by M. A. Armen
McClain matched the raise and laid down a jack-high straight. Humbly, declaring it was beginner’s luck, Miguel spread out his cards, revealing a flush.
Sure that the priest’s winning streak was a fluke, McClain upped the size of his bets and the shrewdness of his betting. Soon he had lost everything, including his horse and saddle.
Miguel was incredulous at his sudden success. He insisted contritely that they must play a hand of “showdown” so McClain would have a chance to recoup his losses.
“What am I gonna bet? My skin?” asked the gunfighter angrily.
For an instant, Miguel hesitated, crestfallen. Then his face brightened. “Your skin. Of course! That is a fine idea!”
“What d’you mean a fine idea?”
Miguel grinned. “It is very simple, my friend. You will wager two weeks of your services at my mission against the pot.”
“What’s a priest need with a gunfighter?” asked McClain suspiciously.
Miguel explained that the mission was isolated. Occasionally there were intruders. He could use some protection until the Indians learned he was back and came in from the hills.
“Of course, if you do not like the terms . . . ” He gave McClain a concerned look. “But by what other means can you try to change your luck, my friend?”
McClain glared at him, getting the point. “Deal!” he ordered harshly.
Happily, Miguel obeyed. A ten to McClain, a five for himself . . . a king to McClain, a jack for himself. McClain’s third card was another king. The priest’s was a seven.
“Lady Luck’s changin’!” gloated the gunfighter.
Miguel nodded, pleased. “As I hoped, my friend. As I hoped!”
He continued dealing, dropping each card carefully, face up. McClain got another ten, giving him two pair with only one more card to go. The gunfighter whooped triumphantly as Miguel got another seven. “Not good enough!”
Miguel shrugged good-naturedly and dealt McClain his last card. It was a seven.
The gunfighter’s face split in a grin. “Looks like my game!”
Miguel hesitated, then slowly turned up his last card. McClain stared at it strickenly. It was a third seven! The case seven!
“I am sorry, McClain—truly sorry.”
McClain straightened, realizing he’d been had. His face went dark with rage and he jerked out his gun.
“You no good, bottom-dealin’ . . . ! Y’sharked me in!”
“You accuse a priest of cheating?”
“I’m not even sure you are a priest!” McClain shoved the gun against Miguel’s chest. “But I’m gonna make sure, ’cause I’d kill anybody else who cheated me at poker!”
Miguel shook his head sadly. “To accuse a priest of cheating! You have no faith, my friend.”
Chapter Six
McClain and the priest rode through the bright morning sun for two hours before they cut the trail to the mission. It was little more than a deer path, and it wound upward through gentle hills toward a high plateau. Trees began to appear among the boulders, and the undergrowth grew more lush. The smells were clean and good, and the birds scolded melodiously as the two men rode past.
Usually McClain enjoyed such country, but today his mind was filled with a strange uneasiness, his nerves tight from the sharp instinct which always warned him when someone was following him. He couldn’t explain the feeling, but he’d had it all his life. It had saved him from death many times. Today it was strong and insistent, making him turn frequently in his saddle to scan the path behind them.
Miguel noticed his preoccupation and halted, asking curiously, “What is it, McClain? What is bothering you?”
“There’s somebody on our back trail,” said the gunfighter tightly, “my gut’s been warnin’ me ever since we broke camp.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can feel it. I always can. ” As McClain spoke, his horse cupped its ears back, listening to something behind them which was inaudible to the men. The gunfighter recognized the signal instantly. “See his ears? He knows it, too.”
Miguel nodded sober agreement. “Perhaps it is only another traveler. Let us wait in the brush and see.”
They pushed through the brush to a stand of trees and concealed themselves, dismounting and waiting tensely, each ready to cover his mount’s nostrils if it started to whicker.
Soon Hal Peters rode slowly into view, his eyes searching the path. Startled, McClain and Miguel recognized him. They watched uneasily as he halted near where they’d left the trail, scrutinized the ground for their tracks. He saw nothing. The brush had sprung into place behind them, leaving no trace of their passing, and the profusion of deer prints on the path made those of their mounts indistinguishable. At last, Peters rode on, assuming the two men were still ahead of him.
McClain looked after him, angry frustration in his eyes. “Damn kid! I figured he might track me. Won’t be satisfied till one of us is dead.”
“He is evil,” agreed Miguel, “a true killer.” He frowned bewilderedly. “But how did he discover you were alive? That is what puzzles me.”
McClain gave him a wry look. “Probably don’t believe in cannibals any more than / would. Went to the stream to take a look for himself and picked up our trail from there.”
“We should have covered our tracks more carefully, my friend.”
McClain shook his head in grim negation. “Wouldn’t have helped. Some things y’can’t hide—or run from, either. Peters is one of ’em.” He flexed his fingers experimentally. The sun had warmed them. They felt fine. He said, “It’s a good day t’face him. Might as well get it over with.”
He turned to mount his horse, but Miguel caught his arm urgently. “You said you had given up killing!”
“Not if I have to die t’do it,” said McClain dryly. He started to mount, but Miguel’s grip on his arm tightened.
“Have you forgotten our wager, McClain?”
“What the hell are you gettin’ at?”
Miguel’s blue eyes met his sternly. “You lost your skin to me last night, my friend. You cannot risk it until you have repaid your gambling debt.”
McClain glared at him. “I’ll pay it when I’m done with Peters.”
“That is not fair. Suppose you are killed?”
The gunfighter was outraged. “That all you an think of? What I owe you?”
“Such a thing is a debt of honor, is it not?” insisted Miguel.
Their eyes held in stubborn conflict, McClain angrily aware that the priest had snared him with his own unbreakable code. No man of his breed left a gambling debt unpaid.
The gunfighter acknowledged his defeat explosively. “Why, you no-good, sneaky, sidewindin’ . . . ! You call yourself a priest?"
Miguel smiled. “Heaven works in strange ways, my friend.” He mounted his mule. “There is a canyon nearby which leads to another trail. We will travel that way to the mission. Then we will not meet Peters.”
He urged the mule through dense brush and entered a narrow, rocky defile. McClain followed reluctantly, still glowering.
The canyon ascended steeply, cutting through rising hills to end abruptly on a ridge overlooking a high, rolling mountain valley. As the two men stopped to let their animals breathe a moment, McClain saw that the valley was lush and green, protected on three sides by the hills. A wagon road followed the base of the hills to the mouth of the valley, which merged with a distant, undulating plain.
Miguel pointed toward the plain. “My mission lies just beyond the hills. The road passes close to it.”
“Longest day’s ride I ever took,” remarked McClain sourly. They descended to the wagon road, followed it at a steady jog until, rounding a turn, they found their path barred by an overturned, scorched Conestoga wagon. They reined in sharply, staring in shock at the disaster.
The wagon was bristling with arrows, its canvas top burned, its sides battered so badly that the words “Lathrop Mine” were barely readable. Its driver and two guards lay besid
e the vehicle, dead, their bodies pinned to the ground with feathered spears. There was no sign of their weapons or of the wagon’s cargo.
The two men dismounted to examine the wreckage more closely. It was stripped clean of all equipment, and the surrounding hoofjprints indicated that even its team of workhorses had been appropriated by the attackers.
McClain poked curiously at a splintered plank. “Wonder what she was carryin’.”
Miguel was studying the feathered spears with a heartbroken expression. “Bullion,” he said, “gold bullion.”
McClain looked at him, startled by the anguish in his voice, puzzled by the whole situation. “Never heard of Indians attackin’ for gold before. Thought you said the tribes around here were peaceful.”
“Sometimes peace must be defended, my friend.” Miguel knelt sadly beside the fallen men, his crucifix in his hand. For a long moment his lips moved in silent prayer. Then he passed his open hands above the bodies, murmuring a final benediction, and rose. His attitude changed abruptly from reverence to urgency. “Come, McClain,” he said, “we must hurry.”
He mounted his mule, guided it around the wreckage, and urged it along the road beyond at a rolling lope. McClain galloped after him, indignation mixed with his bewilderment. He brought his horse even with the mule.
“Hey, where you goin’? Those men back there need buryin’!”
Miguel turned a coldly determined face to him. “There is no time,” he answered harshly. “Something worse than death has happened here.”
As he spoke, they heard loud male voices ahead. They mingled with the thud of picks and shovels and the rattling of chains. The sounds seemed to fill Miguel with alarm. Ordering McClain curtly to follow him, the priest led the way into the brush. Behind a stand of trees, they tied their animals and crawled quietly to the top of a boulder-strewn rise.
Below them, in the side of a hill, was a small mine. A group of staggering, emaciated Indians, their ankles chained, were working the mine. Two husky, tough-faced guards, armed with rifles and heavy whips, directed the work with shouts and blows. The two men watched in stunned horror.
“Madre de Dios! They are enslaved!” Miguel rose to his feet, staring down at the scene, trancelike, his horror increasing as the pitiable condition of the Indians became more apparent.
“Get down!” hissed McClain. “Get down!”
Miguel ignored his warning, moved farther into the open, his eyes wide and tortured. “My people, my poor, ravaged people!”
Suddenly one of the Indians glanced up and saw him. Terror convulsed the Indian’s features. He dropped the heavy sack he was carrying and pointed shakily toward Miguel, shrieking, “Padre Diablo! Padre Diablo!”
Startled, the other Indians looked toward the priest. Fear mingled with the recognition on their faces. Echoing their companion’s shrieks, they tried to flee, dragging their chains, stumbling, falling.
Miguel remained frozen, watching, deaf to McClain’s frantic warnings to get out of sight. As the guards converged on the Indians, driving them back toward the mine, shouting and lashing them unmercifully, McClain jerked the priest back to concealment among the boulders.
“Let’s make tracks!” order the gunman harshly.
Miguel gave him a blank look. Cursing, McClain gripped the priest’s arm, forced him down the rise to his mule.
“Ride!” he ordered. “Ride!” He slapped the mule’s rump sharply with the flat of his hand.
As the animal lurched into a gallop, Miguel snapped back to reality. Guiding the mule on a zigzag course through brush and trees, McClain’s horse pounding behind them, the priest led the way across the valley toward the plain beyond it.
When the bedlam at the mine could no longer be heard, Miguel pulled his lathered mule to a walk. McClain slowed his horse to the same pace, wiped dust and sweat from his eyes with his neckerchief, then gave Miguel a narrowed, measuring glance.
“Mind tellin’ me what that ruckus back there was all about?” asked the gunman caustically.
Miguel looked up sadly, pulling himself from brooding thought. “I do not know, McClain. I cannot even tell you why the Indians were so afraid of me.”
McClain snorted skeptically. “I suppose y’don’t know why they called you a devil, either.”
“I can explain nothing,” insisted Miguel. “I only know that they are my people—members of the tribe which I serve. I know each of their faces, each of their hearts. I have nursed them during illness, guided them spiritually. . . .” He paused, then added raggedly, “I am their priest, like a father to them.”
McClain remained skeptical. “Sure,” he said pointedly, “Father Devil”
Chapter Seven
Miguel led the way out of the valley and across the deserted plain beyond at a steady jog, his face set into lines of anxiety. Soon he and McClain sighted the mission. It crouched on the arid land, isolated and lonely, its color so similar to the surrounding sand that from a distance it was hardly discernible.
As the two men rode closer, McClain saw that it was a small place, consisting only of the main chapel and a modest wing, but its thick adobe walls and the matching wall which enclosed its courtyard were constructed to withstand the onslaughts of time and weather. A slim tower sprang upward from its chapel roof, displaying an ancient iron bell which hung from its covered belfry. As the gunfighter looked, a gust of wind raged briefly across the plain. It struck the bell, stirring it slightly. A deep, resounding knell echoed over the land, rending the silence with somber authority, and carrying for miles.
At the sound, Miguel reined in sharply, the anxiety on his face increasing.
“What’s the matter?” asked McClain irritably. The bell had set his ears ringing uncomfortably.
“The bell! It should not be tolling!”
“That’s a fact! It’s enough t’bust a man’s eardrums!”
Miguel nodded absently, his concerned gaze still on the distant mission. “It was fashioned by the finest artisans. Its sound carries for almost ten miles.” He turned his worried eyes to McClain. “But the wind should not stir it. Its restraints must be broken.”
His manner puzzled McClain. “Maybe so. What about it?”
“They are heavy chains. They would not break accidentally.”
“You thinkin’ there’s been trouble at the mission?”
“Yes.” Digging his heels into the mule’s flanks, Miguel set off at a wild gallop which didn’t slow until the two men reached the courtyard gate.
As their mounts slide to a halt, they saw that the gate was flung wide, the yard choked with weeds. The chapel door was ajar- hanging on broken hinges and scarred by bullet holes.
Miguel sat motionless and stricken for a moment. Then he dismounted and entered the courtyard slowly; his heartbroken glance taking in the devastation with disbelief.
“The tribe must have sought refuge here and tolled the bell for help which never came.” Anguished self-reproach twisted the priest’s face.
McClain remained mounted, eyes raking the scene, suspicious of its strange emptiness. He could find no trace of movement or ambush, and at last he stepped to the ground, moved across the courtyard cautiously—still alert for trouble. Suddenly he noticed a lone grave in a comer of the inner wall. He crossed to read the wooden marker at its head. The epitaph was brief: “Here lies Father Miguel.”
“Madre de Dios!” Miguel’s horrified voice whirled the gunfighter around. The priest stood at his elbow, staring at the grave.
Fury surged through McClain like bitter gall. “So that’s your game! The priest’s dead an’ you’re takin’ his place! You brought me here for a lie!”
Miguel stared at him, tortured. “No, McClain, you are wrong! This grave is the lie!”
McClain’s gun cleared leather and rammed into Miguel’s abdomen. “Quit double-talkin’! I want the truth!”
“You saw it at the mine. A people are enslaved!” Miguel ignored the gun, met his accusing eyes steadily.
McClai
n’s fury increased. “What’s that got to do with me, priest ?”
“What did the Indian at the saloon have to do with you?”
“That was different. He was a soldier.”
“So are the Indians here—warriors and humans. If one matters to you, all must.”
The words had no effect on McClain. His gun dug deeper into Miguel’s stomach. “Quit coyotin’ around and tell me who you are!”
“I swear on this grave that I am Father Miguel, the priest of this mission.”
The urgency in his voice and face struck McClain. His rage cooled, and the sense of disappointed betrayal which had spawned it lessened. He lowered his gun, gestured toward the grave. “If you’re the priest, who’s that?”
Miguel shook his head sadly. “I have been gone six months. I only know that the grave was not here when I left.”
“I figure you’ve got more to tell than that.”
“Yes, much more. I only beg you to believe me.”
Suspicion remained strong on McClain’s face. “Go on,” he ordered coldly, still standing with his gun in hand.
Chapter Eight
Miguel sank down on a rough wooden bench which stood near the grave and began to speak, his face filled with bitterness and self-reproach.
“Six months ago, the Indians here were prosperous and happy. Their camp was in the hills, near the mine which you saw. To them it is a sacred cave—the property of their tribe for many centuries.” Miguel paused, fighting to control his emotions for an instant, then continued. “There was loose gold in the cave. ‘Yellow rocks,’ the Indians called it. Its value meant nothing to them, but they sometimes made it into trinkets and brought them to the mission as altar offerings.”
“What kinda trinkets?” asked McClain.
“Necklaces, bracelets, small statues of the saints. They are very clever people, and very devout.”
“Mighty handsome offerings. What did y’do with ’em? Sell ’em?”
