The Gospel According to Billy the Kid

by Dennis McCarthy

  Mangel thumped his tail against the bedroll.

  We woke before daylight to the cries of jays. After a quick breakfast we were back on the trail.

  Toward evening we neared the cliff overlooking the Chama. We’d avoided Ole Moze, it’d been a fine trip. The mountains across the way were catching the last rays of the sun. The snow on the peaks was a soft pink. I was gazing at the peaks when I saw the buzzards. Then I smelled the smoke.

  “Mother of God,” Brother Charles whispered.

  He started running down the trail.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Brother Charles was soon out of sight. I couldn’t run because of the lingering hydro. When I reached the cliff Brother Charles was halfway down. A dozen buzzards drifted in slow circles above us. The chapel, the cloister, the stable, the outbuildings—all were smoldering in the glowing dark. There was no movement. Looked like someone lay on the ground beside the chapel but it was too dark to tell who. I didn’t see anyone else. Started down the cliff trail. When I got far enough to where I had to climb, Brother Charles was running across the flat toward the chapel.

  “No, no, no,” his voice banked off the canyon walls.

  He reached the monk and dropped to his knees. He bent over and touched his head to the monk. A wail rose up from him like the scream of a lion.

  I worked my way down the cliff till I came to the ledge I’d eased around the first morning. As I started across, Mangel barked. I climbed back up and lifted him onto my shoulder. I worked my way back to the ledge, holding him and my Winchester with one arm. This time I scuttled across the ledge without a thought. Don’t know how I hung onto him. When I was back on the trail I set him down. We clambered down the rest of the cliff, Mangel in the lead. When I reached the monastery Brother Charles was still on his knees, praying a psalm.

  It was Padre Romuald, his face in the dirt, two arrows in his back. A third arrow through his neck had snapped when he hit the ground. He was missing a hand. He’d been scalped. It wasn’t Jicarillas.

  I ran past Brother Charles toward the chapel. Padre’s hand and a bloody cross were lying in the dirt near the door. The massive wooden doors were still burning. The interior was a charred hulk of smoking rubble with small fires. The monks’ pews and the bultos of Christ and Our Lady of Guadalupe were stacked and burning beside the altar. The roof had collapsed. The vigas were smoldering. It was too dark and dangerous to go inside. If monks were there they’d be dead. They’d hold till daylight.

  I checked other buildings. Brother Charles left Padre and ran toward the cloister.

  The first body I saw was Scout’s, his head split open with a tomahawk. When I got to the corral I saw Raúl, the Jicarilla boy who worked in the kitchen. Tomahawked too. And scalped.

  Buck wasn’t in the corral. They’d took him. At least he was alive.

  Another high-pitched wail rose from the back of the cloister. I ran through the smoke to reach Brother Charles. He was prostrate, his hands over his head. Beyond him were two rows of scalped heads, a stride apart, facing each other. Between them were the smoking embers of the fire that had cooked their faces. Three of the monks were buried up to their necks. Brother Jude’s shoulders were partially out of the ground, his head a dozen paces away among a maze of hoofprints. It wasn’t burned as badly as the others.

  I hunkered beside Brother Charles. He’d risen to his knees and was reciting the rosary. His voice cracked as he said each of the sorrowful mysteries.

  “Comanches,” he said when he’d finished.

  Probably the ones who’d jumped the reservation and were hiding in the San Juans.

  I went back to Padre and picked up his shoulders. I dragged him to the other monks.

  “What are you doing?” Brother Charles said.

  “We can’t leave them to the coyotes,” I said. “Lay the padre between the monks and build a fire over them.”

  “We can’t cremate them.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have to bury them.”

  “Alright. The monks are mostly buried. We can lay Padre between them and build a mound over them.”

  “No. We’ll give them a proper burial.”

  I understood. I returned to the corral and dragged Raúl back to the monks. By the time I went for Scout, night had set in. Smoldering fires provided the only light. I carried Scout back to the others. Brother Charles and me sat up the rest of the night beside our amigos. Mangel lay next to me leaning against my leg, shivering in the night air.

  CHAPTER 21Comanches

  It is so cold that, to dig out a grave in the church,

  you must first build a fire on top of the ground to thaw it.

  You cannot chip it even with iron bars.

  —FRAY ALONSO DE BENAVIDES,

  A Harvest of Reluctant Souls: History of New Mexico

  AT FIRST LIGHT I FOUND a couple of shovels near the monks. I went to the toolshed looking for a pickax. The shed was the only building that hadn’t been burned. The Comanches had taken most of the tools. Only a hoe and a couple of rakes were left, hanging on the wall. I went back to the monks to get a shovel. Then I went to the rise where Brother Bede was buried and began digging graves. It was like digging through rock. I hoped the monks had a better time of it if they had to dig their own holes at the fire pit. I dug for the better part of three days, one grave for each monk. Graves for Raúl and Scout too. I figured Brother Charles might balk at burying Scout in consecrated ground. He never let on if he did.

  Brother Charles dug out the bodies of the monks. They were kneeling when the dirt was heaped around them. We carried the bodies to the graveyard and laid them in the ground. Brother Charles laid Padre Romuald’s hand and the bloody cross on his chest. He made crosses out of fir for each grave, then he read a psalm from his breviary. He put the breviary in Padre’s severed hand. He picked up the shovel and covered the breviary and cross with dirt. He shoveled a single load on each of the other graves. When he got to Scout’s grave he filled it in. Then he dropped the shovel and walked away.

  It was late afternoon when I’d filled the rest of the graves and laid rocks on them to keep out varmints. I looked for Brother Charles and found him on a bench by the Chama, watching the sun settle on the mesa.

  “Least they didn’t burn everything,” I said as I sat beside him.

  Brother Charles smiled. It was the first sign of relief he’d shown.

  We sat there listening to the magpies chirruping among the cottonwoods. A pair of ravens played high overhead. One of them carried a seedpod to the top of the canyon wall then dropped it. The second raven dove down and caught it before it hit the ground. They repeated the game with the roles reversed.

  “They probably learned that game from us,” Brother Charles said. “Brother Thomas and I used to throw balls to each other out here.”

  The yellows and reds on the canyon wall across the valley grew deeper and richer as the shadows darkened.

  “I’ll miss this place,” Brother Charles said.

  Then he turned to me.

  “Are you hungry?” he said.

  “Pickings are slim, Brother Charles. I could jump up a jackrabbit.”

  “Carlos,” he said.

  “Carlos?”

  “Carlos. The monastery’s gone. The monks are gone. Brother Charles died with them. At least he should have. Carlos is all that’s left. If you can find a jackrabbit I’ll get a fire going.”

  A wall of clouds was creeping down the canyon from the north. The temperature began to drop.

  “What’re you planning?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow I’ll go to the Tinde village. Tell them what happened. Tell them about Raúl. After that? I don’t know. I’ll come back for a few days. Sort things out. The brothers have been here twenty years. They deserve a fitting memorial service. The Navajo mourn for four days. They have a beautiful prayer that comforts me whenever I’m losing my moorings. ‘With beauty before me I walk. With beauty b
ehind me I walk. With beauty around me I walk.’ It ends with, ‘It is finished in beauty.’ I don’t see my life here ending in beauty. I’m left without brothers, books, vocation. God? All destroyed. This is dangerous country. We knew it. Padre often reminded us of Jesus’ passive resistance. What did it get him? Torture and death. The brothers too. They were good men. Padre was a saint. So was Brother Jude. Martyrs. Maybe I wasn’t fit to be with them. To die with them.”

  “Maybe God ain’t ready for you,” I said.

  “I don’t know, Billy. I’m bereft. If God wants more of me he’ll have to show me a path. St. John of the Cross talked about a dark night of the soul. I thought I knew what he meant. I see it now. The night’s so black I’ve lost sight of my soul. You asked me once why I came to the monastery. I said I was seeking God. I picked up his trail here but I never saw him. Padre did. So did Brother Jude.”

  Mangel came over and licked Carlos’s hand. The first flakes of snow landed on his head.

  “God’s messenger? Is that you, boy?”

  Carlos held Mangel’s head in his hands and began to cry.

  “I won’t go back to Sonora. The ranch is gone. Mother’s dead. Felix—Mickey—I don’t know him anymore, if I ever did. I’m sure he doesn’t know me. Mickey Free. I wonder if he’s free. What about you, Billy?”

  “Right now my plan is to find us a rabbit.”

  A while later I was back with a pair of jacks. They were easy to find in the snow. Carlos had a fire going. We skinned and cleaned the jacks and skewered them on a metal spit, one of the few things the Comanches didn’t take. It wasn’t a great supper but we felt better. We didn’t talk much. We were exhausted. Mangel cleaned up the leftovers while I laid out my bedroll. Mangel and me crawled in. Carlos stayed up and kept the fire going. I slept through the night for the first time since we’d been back.

  Carlos left out at first light for the Tinde village. I stayed to keep an eye on things, but there wasn’t much to look after. What the Comanches didn’t burn they took. California was strong on my mind but I’d never had a compadre like Carlos. In truth I wasn’t ready to leave. I figured on seeing what Carlos’d do before making my own plans. Sounded like he’d forsaken his vows. If he wanted revenge I was game. The monks were my amigos too.

  I spent most of the day hunting. Shot a mule deer in early afternoon as it was crossing the sagebrush. Mangel was off hunting on his own. As I was dressing out the deer Mangel showed up. I cut a slice of brisket and tossed it to him. He ignored it. His hackles were up.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Comanches? Ole Moze?”

  I picked up my Winchester. I was in the open. An easy target. Mangel was watching a nearby mesa. It was broken into side canyons, any one of which could hide unwelcome company. The rest of the terrain was sagebrush at least a quarter of a mile in any direction. If I headed across the open range, away from the danger, I’d be going away from the monastery and would have no cover if something or someone came after me. If I walked toward the mesa I’d be headed back to the monastery, but I might walk into an ambush.

  Something for sure was out there and it was near the mesa. Mangel’s hackles didn’t lie. I flipped a coin in my head. Moze should have been denned up for the winter but I was betting on him. As much as I didn’t want to meet him I figured he was better odds, especially if I was in the open. I hacked off a hindquarter and headed away from the mesa, leaving the rest of the deer behind. A hundred paces out I heard something tear into the meat. It woofed like a grizzly. Mangel had stopped growling but his hackles were still up. I wasn’t about to run. Wouldn’t look back neither. Staring down a grizzly can be dangerous as running from one. Another hundred paces and I looked sideward over my shoulder. It was a grizzly alright. It was huge.

  It was evening when I got back to the monastery. Carlos was sitting by a fire on the plaza.

  “I hope you brought supper,” he said. “I’ve been nursing this fire the past few hours. Nearly gave up. You get the next load of wood.”

  His tone didn’t sound like Brother Charles.

  “Lord Grizzly wanted our supper. I gave him the biggest part and took a longer route home.”

  “Moze?”

  “He was big enough. Right color too. How was your visit?”

  “Not good. I spoke with the Tinde chief. He knew about the massacre. Said it was six warriors. He knows where they are but he won’t go after them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t say. I think he doesn’t want to start a war over a dead orphan. Not a war with Comanches.”

  “Did he say where they were?”

  “Ojo Caliente.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s a cluster of hot springs on the road from Abiquiu to Taos. Two to three days walk from here. Indians consider it sacred for its healing waters. They set aside their differences—weapons too—while they’re there.”

  “Good. Let’s hope the devils hang around a few more days. If they’ve laid down their weapons, we’ll make quick work of them.”

  “You think we should kill them?”

  “Damn right! When Dolan’s men killed John Tunstall we went after them. Didn’t get all of them, but we got some. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

  “Jesus said to turn the other cheek. Leviticus says don’t take revenge against the sons of your people.”

  “Fine words, but more than our cheeks have been slapped. And those sonsabitches ain’t the sons of our people. I figure the Bible is okay with us pumping lead into their ugly asses. It’s full of that kind of mayhem.”

  Carlos smiled. It was good to see some of the strain lift from him.

  He’d been poking at the fire while we talked. Daylight was going fast. It was time to get the meat going if we were to eat before the cold turned bitter. I cut off the rump from the hindquarter and roasted it on the metal spit. When it was cooked we ate in silence. After dinner I cut thin slices from the rest of the hindquarter and salted them down. While I was smoking them Carlos finally spoke.

  “Okay, Billy, pumping lead it is.”

  “You serious?” I figured I was being hornswoggled.

  “I am.”

  “You’ve been thinking about this.”

  “Every waking minute.”

  “If we find them without weapons, you’re okay about killing them, even though the springs are supposed to be sacred, a safe harbor?”

  “The monastery was supposed to be a safe harbor.”

  “What would Padre Romuald think?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Suppose he wasn’t?”

  “You know what he’d think.”

  “You ever kill a man?”

  “No.”

  “You take the Winchester. I’ve got my six-shooter. There are six of them. I won’t miss.”

  CHAPTER 22Brother Jude

  It’s terrifying how quickly a grizzly can cover a short distance—terrifying

  when you consider how vulnerable you are if he turns toward you.

  —BROTHER CHARLES, Diary, JUNE 3, 1875

  THE TINDE CHIEF SAID THE Comanches would probably stick around the hot springs another week. That didn’t give us much time. We allowed ourselves one more day smoking deer meat before skinning out for the springs.

  While I was smoking jerky the next morning a raven landed a few paces away. He stared at the meat. I lifted off a piece and cut it into small strips. Tossed him one. He caught it and flew into a nearby cottonwood. A few minutes later he was back. Mangel was watching from across the plaza where he was sunning hisself. He ambled over. The raven flew into the tree. I tossed Mangel a bite. He snapped it up and lay down on his belly. Threw him a second bite. He caught it midair. The raven dropped out of the tree a couple of paces away. I tossed him a bite. Mangel lunged but the raven was quicker. When I threw a piece short of Mangel, the raven lunged but Mangel was quicker. The game was on.

  After I stopped tossing strips, Mangel and the bird faced each other, squared off like
fighters. Mangel laid his front legs on the dirt and jacked his butt in the air, challenging the raven to a new game. The raven hopped a few feet into the air. Mangel leapt to the side. The raven swooped toward Mangel’s tail. Mangel spun around to meet him. I watched them play, then rewarded them with more strips of meat.

  “What have we here?” Carlos asked as he came over to watch.

  “I ain’t sure. Señor Cuervo’s taken a shine to Mangel. We may of found us another companion.”

  “He’s a wolfbird,” Carlos said. “He and Mangel are bonding. Question is, is he a manbird?

  I didn’t sleep well that night. Had another dream about Aunt Cat. A raven and her were playing fetch. She’d throw out a nut. Raven’d fly after it. When he found it he’d eat it, then fly back. This went on a bit. Finally Aunt Cat threw a nut so hard it kept on sailing. The raven flew after it and disappeared in the distance.

  A light snow was falling when we awakened at first light. Señor Cuervo’d been waiting in a cottonwood. After he dropped down to the plaza I tossed him strips of deer meat while me and Carlos and Mangel finished off the rump roast from the night before. I told Carlos about my dream. Asked him what he thought about it.

  “We talked about ravens being a symbol of death. For Apaches and for you. We’ve got killing in our hearts. I’m guessing that’s what your dream is about. Someone is disappearing. But is it Comanches, or us?”

  We finished breakfast, then packed up and left the monastery. The raven flew ahead.

  “What are you naming him?”

  “Brother Jude.”

  “Suppose he’s a she?”

  “Sister Judy.”

  We didn’t see much of Brother Jude that morning. The sun was high by the time we reached the Spanish Trail. We turned east toward Abiquiu. The snow was mostly gone. A few patches hung around the north sides of mesas. When we stopped to eat, my new compañero showed up.