade is a useful tool.”
“A useful weapon, too. ” McClain was testing again, his words carefully deliberate.
Miguel looked up, shocked. “Weapon! I am a man of peace! It is against my vows to carry such a thing.”
McClain gestured insistently toward the long, gleaming blade. “Way I figure, a pigsticker like that’s as good as a gun.”
Miguel considered his words soberly for a moment, then brightened. “You have a point, my friend. But the answer is simple. In the hands of a fighter, a knife is a weapon. For a priest, it is only a tool!”
McClain frowned, trying to unravel his reasoning, thinking that, like most things about Miguel, it was a packet of contradictions and upside-down talk that some way turned out to make sense.
“You think like a pretzel,” he grumbled. “There’s a puzzle to everything about you.”
Miguel seemed hurt. “How can a simple priest be a puzzle?”
“What kinda priest goes wanderin’ around saloons, drinkin’ whiskey?”
“That is no puzzle. It is the practice of my order. We are required t
o subject ourselves to worldly temptations as a means of testing our virtue.”
McClain snorted. “You expect me t'believe that?”
“True virtue must resist temptation, my friend. Not avoid it.”
“Looked like you were doin’ more drinkin’ than resistin’.”
Serenely, Miguel pointed out that drinking liquids was a natural thing. Only drunkenness was wrong. The priest added that he had obviously entered the saloon due to the will of God.
“The will of God! How do you figure that?” McClain was outraged.
“If I had not lingered there before continuing my journey, you would be dead now, McClain.”
For an instant the gunfighter was speechless. Then he said in exasperation, “You’ve sure got a knack for figurin’ the will of God!”
“That is part of my duty,” said Miguel humbly.
As McClain scowled, still not totally convinced, the sound of approaching hoofbeats reached them faintly.
Both men tensed, coming to their feet, looking toward the sound. McClain said tightly, “Don’t usually get company here. ”
“Perhaps Hal Peters became curious.”
“I been thinkin’ he might.”
“So have I.” Miguel’s eyes met his, their depths reflecting the same dark apprehension. He added quietly, “It will be better if you are not seen, my friend.”
He crossed quickly to McClain’s horse, grabbed its halter rope, and gestured toward a thick island of marsh grass a short distance downstream.
“That growth—quickly! It will conceal you!” He shoved the halter rope into McClain’s hand.
“What about you? If it’s Peters . . . ”
Miguel interrupted firmly, “You forget, McClain. I have the protection of Heaven.” He shoved the gunfighter in the direction of the marsh grass and hurried up the bank toward the campsite.
The approaching hoofbeats were clear and definite now. McClain hesitated, listening to them, torn with conflicting emotions. Then, as if realizing that he had no choice, he waded downstream, pulling his horse behind him, making as little splash as possible.
