by M. A. Armen
Annie glared at him. “I knew him real well! And for a long time!”
McClain refilled her glass. He said, “The Miguel I know saved my life, then cheated me. I’d like t’hear about the one you knew.”
“He’d never cheat anybody! Never!” Annie drained her glass again and stared into space broodingly as McClain filled it.
The gunfighter waited, seeing that the whiskey was mellowing her, releasing memories that she needed to share. After a moment, her eyes misted and she continued sadly.
“He ran into some trouble—real bad trouble. This whole town was part of it, and so was I.”
McClain’s face was carefully unreadable. “What kinda trouble?” he probed quietly.
Engrossed in the past now, Annie told the gunfighter the full story of the mission tragedy. Her face soft and wistful, she described Father Miguel as a priest devoted to his duties; one who judged nobody and even allowed her, a saloon girl, to attend Sunday services. The town thoroughly disapproved of the priest and his unorthodox viewpoint, even misunderstood his friendship with her.
“Misunderstood? How do you mean?” asked McClain
Annie ignored the question for a moment, lapsed more deeply into brooding remembrances. “They twisted everything about him. Made it ugly. They thought he was like they are—deceitful and mean. They even thought he did too much for the Indians, that they were heathens and didn’t deserve much attention.”
McClain broke into her reverie carefully. “What about you and him—your friendship?”
Annie gave him a bitter look. “I went to the mission every day to help him teach the Indian children. It meant a lot—made me feel useful for the first time in my life. But that’s all there was to it! There was nothing else! No matter what this damn town thinks!”
“Just what does it think?”
Annie pulled up her sleeve, showed him a gold arm band with Indian symbols on it. “They think he gave me this ’cause we were lovers.”
McClain stared at the arm band, realized with a stab of dismay that it was one of the altar offerings Miguel had mentioned to him. Doubts about the priest’s sincerity flooded him again.
“Why did he give it to you?” he demanded harshly.
Shame filled Annie’s face. “ ’Cause I wanted it so bad. I knew it was an offering, but I never had any real jewelry before. And it was so beautiful!” Her voice broke for a moment. Then she went on raggedly, “I knew he wanted me to have it. But he said it wasn’t his to give. He even prayed about it. That’s when he let me have it. He said Heaven had made him see that it would be a gift of thanks from the mission—for my help with the Indian kids.”
McClain was moved by her obvious sincerity. “Sounds like somethin’ he’d say.”
“I only wore it under my dress . . . like now. Never showed it to anybody. Never planned to.” Her eyes glazed with heartbreak. “But one night Lathrop came here. I was takin’ a bath. I didn’t expect him. He just kicked open the door and busted in.” She was close to tears. She fought them back. “He knew right away the arm band was real. He made me tell him where I got it. Then he took his men and rode out to the mission.” She began to tremble. McClain poured her another drink and she gulped it hastily. “They beat Father Miguel till he was half dead, made him tell them where the Indians got their gold. Then they attacked the tribe—took their land and most of their people.”
“So now Lathrop’s in the gold-mining business.”
Annie nodded bitterly. “Father Miguel tried to stop him. He rode into town that night and stood in the middle of the street and yelled till everybody came out. I’ll never forget how he looked, all covered with blood, so weak he could hardly keep from falling. He told everything that happened, put all the blame on himself, said he was weak and scared. He begged the town t’help him save the Indians. Said he could lead them on a shortcut so they could head Lathrop off.” Annie’s features twisted contemptuously. “They listened and stared till he fell down in the dirt. But they never lifted a finger against Lathrop. ” Annie finished speaking and slumped back in her chair. “You still think he’s a cheat?”
McClain remained silent, sorting out his conflicting thoughts and emotions. Annie had shown him an entirely new side of Miguel, described a noble, heroic figure who deserved the distinction of priesthood. McClain was impressed and moved, but he wondered which image was the true Miguel—Annie’s or his own. Or was the priest a combination of the two?
Annie’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “There never was anybody like him. I guess there never will be.”
McClain considered her thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “What about the grave?”
The girl straightened warily, fighting against the effects of the whiskey she’d drunk. “I told you. It’s his.”
“If it is, I been travelin’ with a corpse.”
Shock brought Annie to her feet. “Travelin! What. . . what’re you sayin’?”
“Miguel’s back. He’s at the mission. Rode in with me this momin’.” McClain’s hand darted to clutch her arm with relentless fingers. He jerked her down to face him. “Now quit coverin’! Who’s in that grave?”
“You’re hurtin’ me!”
“Who’s in it?”
“They rigged it. The mayor and his bunch. To keep Lathrop from findin’ out somebody helped Miguel.”
“You sayin’ it’s empty?”
Annie nodded whitely. “They wanted t’leave him in the street, but I promised to keep him out of sight. So they let me nurse him for a week—just long enough so he could stay on his mule. Then they made me send him on.” Bitterness harshened her voice. “The lousy cowards told Lathrop they found his body an’ buried it.”
McClain released her arm. “Lathrop’s in for a little surprise. Padre’s come back t’haunt him into freein’ the Indians.”
Annie clutched his shirt, her face contorted with fear. “He can’t stay! Lathrop’ll kill him, and the town’ll help!” Her voice rose hysterically. “You gotta make him leave! He won’t have a chance!”
McClain nodded tightly, rose, and crossed to the washstand. He dumped the contents of the water pitcher over his head, dried himself, then picked up his hat and turned to Annie.
“Anybody asks, I’m a helluva lover.” He tossed four dollars into her lap and strode out.
Annie stared after him for an instant, then sank into a chair and began to cry softly.
Chapter Eleven
The mission was as silent and lonely as when McClain first saw it. He reined in beside the courtyard arch, dismounted, and tied his horse to the weathered hitch rack. He looked around soberly, remembering how Miguel had first described the place to him, struck by the accuracy of the priest’s fond words. Even ravaged and neglected, the mission held an atmosphere of peace. In view of the violence which had taken place here, McClain wondered why this should be so, why, standing here, he should feel so strongly that he had reached a haven.
He wasn’t an introspective man, but the staunch old building seemed a testimony to permanence, to patient strength in the face of assault. McClain realized suddenly that, in his own strange way, Miguel had the same kind of strength. It was a form of hope, just as the mission was. The place and the man had given McClain hope by forcing him to make a decision. For the moment he was no longer drifting. He had a goal. He was needed.
The gunfighter smiled wryly, thinking that Miguel had done him a favor by tricking him. Then he strode across the courtyard and entered the chapel.
McClain had not visited a holy place for many years. His gun had been his god and his salvation. He paused inside the battered door, removed his hat, and stood blinking in the gloom, filled with an unaccustomed deference.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw that the chapel was plain, its rows of wooden benches crude, its stone walls without ornamentation. It should have been dismal, but the huge, oaken cross above the altar was polished to a gleaming brilliance which mirrored the flames of the candles beneath it, and seemed to illumina
te everything it touched.
The thorn-crowned figure nailed to the cross was carved with exquisite care. Its pain-racked eyes held a lifelike quality, a wisdom as ancient as the stars. They sought McClain, seemed to speak to him.
The gunfighter stood motionless, inspired by this humble sanctuary. Then he became aware of a figure kneeling in the shadows before the altar. It was Miguel. He looked oddly unfamiliar in his priest’s robe, his head bent in silent prayer.
McClain moved slowly up the aisle toward him. The priest heard his step and rose. Their eyes met and held as McClain spoke quietly.
“Padre, I’ve come back to help.”
“What changed your mind, my son?”
“Miss Annie Johnson.”
Miguel’s countenance lighted. “I told you she was a saint!”
Miguel’s small room was behind the chapel. A chest, a cot, and a rough table near the hearth were its only furnishings. Seated at the table, bowls of thick soup before them, McClain repeated to Miguel the story that Annie had told him about the grave in the mission courtyard.
Miguel was stunned. “The grave is empty? A trick to make people believe I am dead? That is a dangerous hoax! The town will be in great peril if Lathrop discovers it!”
McClain shrugged. “Town deserves what it gets. But so far only four people know the truth—Annie, the mayor, that councilman fella, and the one that owns the boardinghouse. They ain’t likely to do any tellin’.”
Miguel pushed his soup aside, poured coffee, and began to pace restlessly. “ So that is why the Indians called me ‘diablo.’ They think I am damned because I broke my vow to them, that I have left my grave to do the Devil’s bidding.” Anguish twisted his features. “Poor souls! They have lost everything—even their faith.” He met McClain’s eyes urgently. “We must find a way to help them, my friend!”
“That’s gonna take some doin’. Lathrop don’t strike me as a man who lets go of anything easy.”
Miguel nodded unhappy agreement. He returned to the table and sank into his chair thoughtfully. McClain had finished his soup and poured another cup of coffee before the priest’s face brightened.
“Perhaps there is a way to renew their faith! It won’t be easy, but it could succeed!”
McClain’s eyes narrowed warily. “How can a devil give ’em faith?”
“We will prove to them that I am not a devil. . . that I am alive and have returned to free them.”
“We? Meanin’ just the two of us against Lathrop’s bunch? That’ll be quite a job, Padre. One I don’t want any part of.”
“You do not understand. We saw only part of the tribe at the mine. The fiercest warriors are still free. It was they who destroyed Lathrop’s bullion wagon. Their chief is among those warriors.”
“How d’you know that?”
“Each brave colors his weapons differently. I recognized the arrows and lances which destroyed the wagon.” Miguel removed his priest’s robe and hung it carefully on a wall peg. He was wearing his buckskins beneath it. “The warriors are undoubtedly hiding in the hills. We must find them and use them to help free the others.”
McClain stared at him incredulously. “You’ll never get within miles of ’em. Even warriors are scared of a devil!”
Miguel shoved his dagger into its sheath at his back. “That is true, but I will not be searching for them, my friend. You will be.”
“Me? Like hell!”
“The braves need guns,” explained Miguel calmly. “You have one. Therefore you will make an excellent decoy.”
For an instant McClain was too dumbfounded to speak. Then he exploded indignantly. “Decoy! With savages, that’s as good as dead!”
Miguel looked hurt. “Would a priest endanger his friend?”
“Maybe.”
The priest shook his head sadly. “You still have no faith. I would go alone, but as you said, the Indians would be too fearful to show themselves.”
“Well I don’t aim to flush ’em out. ” McClain rose and reached for his hat.
“You said you had returned to help, ” reminded Miguel gently.
“Can’t help by gettin’ scalped.”
“You will come to no harm. I promise. I have a plan.”
McClain hesitated, frowning. “What kinda plan?”
Miguel smiled confidently, sensing the gunfighter’s acquiescence. “Trust me, my friend. It is infallible. An inspiration from Heaven!”
Chapter Twelve
Nobody was greedier than Bart Lathrop. Even the generous veins of gold in the main tunnel of the tribal cave couldn’t withstand the constant, rapacious gouging which had taken place during the six months since he took the cave away from the Indians. The “yellow rock” was beginning to run out.
Hungry for more, Lathrop kept the Indians working from dawn to dark, and ordered them to dig deeper into the hill in search of another vein. When they refused, insisting that scarring their sacred cave further would disturb its “medicine,” he had them starved and lashed into obedience.
Now, although it was long past nightfall, he and four of his men stood just inside the cave entrance, watching the nervous prisoners hack a new tunnel in the rear wall. Dust and the flickering light of the guards’ lanterns made it difficult to see and gave the atmosphere an eerie, dreamlike quality. The blows of pick and shovel echoed ominously, increasing the Indians’ uneasiness.
As the tunnel deepened, a faint, noxious odor became detectable. The Indians backed away, beginning to cough, and one of the guards called out to Lathrop.
“Smells like we hit a gas pocket, boss.”
“Never mind. Just keep ’em digging!” yelled Lathrop.
Cursing and prodding, the guards forced the prisoners back to work. Suddenly their picks struck a jutting ledge of rock. It cracked and fell inward with a deep, growling rumble that brought part of the tunnel ceiling down with it. Rocks and debris filled the air, and an acrid cloud of poisonous gas mushroomed into the cave.
Shrieking and choking, the Indians scrambled out of the tunnel, dragging their chains with them, knocking the guards aside in their desperate flight.
Lathrop and his men backed from the cave, held the Indians just outside its entrance with shots and threats. Noses covered, the guards stumbled out to join Lathrop.
An uneasy hour passed. Then Lathrop took two of his men and reentered the mine. The air was clearing, even the smell of gas almost gone. Satisfied, the outlaw leader returned to the entrance.
“No gas inside now. Get the damn Indians back to work,” he ordered.
Converging on the prisoners, the guards prodded and lashed them toward the cave entrance. On the threshold, they huddled together, refusing to enter despite the guards’ merciless blows.
“If we go in, we will be killed,” cried one of the young warriors. “The spirits of the underworld are there. Padre Diablo has roused them against us!”
The other prisoners shrieked agreement and crowded back away from the cavern. They began chanting an eerie tribal supplication for protection against the Evil Ones.
The guards renewed their beatings, even fired shots into the air, but the Indians crouched on the ground, stubbornly unmovable, continuing their chant.
Frustrated, Lathrop ordered the guards to stop their punishment. He shouted grimly to the Indians, “We’ll prove to you that the priest is dead. That his body is still in its grave!”
The Indians murmured uncertainly, their terror increased by his words. “If you open the ground, more evil spirits will come,” cried an old man.
“There are no spirits! There’s only a dead body!” Lathrop turned to his men. “Rafe, soon as it’s light, you an’ Hank ride to the mission. Dig up that damn priest and bring the body here so they can see it.”
“Boss, that thing’s really gonna stink!” Rafe grimaced with distaste.
“Hell with that! Bring it!”
Rafe exchanged an unhappy look with a bearded ruffian nearby. “Hope you got a strong stomach, Hank.”
&
nbsp; “Shut up or we’ll be smellin’ your bones!” Lathrop scowled at the two men for an instant, then turned back to the cowering Indians. “Your eyes will tell you what’s true. You’ll know that the priest is only coyote food. He can’t hurt you or help you. Death will come only if you disobey me!”
The Indians stirred uneasily, glancing from Lathrop to the cave, equally terrified by both.
Chapter Thirteen
During the misty hush of the next morning’s dawn, Miguel and McClain saddled up and left the mission. Tight-jawed and grim, once more wearing his buckskins, Miguel led the way swiftly to a hidden defile at the base of the hills that rimmed the plain. Its entrance was camouflaged by huge boulders so closely spaced that the two men had to dismount and lead their animals between them.
Beyond the boulders, the defile widened and climbed circuitously upward. Miguel stopped his mule and turned to the gunfighter, motioning toward the route ahead.
“Follow this wash. Soon you will find the trail which you must ride.”
“Where does it go?” McClain’s face was wary.
“It is the secret path to the tribal stronghold.”
“Ridin’ it won’t get me a welcome.”
“No. But it will force the warriors to contact you.”
“Contact! You better make sure that’s all they do!”
Miguel smiled confidently. “Have no fear, McClain. Heaven rides with you.”
McClain snorted. “See that y’give Heaven a lotta help.” He swung aboard his horse and jogged away along the defile. Miguel looked after him, murmuring soberly, “Heaven be with both of us, my friend.”
Several miles of riding brought McClain to a faint, winding trail. He followed it, moving deeper and deeper into the hills. The canyons narrowed, growing increasingly dim, shadowy, and brush choked. There was no sign or sound of animal life, no rustling of insects or calling of birds. Only silence, deep and eerie. McClain felt as if he were riding through an empty world, on a path that had never been traveled. His horse stepped gingerly, body tense, as uneasy as his rider.
