The Hanging of Father Miguel

by M. A. Armen

  When the newcomer jogged into view, Miguel was hunkered near the dead campfire, whetting his knife on a rock. He had adopted a sullen, recalcitrant look, and his dark sombrero was punched out of shape, pulled low on his forehead.

  “Howdy.” The leather-faced waddy from the saloon reined in and stepped to the ground.

  “Buenos dias.” The priest’s voice was different, too. It held the rough intonation of a peasant.

  Listening from behind the marsh grass, McClain hardly recognized it. He parted the brush carefully, peered out as if to assure himself that the speaker was really Miguel.

  “You savvy English?” asked the waddy.

  Miguel didn’t bother to look up. “I savvy.”

  The cowboy glanced around searchingly, poked briefly into the nearby brush. Miguel continued sharpening the knife, watching him from lidded eyes.

  “How long you been camped here?”

  “Five—maybe six days.” Miguel gave the waddy a dark glance. “What you care, hombre?”

  The man hesitated uncomfortably, then blurted, “Seen a dead body anyplace?”

  “I have seen many dead bodies.”

  The waddy frowned uneasily, disturbed by his manner. “I mean here. Did y’see one here?”

  Miguel rose slowly, still holding his knife. “You look for a dead man here?” His tone held ominous undercurrents.

  “That’s right.” The cowboy’s uneasiness was increasing.

  Miguel eyed him coldly for a moment, then pointed with his knife blade. “He was there. Right where you stand.”

  The cowboy moved hastily to another spot. “What happened to him? Y’bury him?”

  Miguel shook his head, his piercing blue eyes impaling the man. “I didn’t know he belonged to somebody.”

  “Belonged? What—what d’ya mean?”

  Miguel wiped his knife blade on his thigh and moved slowly toward the cowboy. “I am a poor man. I have no money, no gun for hunting. . . . ” He paused, hefted the knife casually. His voice turned soft as silk. “A man must eat—right, hombre?”

  “Eat?” Sudden comprehension flooded the waddy. He went pale with repulsion. “Eat! My God! Oh, my God!”

  Miguel glided closer to him, his eyes gleaming strangely, his fingers testing the edge of the knife blade. “What is it, hombre? You sick?”

  For a moment the cowboy remained frozen with horror. Then he whirled, scrambled aboard his horse, and spurred away at a dead run.

  Miguel looked after him, sheathing his knife slowly. He turned as McClain splashed out of the stream and crossed to him indignantly.

  “That was a rotten trick! Fella’s scared half outa his wits!”

  Miguel looked at him serenely. “I did nothing but tell him the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “Exactly. I have no money, no gun.” He grinned wickedly. “And we have not eaten since last night.”

  McClain stared at him incredulously for an instant, then he, too, began to grin. “Didn’t think the simple truth could spook a man so bad.”

  “It is the most powerful weapon of Heaven, my friend.”

  Their eyes met. They burst into laughter.

  Chapter Four

  McClain wakened at dawn the next morning, sharply and without drowsiness; the decision he had reached the night before still uppermost in his mind. He glanced across the dead campfire at Miguel and saw that the priest was still asleep—rolled so tightly in his blankets that only his hat was visible.

  The gunfighter sat up. Discarding his sling, he tested his injured arm, straightening it slowly, flexing his fingers. There was stiffness, but very little pain. Only the area around his shoulder and chest remained sore. He opened his shirt and peered awkwardly down at the newly formed scar beneath it. The tissue was still thin and delicate, but it was healthy, without inflammation. Satisfied, McClain rebuttoned the shirt and rose.

  “You slept soundly, my friend.”

  McClain looked up sharply, saw Miguel approaching from the direction of the stream. He was leading the horse and the mule.

  The gunfighter scowled, jerked his head toward the priest’s rolled blankets. “How come I been campin’ with a dummy?”

  “I thought it best to keep watch, in case we had more visitors.”

  “Why didn’t y’tell me?”

  “You were asleep.”

  McClain studied him for an instant, then admitted grumpily, “Good idea—watchin’.”

  Miguel smiled. “So is yours.”

  “Mine? What’re you talkin’ about?”

  The priest began rubbing down his mule with a handful of marsh grass. “Last night you were deeply thoughtful, like a man with decisions to make.” He looked up soberly. “You wish to move on. Right, my friend?”

  McClain stared at him, taken aback. Then he replied uncomfortably, “Like you said, we could get more visitors here.”

  Miguel nodded. “It is wise to make our camp elsewhere.” He resumed grooming the mule.

  McClain watched him silently, searching his mind for a way to explain the rest of his plans. He was filled suddenly with guilt because he hadn’t told the priest about them last night.

  At last he blurted harshly, “I’m not movin’ camp. I’m hittin’ the trail. Alone.”

  His words didn’t seem to surprise Miguel. He said quietly, “You are not yet healed. A few more days of rest would be better.”

  “There’s things I want behind me. This place—that town back there. . . . ”

  The priest nodded, his face unreadable. “Both animals have been grained. You have only to saddle up.”

  McClain pulled a piece of sacking from his saddlebags and began rubbing his horse briskly, trying to ignore the guilt building inside of him. After all, he was strong enough to travel. Why should he delay? Why feel such a sense of obligation, of somehow letting his companion down?

  “Where will you go, McClain?” Miguel’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  The gunfighter shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. Maybe California.” Without really wanting to, he added, “How about you?”

  “My pilgrimage has ended. I must return to my mission. I have been gone from it for many months.”

  “You run a mission?”

  Miguel smiled, undisturbed by his astonishment. “I was on my way back there when we met.”

  The offhand reminder of Miguel’s help increased McClain’s sense of obligation. He threw the priest a suspicious look, wondering whether the remark was deliberate. Miguel’s return glance was open, totally without guile.

  “Where is this mission?” asked McClain gruffly.

  Miguel replied that it was near a small ranching town called Rileyville. It was an old mission and very poor; so poor that he was the only priest there. He explained wistfully that the people of the town were of other faiths, that they used the mission because it was the only place of worship in the area. Many of the followers came from a tribe of Indians who lived in the nearby hills. They were gentle, childlike people with simple ways and beliefs.

  “They are wonderful people,” said Miguel fervently, “filled with the joy of living, even though they have very little.”

  McClain was impressed by the priest’s obvious dedication, surprised by this new side to his character. He said soberly, “Sounds like that mission’s your whole life.”

  “It is a fine place for a life. A place of tranquillity and truth.” Miguel’s face lighted impulsively. “Come and see it, my friend! It isn’t far—only a day’s ride to the south. You will find peace there, perhaps some answers to your future.”

  McClain hesitated, then shook his head. “No thanks. I’m not much on missions. I’ll just drift till I find out what I’m lookin’ for.”

  Disappointment flooded Miguel’s face. “I will miss your company.” He glanced at the sun, lifted his saddle quickly to the mule’s back. “I must begin my journey while it is early. After dark, the trail to the mission is dangerous for a lone traveler.”

  McClain stare
d at him triumphantly. “So that’s why y’asked me along! I figured there was more to it than my future!”

  Miguel flushed, admitted humbly that there would be less danger on the trip for two men, one a well-known gunfighter. He confessed also that the added safety had indeed influenced his thinking, and apologized for his selfishness.

  “After all, why should you change your path for me—a stranger you encountered by chance? True, I saved your life, but that is a priest’s duty. You owe me nothing for it.” He turned his attention to tightening the mule’s cinch.

  McClain watched him uncomfortably, suspicious of his attitude but unable to dismiss his own sense of guilt. After a moment, he said, “Well, I’m mighty obliged for what y’did, mighty obliged. But your mission’s directly opposite to the way I’m headin’ and . . . ” The gunfighter’s voice trailed lamely, stemmed by conflicting emotions.

  Miguel nodded understandingly. “It is your choice, my friend. You have seen much danger. Why should you face more for me? As I said, you owe me nothing—absolutely nothing !”

  McClain saddled his horse unhappily, tied his bedroll in place, and mounted. “Well, good luck, amigo.”

  “Safe journey, my friend. I am glad we met.”

  His quiet words stirred more guilt in the gunfighter. Touching his hat in a farewell salute, he spurred away hastily.

  McClain emerged from the maze of boulders and turned north along the main trail. Reins loose, letting his horse choose its own pace, he sank into brooding thought, still wrestling with his turmoil. His last sight of Miguel, patiently loading his mule, solitary and alone, stood out poignantly in his mind. He remembered that this was a man who had delayed his journey to save McClain’s life. A man who had kept the gunfighter’s confidences, guarded his weakness, even shared his whiskey with him. The last recollection was too much for any Irishman! McClain halted sharply, debated an instant longer, then spun his horse and galloped back toward the camp.

  Nearing the camp, the gunfighter saw Miguel preparing to mount up. As he slid his foot into a stirrup, an ominous rattling sounded from the brush beside him. With a startled bray, the mule shied, knocking Miguel down as it raced off. Frozen, Miguel stared at a coiled rattlesnake, its head only inches from his face.

  McClain jerked his horse to a stop, called sharply, “Don’t move!”

  As he spoke, the snake’s rattling stopped. In a blur of movement, its head darted for Miguel. In the same instant McClain’s gun cleared leather. His bullet caught the reptile in midair. It dropped to the ground with a lifeless thud.

  Perspiration beading his forehead, Miguel rose, thanked McClain. The gunfighter nodded, holstering his gun slowly, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

  “Glad to even the score some, amigo."

  “I, too, am glad,” said Miguel fervently. A sudden thought struck him. “But how did you draw so quickly? I thought your fingers were too stiff.”

  “Arthritis comes an’ goes with the weather. When it’s like today—hot an’ sunny—I can draw as quick as ever. When it’s cold or damp, my hands stiffen up.” McClain flexed his fingers. He demonstrated by tossing three pebbles into the air, drawing, and shooting them before they fell back to the ground.

  “I have never seen such skill!” Miguel’s voice rang with awed admiration. “You are a marvel, McClain! And so was the good fortune which brought you back here!”

  “It wasn’t luck. I just changed my mind—decided to take a look at that mission of yours.”

  A flicker of craft showed on Miguel’s beaming face as he exclaimed, “You are right! It was not luck. It was the will of Heaven!”

  Chapter Five

  McClain rounded up the priest’s mule, and the two men rode on together. They followed the main trail for several miles, then Miguel angled southward across the plain toward some hills which huddled against the horizon.

  By midaftemoon they had crossed the hills and descended to the edge of a broad landscape of mesquite and sand. McClain reined in, scanned the deserted expanse. It stretched, lonely and unbroken, in all directions.

  The gunfighter scowled. “Thought your mission was only a day’s ride. Looks like we’re travelin’ over half the country.”

  “Be patient, my friend. It is only a little farther. We should reach it before sunset.”

  McClain shifted his squinting scrutiny to Miguel’s face. “If it’s that close, we oughta be pickin’ up some kinda trail.”

  Miguel nodded serenely. “I am taking a shortcut. We will reach the trail later.” He urged his mule forward, angling across the mesquite toward the empty distance.

  McClain followed, still scowling dubiously.

  At dusk they were still traveling; prairie dog mounds and rabbit holes were the only signs of habitation. Angrily, McClain demanded an explanation and accused Miguel of tricking him.

  “You have reason to be angry,” said Miguel humbly, “but it is no trick. I have just chosen the wrong shortcut.”

  “You sayin’ we missed the trail?” demanded McClain indignantly.

  Miguel nodded unhappily. “I am sorry. But in the morning, when our animals are fresh, we will find it. And then it will take no time to reach the mission.”

  McClain glared at him suspiciously. “Okay, we’ll make camp. But if I don’t see walls by noon tomorrow, I’m cuttin’ you loose!”

  The priest nodded meekly, “I understand.” He led the way along a narrow wash to a small spring.

  The two men dismounted and unsaddled their tired animals. As McClain staked the pair and fed them from their respective supply sacks of grain, Miguel built a cheery fire. Soon he had coffee and beans heating above the flames.

  McClain ate in sour silence, replying shortly to all Miguel’s attempts at conversation. When his plate was empty, the gun­fighter scoured it with sand and set it aside. Then he rolled up grumpily in his blanket, his back to Miguel and the fire.

  For a while he heard the priest scraping dishes and rummaging in his gear, then he fell into a doze. The sharp snap of cards being shuffled and stacked roused him. At first, he thought he was dreaming. When the sounds continued, he turned. Astonished, he saw Miguel hunkered in the firelight, laying out a hand of solitaire with a frayed deck.

  McClain elbowed up, asking sourly, “Don’t y’ever sleep?”

  Miguel shrugged, still intent on the cards. “I am restless tonight.” He finished laying out the hand, began to play it.

  “How come a priest to be carryin’ pasteboards?” asked McClain suspiciously.

  Miguel explained serenely that he saw no evil in pieces of pasteboard. The evil was in the hearts of those who used the cards wrongly. To him, they were a means of amusement, nothing more.

  “But if my playing disturbs you, my friend, I will stop.”

  McClain shook his head grumpily. “Play all night if y’want to.” He pulled up his blanket and rolled over again.

  Miguel threw him a shrewd glance and continued his game, making sure to snap an occasional card sharply as he put it in place. McClain remained motionless for a few minutes, then he turned, sat up, and began to watch the priest.

  Miguel was a poor player, and seemingly an inexperienced one. With growing impatience, McClain pointed out his mistakes to him. At last the priest shrugged, admitted wryly that solitaire was not his game.

  “I am better at the one they play in saloons.”

  “Poker?” asked McClain incredulously.

  Miguel nodded. “Yes, that is the name. Do you know it?”

  McClain studied him narrowly. “I played a little.”

  Miguel’s face lighted eagerly. “Shall we play now? It will pass the time.”

  “What stakes?”

  Miguel seemed shocked. “A priest does not wager, my friend! I play only for amusement.”

  “They don’t play for amusement in saloons.”

  Miguel met his doubting eyes blandly. “I do not play in saloons. I only watch. That is how I learned the game.”

  McClain snorted.
“That’s no way t’leam! You gotta sit in on every game you can.”

  “So that is the way!” The priest looked impressed. “I would like to learn more. Perhaps you will teach me.”

  Still suspicious, McClain started to refuse, then decided to test him. “Deal,” he ordered.

  Clumsily, Miguel dealt a hand of draw. McClain found himself holding a pair of aces. He won easily when the priest overlooked a small straight and folded without calling. He revealed his mistake wryly, suggested they play again.

  Convinced that he had a sucker, McClain agreed, but insisted that the game held no interest for him without wagers. Miguel hesitated, then agreed reluctantly to risk a few pesos. During the next four hands, he lost them quickly and consistently, misjudged his cards, and revealed his ignorance further by asking whether three of a kind was higher than two pair. After each hand, McClain raked in the pesos and gave him good-humored pointers. The gunfighter had begun to enjoy himself immensely.

  Soon Miguel’s small pile of coins was stacked before McClain. Pleased, the gunfighter started to pocket his winnings.

  “Sorry y’didn’t come out better, amigo, but you got a lot t’leam about this game.”

  Miguel agreed meekly and suggested that they play some more so he could practice the things McClain had taught him.

  “What’re you gonna use for money?” asked the gunfighter.

  “I have a few more pesos in my saddlebags.”

  “Okay,” said McClain smugly, “least I can do is give you a chance t’get even.”

  Miguel produced a handful of bills and coins from his gear and laid the money on the ground in front of him. “Deal, my friend,” said the priest eagerly.

  McClain shuffled deftly, thinking that this trip to the mission wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Half an hour later he’d begun to change his mind. Miguel’s luck had improved, and so had his card sense. He’d won three hands in a row, calling McClain’s bluff on two of them and outbluffing the gunfighter on the third. Half McClain’s winnings were already gone.

  “Your playin’ sure improved fast,” remarked the gunfighter sourly.

  “That is due to your fine teaching, my friend.” Miguel smiled at him appreciatively, pushed ten dollars into the pot, and raised another ten.