The Hanging of Father Miguel

by M. A. Armen

  As the trail dropped away sharply into a deep ravine, the gun­fighter halted. He was being watched. He could feel it . . . feel the hard, menacing probe of unfriendly eyes. He dropped a hand to his gun, loosened it in its holster, then urged his horse downward into the ravine.

  The descent was boulder strewn and steep. Halfway down, the path had been washed away. A long slant of treacherous shale replaced it. Scrambling, McClain’s horse hock-slid to the ravine’s bottom and struggled for footing among rocks and sand.

  It was then that they jumped him. Two Indian warriors materialized as if from nowhere, knives drawn, and knocked him from the saddle.

  McClain lashed out with legs and arms, caught one man in the groin with a fierce blow that doubled him up, gasping. Tumbling backward, the gunfighter regained his feet just as the second warrior slashed with his knife. McClain gripped the man’s wrist inches from its mark and twisted until a bone cracked. As the brave went to his knees, screaming, McClain pulled his gun. Before he could fire, the point of a spear pressed sharply against the small of his back and a gruff voice ordered him to drop his weapon. As he obeyed, three more husky braves converged on him, spears leveled.

  They were different from the emaciated slaves the gunfighter had seen at Lathrop’s mine, different from any Yaqui whom he had ever seen. These men were taller, cleaner limbed, with high-bridged noses and sharp features. Only their opaque black eyes and coppery skin marked them as of Indian origin.

  McClain saw that their garb was also special. They wore pale deerhide leggings stained with colorful, abstract designs and their weapon belts were of soft, beaten gold. Each man’s spear was feathered in individual color and arrangement. Clearly they were hardy men, filled with courage and pride.

  The tallest of them wore a headband with a gleaming gold emblem on its front. Staring coldly at McClain, he drew his knife.

  “Why you come here?” It was the same harsh voice McClain had heard before. “How you find this trail?”

  McClain met the Indian’s menacing gaze steadily. “I’m a trapper. Came lookin’ for game.”

  The warrior studied him narrowly for a moment, then, “You speak lie. You are from Lathrop. ” He raised his knife, but before he could drive the blade into McClain’s chest, Miguel’s voice rang commandingly from the top of the ravine.

  “No killing, my children! No killing!”

  The Indians looked up, freezing with terror as they saw the priest descending toward them, his mule at a scrambling run. As he leaped to the ground beside McClain, they scattered, running for the opposite wall of the ravine, shrieking, “Padre Diablo.”

  Miguel threw McClain an anxious glance. “Are you injured, my friend?”

  “No. But you were mighty slow gettin’ here.”

  “I had to elude followers.” Miguel crossed the ravine, shouting to the fleeing Indians, “Stop, my children! Stop or more evil will befall you!”

  The Indians continued their flight, clawing toward the top of the ravine. McClain retrieved his gun and fired into the ground ahead of them. The bullets kicked up sprays of dirt and rock, striking almost at the Indians’ feet.

  The one wearing the headband halted, shouted to the others to do the same. As they obeyed, he turned slowly to face Miguel and McClain.

  The priest strode to the base of the ravine wall and looked up at the frightened Indian leader.

  “Yomuli, I am your friend. Do you not recognize me?”

  “You from darkness. From evil.” Yomuli’s voice shook.

  “No, I am Father Miguel, your priest.”

  “Priest dead. You devil spirit.”

  “I am alive. My flesh is warm. Come to me. I will prove it.”

  Yomuli backed away, shaking his head, his face convulsed with terror. “Touch of evil one brings death!”

  Miguel drew the long knife from its sheath at his back and sliced a cruel gash in his forearm. As blood welled from the wound, he held his arm high.

  “Do the dead bleed, Yomuli? Is the flesh of a devil warm?” The Indians exchanged startled exclamations.

  “Come, Yomuli, taste my blood. Its warmth will prove that I live.”

  Commanding his braves to stay back, Yomuli descended warily to confront Miguel. Reaching out, he placed a finger against the priest’s wound and realized wonderingly that the blood was indeed warm. Lifting the finger to his lips, he tasted.

  Amazement flooded his features. “This man blood! ” He called sharply to his braves. “Priest lives! Come, we make vengeance! ”

  Yomuli leveled his spear at Miguel’s abdomen. The other braves surrounded the priest and McClain quickly, also with spears leveled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Caught off guard by the Indians’ sudden aggression, McClain and Miguel stood frozen in the circle of spears. Then Miguel scanned the faces of their grim captors with pained incredulity.

  “You threaten your own priest, my children? It is a sin against Heaven!”

  Yomuli’s spear dug harder into Miguel’s abdomen. “You no more our priest. Broke blood vow. Now people slaves. Sacred cave filled with evil spirits.”

  “I know, I know.” Anguish roughened Miguel’s voice. He pressed closer to the chief despite the thrusting spear. “Yomuli, I tried to die without speaking of the sacred cave and the yellow stones. But Lathrop’s torture weakened my mind and loosened my tongue.”

  Contempt joined the hostility on Yomuli’s face. “Man with heart of coyote not fit for priest.”

  “That is true.” Miguel bowed his head in shamed acquiescence. “But even a coyote can help his brothers.”

  The chiefs eyes blazed dangerously. “No more priest! No more brother!”

  McClain murmured uneasily, “Hope you got more than talk up your sleeve, Padre. I don’t hanker t’be a pincushion.”

  Miguel ignored him. He confronted Yomuli’s rage desperately. “Lathrop’s men left me for dead. By the will of Heaven, I lived—lived only to return and help free your people from their captivity. Now I am here and I have brought help.”

  For answer Yomuli spat at his feet. “You bring trouble! Since you come evil smoke fill cave, make Indians sick, blind eyes!”

  “Your people will not work in the cave much longer. They will be free.” Miguel gestured at McClain. “This man is a great gun-warrior. The outlaws fear his power. He will lead you and your braves against them.” Yomuli’s face remained closed, and Miguel’s desperation increased. “Yomuli, you must believe me. I swear as your blood brother that I can help you.”

  The Indians murmured and exchanged glances, impressed by the priest’s oath. Yomuli turned cold, appraising eyes on the gun­fighter.

  “If you have power, show us.” He returned McClain’s gun. “ Shoot spear from sky, gun-warrior.”

  Holstering the weapon, McClain threw Miguel an accusing scowl. “Pray my aim’s better’n your plan.”

  He flexed his gun hand experimentally, grateful that the sun was high and hot. Then he tensed and nodded tightly to Yomuli.

  The chief tossed his spear high. As it flattened and began its descent, McClain drew and fired. His bullet shattered the spear’s shaft in midair.

  Awed, the Indians grunted their admiration. Yomuli retrieved the shattered spear and examined it suspiciously. Satisfied that there was no trickery, he nodded brief approval at McClain, then turned to Miguel grimly.

  “Gun-warrior’s power is strong, but not mend priest’s broken vow. Only death can mend.”

  Relief had begun to show on Miguel’s face. Now it faded. “I remind the chief that under tribal law no man can be killed without a test of his guilt,” he said carefully.

  Yomuli seemed surprised. “You want ‘test of truth’?”

  “It is my right. I will prove that my vow was broken unwillingly and that I am still loyal to my blood bond.”

  The chief nodded solemnly. “Yomuli will test priest’s truth. To the death. ”

  The listening braves murmured approval. The chief handed his spear to one of
them, removed his head badge, and drew his knife.

  Miguel stripped off his shirt, revealing unexpectedly sinewy muscles and the broad chest more characteristic of a fighting man than a priest.

  McClain noted this with astonishment which increased as Miguel accepted his knife from the brave who had taken it from him.

  “You loco? You can’t knife-fight an Injun!”

  “It is against my beliefs, that is true. But I have no choice.”

  McClain stared at him disbelievingly. “Hell with your beliefs! He’ll kill you!”

  “If I do not fight him, we will both be killed, my friend. ” Their eyes met, a new, mutual respect and affection in the glance.

  As Miguel strode to face Yomuli, the watching Indians widened their circle to give the two opponents more room. They took up a grim chant, drumming their spear shafts against the ground in accompaniment. The funereal rhythm sent chills along McClain’s spine. He stiffened and set his teeth as Yomuli lunged suddenly at Miguel, his knife slicing toward the priest’s chest.

  Miguel ducked the blade and struck simultaneously with his own. Blood showed along Yomuli’s ribs as the priest whirled to a position behind the chief.

  The Indian spun quickly and lunged at Miguel with increased ferocity, his flashing knife driving the priest into a darting, backward dance to avoid it. Suddenly he stumbled and fell to his knees, losing his knife as he fought for balance.

  Instantly Yomuli was on him. As he raised his weapon for a fatal plunge, Miguel gripped his wrist and threw himself backward, dragging Yomuli with him to the ground. The drumming spears and chanting rhythm increased as the two men rolled, struggling desperately for possession of the knife.

  Watching, McClain felt perspiration stinging his armpits as Yomuli forced his weapon slowly downward toward Miguel’s chest. The priest clung tenaciously to Yomuli’s wrist, straining against the chiefs brawny power.

  McClain saw that it was a losing battle. He started forward. Two iron-handed braves jerked him sharply to a halt and held him motionless as the fight continued.

  With the blade inches from his chest, Miguel suddenly jerked Yomuli’s arm forward, twisting it cruelly in a movement that drove the chiefs blade into the ground above Miguel’s shoulder. With a mighty shove, the priest rolled his opponent aside and sprang to his feet. Before Yomuli could move, Miguel yanked the knife from the ground, straddled the chief, and placed the blade against his throat.

  Abruptly, the Indians’ chanting and drumming ceased. A tense silence replaced it as Miguel held the knife hard against Yomuli’s throat. The chief waited for death, his eyes meeting the priest’s unflinchingly.

  At last Miguel spoke harshly. “I have passed the test of truth. I declare my vow mended, and claim Yomuli’s loyalty to our blood vow.”

  “It is your right. Tribe will honor it.”

  “Good. It is also my right to spare the life of a blood brother. I claim it. ” Miguel lifted the knife from Yomuli’s throat and rose to his feet.

  With slow dignity, the chief stood to face him. He placed a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “My life now your life.” His dark eyes were warm, filled with respect. He turned to his braves. “Hear chiefs words. Our priest back. He speak. We listen.”

  Shouts of admiration and acceptance rose from the warriors’ throats. They released McClain, returned his gun and Miguel’s knife.

  Now the priest announced that he had a plan which would enable them to defeat Lathrop’s outlaws and free the rest of their tribe. Enthusiastically the Indians agreed to accompany Miguel and “the great gun-warrior” to the mission and to follow whatever instructions the priest gave them.

  Riding back to the mission beside Miguel, McClain was silent and thoughtful. His attitude was in sharp contrast to the triumphant joviality of the accompanying Indians and the smiling relief of Miguel.

  “You are very quiet, McClain. What is wrong?” asked the priest.

  “I was just wonderin’ how a priest got t’know so much about knife fightin’.”

  Miguel smiled wryly. “You see, my friend, I came late to the priesthood.”

  “You broke a passel of vows today.”

  “Broke? On the contrary, I fulfilled them.”

  McClain gave him a skeptical look. “With a pigsticker?”

  “Religion is practiced in many ways.” Miguel’s voice was patient. “The ‘test of truth’ is part of the ancient Yaqui religion. By utilizing it, I was able to do my priestly duty.”

  McClain glared at him indignantly. “How d’you figure that?”

  “By fighting, I prevented two deaths, yours and mine. Such prevention is a part of my vows, not a violation.” Miguel smiled ingenuously. “You see, my friend, how simple it is?”

  “No! And I got a feelin’ I never will!” Exasperated, the gun­fighter put spurs to his horse and galloped ahead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At the mission the “grave” of Father Miguel lay open to the mid-morning sun, its marker half buried in the mountain of dirt beside it. Rafe and Hank stood on opposite sides of the excavation, hauling on ropes, straining to lift a crude wooden coffin to the surface.

  As they worked, a horseman jogged slowly to a halt just inside the mission courtyard. He slouched in the saddle, unkempt, with a shapeless, sweat-stained hat pulled low against the sun and a shiny gun hung loosely on his thigh. There was a go-to-hell arrogance in his manner that contrasted sharply with his nondescript appearance. He sat watching the two men as the coffin rose slowly and cleared the pit at last.

  With a final, Herculean pull, Rafe and Hank dragged it to level ground. They straightened, panting, tensed as they saw the horseman.

  “Who are you, kid? What’s your business here?” Rafe stepped toward the stranger belligerently.

  “Name’s Hal Peters.” The words came patronizingly from smirking lips. “An’ my business ain’t none of yours.”

  Rafe scowled and dropped his hand to the side of his holster. “Then mosey and forget you stopped.”

  “Pull that iron an’ you’ll forget everything.”

  Rafe started to retort, stopped sharply as sun glinted on the gold shamrock dangling from the kid’s neck. His glance slid from the gold to the gun on Peters’s hip, and he moved his hand carefully away from his holster.

  “No need for trouble, kid.”

  Peters grinned mockingly. “Not till I find what I’m lookin’ for.”

  “Which is bullets, for sure,” remarked Hank dryly.“

  I been trailin’ a broken-down gunny called Glint McClain. Either of ya’ seen him?”

  Hank studied Peters curiously. “Heard about him. You want bullets, he’ll have ’em.”

  Peters scowled, and Rafe gave Hank a warning glance. “Saw McClain yesterday. In Rileyville.”

  “Where’s that?” Peters asked sharply.

  “Three miles north.”

  Peters whirled his horse and galloped away, spurring hard.

  Rafe and Hank stared after him. “Sure proddy,” remarked Hank.

  “You see that gold neck piece he was wearin’?”

  Hank nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Look like a shamrock t’you?”

  “Never seen a shamrock.”

  “Neither did I. Except on Glint McClain,” mused Rafe.

  Hank shrugged. “So?”

  “He claimed it was lucky. Never took it off.”

  Hank turned toward the coffin, disinterested in further speculation. “We totin’ the whole box or just what’s inside?”

  Rafe abandoned his musings reluctantly. “Body’s enough.”

  “It’ll stink more.”

  “Weigh less.”

  Hank sighed. “Just so we keep it downwind.”

  They tugged at the coffin lid. It lifted crookedly and slid backward to the ground. The two men stared down at a jumble of rocks and sand, shock growing on their faces.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the mine the Indians were receiving their noon ration of water. Chaine
d in the dirt near the cave entrance, without escape from the sun’s relentless heat, they reached eagerly for the meager dippers of liquid which the guards were passing out. Their cries for more were answered with kicks and blows.

  Lathrop paced restlessly nearby, pausing often to scan the trail leading toward the mission. The other members of his band lounged in the shade of several jutting boulders, consuming beans and coffee, ignoring the hungry glances of the Indians.

  A scraping sound and the thud of jogging hooves brought the outlaws to their feet. A moment later, Rafe and Hank rode into view. Miguel’s “coffin,” tied with ropes, bumped and dragged behind their lathered horses. They hauled it closer, released it near the cave, and dismounted wearily. At the sight of the coffin, the Indians rose and backed away, murmuring with fear.

  Lathrop greeted the riders scowlingly. “Took long enough gettin’ back. What held you up?”

  Rafe jerked a thumb at the coffin. “Thing’s heavy. Took a lotta liftin’ and a lotta draggin’.”

  “Heavy! A pine box with some bones in it?”

  Hank loosened the ropes, threw back the coffin’s lid, and scooped out a handful of its contents. “No bones. Just these, boss.”

  As Lathrop and his men stared incredulously, the Indians began to shriek.

  “Grave empty!” yelled a brave. “Padre Diablo walks! Evil comes!”

  The Indians’ hysteria increased. They milled around, tugging frantically at their chains.

  “Shut ’em up!” yelled Lathrop to the guards. “Shut ’em up!”

  The two guards converged on the prisoners, beating them until they quieted and huddled to the ground, moaning their terror.

  Lathrop pawed at the coffin’s contents with mounting fury, turned accusingly on Hank and Rafe. “You sure you got the right grave?”

  “Had the priest’s marker on it,” replied Hank sullenly.

  Lathrop’s rage increased. “That mayor an’ his yokels made fools of us. Musta helped the priest escape, then rigged the grave so we’d think he was dead.”

  “An’ all this time they been laughin’ at us,” agreed Rafe.