by M. A. Armen
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fed constantly by two braves, the campfire’s flames climbed high and hot toward the night sky. McClain, stripped to the waist, lay sweating beside the fire on a bed of wet, steaming leaves. His arms were spread wide, and several warriors knelt on either side of him.
Scooping a thick greenish substance from scalding clay pots which nestled in the fire’s coals, they massaged his torso, arms, and hands strongly.
Yomuli stood near McClain’s head, chanting an ancient supplication to the tribal gods. Behind him, in a semicircle, several other braves beat hypnotic accompaniment on skin drums. Miguel hunkered beside McClain, watching the proceedings with lively interest.
The gunfighter bit back a groan as the warriors’ brawny fingers kneaded his flesh and bones unceasingly.
“How long does this go on?” he gritted.
“Yomuli says it requires many hours,” answered Miguel.
“Like hell!” McClain struggled to rise, but the warriors held him down firmly.
“Patience, my friend. To loosen your joints, the massage must be vigorous.”
McClain choked on a whiff of steam. “Smell’s worse than the pain. Feel like a scalded skunk.”
“It is the herbs. They contain sulfur.”
“If I can’t shoot, maybe I can stink Peters t’death,” McClain grumbled.
Miguel grinned, then asked eagerly, “Have your hands begun to tingle?”
“Everything tingles. Feel like I been struck by lightning.”
Miguel’s face lighted happily. “That is good! It indicates that the treatment is working!”
“Better work!” McClain coughed on another puff of steam.
“A little tingling is better than a bullet, my friend.” Miguel returned the gunfighter’s glare with a comforting smile.
In the chapel Lathrop and his companions sprawled uncomfortably among the wooden pews. All were hungry and ill-tempered, exchanging sour remarks and sarcastic accusations. From outside the Indians’ drums and Yomuli’s droning chant echoed maddeningly against the chapel walls.
Striding restlessly back and forth, Hal Peters tried to ignore the sounds, without success. Suddenly his patience snapped. Crossing to the chapel doors, he jerked one open and fired a shot into the courtyard.
“Stop them damn drums!” he yelled.
An answering shot from the courtyard wall barely missed him. He jumped aside as Lathrop lunged forward and slammed the chapel doors.
“You loco, Peters? Suppose you’d been hit. We’d be in a helluva fix!”
“Can’t stand Injun drums. Get me spooky!”
“All Injuns get me spooky,” grumbled Hank.
“My old man used t’say the drums was bad luck,” agreed Rafe nervously.
Lathrop turned on them angrily. “Shut up! All of you! They’re just beatin’ ’em t 'make you spooky. It don’t mean a thing. It’s just noise!”
He crossed to a shelf at the side of the altar, pulled a bottle of sacramental wine from it, and handed it to Rafe.
“Here. Pass this around. It’ll simmer you down!”
Rafe popped the cork sullenly, took a long swallow, and passed the wine to his nearest companion. Still sharing the bottle, the outlaws returned to seats in the various pews.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hours later, when the warriors completed their ministrations to McClain, the cooking caldron, filled with water from the mission’s spring, hung warming above the campfire.
The Indians washed the odorous salve from the gunfighter’s body and covered him with a buffalo robe. A strange, heated oil was rubbed into his hands, which were then wrapped closely with skins. McClain felt sensuous warmth creeping through him. His limbs seemed flaccid, totally without tension or pain.
Now the drums and Yomuli’s chanting stopped. The night fell silent, and McClain closed his eyes drowsily. When he opened them, a sunless dawn widened along the eastern horizon, forecasting another gray, chill morning.
Miguel and Yomuli sat vigil beside him. The other braves were scattered around the fire. All faces were turned anxiously toward the gunfighter. They brightened as he yawned and sat up, stretching effortlessly.
“How do you feel, my friend?” asked Miguel eagerly.
Pretty good, I think.” McClain stood carefully, stretched again, and flexed his fingers experimentally. Amazement flooded his features. “No pain at all! Fingers feel like they’re lined with satin!”
The anxious faces relaxed, and a chorus of triumphant yells sounded from the warriors. Miguel clapped Yomuli on the back enthusiastically.
“Your medicine is strong, my brother! It will bring McClain victory!”
The gunfighter looked dubiously at the clouds hanging above the distant hills and rubbed his hands together. “Pretty chilly. Hope your medicine lasts till after the shoot-out, Chief.”
Yomuli scooped a dipperful of hot, sweet-smelling liquid from a pot near the fire. “This more strong medicine. Secret from Old Ones. Make hands last. Give gun-warrior spirit magic.”
“Spirit magic?” McClain turned to Miguel uneasily. “What’s that mean?”
“It means the tribe looks upon this as a magic potion,” smiled Miguel reassuringly.
“Potion? Suppose it makes me groggy?”
Miguel took a sip from the dipper, rolled it in his mouth, then swallowed. “It is only a mixture of herbs and juices, McClain. Its effect is probably stimulating.”
McClain accepted the dipper. “Hope the Old Ones knew what they were doin’!” He drank reluctantly, then returned the dipper to Yomuli.
The chief patted his shoulder encouragingly. “Old Ones know all, much wise.”
The Indians watched McClain expectantly. After several moments, the gunfighter felt a surge of incredible energy. It throbbed through his veins, setting his body atingle and heightening all of his perceptions. The landscape, the distant hills, the faces around him, everything came into sharper focus.
Astonishment filled him. “I feel ten feet tall! Loose as a snake!”
Miguel and the Indians grinned with relief. Briskly confident, McClain pulled on his shirt and strapped his gun in place. On impulse, he drew the weapon, twirled it expertly, and returned it to its holster, his movements swift and fluid.
“I’ll never get any quicker!” he exclaimed.
“Yomuli is right. The gods are with you, McClain. With all of us!” agreed Miguel happily.
Hal Peters’s voice sounded loudly from the mission courtyard. “I’m waitin’, McClain! What’s keepin’ ya?”
The gunfighter turned and saw Peters standing arrogantly at the base of the chapel steps. Behind him, Lathrop and his men watched from the chapel doorway.
“Be right with you, Peters. Don’t go way.” McClain nodded tightly to his companions and strode forward to confront his challenger.
Miguel and the Indians followed. They ascended the courtyard walls to stand watching beside the guarding townsmen.
Peters swaggered to the center of the courtyard to meet McClain. They faced each other coldly, each measuring the other. Peters was smirkingly confident. McClain unreadable.
“It’s past daylight, McClain. Thought you’d hightailed it.”
“Just overslept,” McClain retorted coolly.
“Where d’you want it? Belly . . . between the eyes? I don’t mind accommodatin’.”
The gunfighter remained undisturbed. “I’m not particular.”
Peters smiled thinly. “Then start backin’ up.”
“Name the paces.”
“Ten apiece. If y’can hit anything from that far.”
“Your mouth’s big enough t’hit from anyplace,” responded McClain acidly.
As the two men backed away from each other warily, each counting paces, the Indians began a slow, monotonous chant.
“Pipe them Injuns down!” yelled Peters edgily.
On the wall Miguel grinned wickedly and waved the braves to silence. Another wave and the chant was replaced by
the beat of drums.
The sound increased Peters’s irritation. “Goddamn it! Shut up!” he shouted.
The drumbeats softened, but continued. They sawed at Peters’s nerves, turned his irritation to fury. At six paces, he lost control.
As the watchers gasped, he shrieked, “Damn all of ya!” His hand plunged to his gun. It came out blazing, leveled at McClain.
Instantly the gunfighter swung sideways. Peters’s shot grazed his cheek as he fired from his holster. The bullet caught Peters in the chest and knocked him backward a step. He staggered, went loose-kneed, and sank to the ground. A bloody stain widened across his lifeless body, to become a dark pool on the sand.
For a moment those watching stood frozen, stunned into silence. Realization hit the outlaws first and brought sharp awareness of their defeat. They stormed from the chapel, crowded to the top of its steps, shouting that Miguel and the townspeople had tricked them again.
Miguel responded from the top of the wall. “You made a deal, bartdidos. We will hold you to it!”
Lathrop glared up at him angrily. “You cheated, priest. Messed Peters up! Deal’s off!”
“Peters was the cheat, bandido. He fired too soon.”
“Deal’s off, I say! Off!”
“You have lost, Lathrop. Accept it!” insisted Miguel firmly.
“No! McClain’s the one should be dead!” Lathrop whirled toward the gunfighter, jerked out his gun.
McClain was too quick for him. Before Lathrop could fire, his weapon streaked from its holster, blazing as it cleared. The outlaw leader collapsed to the ground and lay still.
Before the other men could react, McClain swung his gun toward them. “You’re licked, boys. Better face it,” he advised grimly.
The outlaws looked from the gunfighter to the guns and spears covering them from the surrounding walls. Dismay grew on their features.
Rafe was the first to speak. “No sense dyin’ for gold we can’t get.” He tossed his gun at McClain’s feet.
“Smart thinkin’,” McClain agreed. He looked at the others. “How about the rest of you?”
“I’ll go along.” Hank tossed his gun down beside Rafe’s. Sullenly the remaining outlaws threw their weapons on the pile. They stood waiting as the townsmen dropped from the walls and converged on them.
“You have made a wise choice,” called Miguel. “Now you will take a trip instead of a bullet.”
As the townsmen herded their prisoners to the rear of the courtyard, McClain crossed to Peters’s body. Reaching down, he pulled his lucky piece from Peters’s neck, wiped it with his neckerchief, and dropped it over his head, pleased to feel it dangling in its accustomed place.
He stood looking down at Peters for a moment. “Too bad the shamrock didn’t bring you luck, fella.”
Miguel spoke from behind him. “Stolen luck brings only disaster, my friend. That is the law of Heaven.” He clapped McClain companionably on the shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The morning was bright and warm, the sky sharply clear, and the air like wine. In the mission courtyard, Miguel, wearing his priest’s robes, sat on a bench relating the story of David and Goliath to a circle of Indian children who listened raptly. Adult members of Yomuli’s tribe moved about clearing the courtyard of debris and repairing the damaged chapel doors.
They chattered as they worked, their manner contented and happy. The old mission seemed to glow in response.
McClain rode into the courtyard and dismounted, taking in the pleasant scene with a smile. He tied his horse near the gateway and crossed to Miguel, who rose to greet him.
“Welcome, my friend. I wondered when you would come visiting.” The priest’s happiness matched the morning.
“Been busy in town. Had some decidin’ t’do.”
Miguel tapped the shiny new sheriffs badge pinned to the gunfighter’s chest. “I see that you have made a choice.”
“Town needed a lawman. Asked me to take on the job.” McClain’s voice held a mixture of pride and self-consciousness.
“So you have found a resting place.” Miguel’s eyes twinkled knowingly. “A place for your ‘itchy feet.’”
“I’ll stick around awhile. Till they get itchy again.”
“It is the will of Heaven, McClain. The town needs you, and so does its priest.”
McClain was instantly suspicious. “What’s a priest need with a lawman?”
“It is very simple.” Miguel’s tone was elaborately casual. “At times I must travel to remote towns where there is no other priest. The route is sometimes dangerous, and I need a little protection. ”
“A little protection, huh? Seems like I heard that someplace before.”
Miguel’s eyes were widely innocent. “I do not understand, my friend.”
McClain grinned. “Hell, you don’t! Devil’s gonna get you someday, Padre!”
“Not if I see him coming!”
They burst into laughter.
Epilogue
In the mission courtyard, the old priest smiled at the tourist. “And that is the story of 'Padre Diablo’," he concluded.
The visitor studied the swinging metal placard. “He was a brave man. The sign should say so.”
The old priest chuckled. “He was also a tricky devil, and none were quite sure which was which. Are you?”
The visitor shook his head bewilderedly. “He was a strange priest. That’s for sure.”
