The Hanging of Father Miguel
THE HANGING OF FATHER MIGUEL
THE HANGING OF FATHER MIGUEL
M. A. ARMEN
M. EVANS
Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK
Published by M. Evans
An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
www.rowman.com
10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom
Distributed by National Book Network
Copyright © 1989 by M. A. Armen
First paperback edition 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:
Armen, M. A.
The hanging of Father Miguel / M. A. Armen.
p. cm. — (An Evans novel of the West)
I. Title. II. Series.
PS3551.R464H36 1989 89-23685
813’. 54—dc20
ISBN: 978-1-59077-225-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN: 978-1-59077-226-3 (electronic)
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
For Garo, with love and remembrances.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Prologue
The small adobe mission, a weathered leftover from the past, rose above the mesquite and cacti of the deserted plain. Shrouded in silence and isolation, it was a forgotten place—an eerie, decaying shelter for memories, dusty relics, and the bleak whispering of the wind.
In the shadow of its courtyard wall, an elderly Mexican, stoopshouldered and frail, stood shading his eyes, squinting toward a late-model station wagon as it approached along the rutted, dirt access road. Wearing a faded, much-mended priest’s robe, leaning on a vintage wooden cane, the old man seemed as much a specter from the past as the mission.
He remained motionless as the car stopped, a growing air of excitement in his manner as its only occupant alighted.
The visitor was in his early thirties, a gray-eyed man in a well-tailored western suit, his face shadowed by the brim of an expensive Stetson. As he glanced around curiously, the old priest stepped toward him, smiling gently.
“Welcome to Mission Miguel, sir. Visitors here are a rare treat.” The quavery voice suggested that of a scholar.
The man in the Stetson looked up in surprise, aware of the priest for the first time. “Thank you. I heard there was an old mission here, but I thought it was abandoned.”
“Only by the present. The past still shelters here.”
The newcomer studied him, intrigued by the contrast between his shabby attire and his cultured speech.
“You mean memories of the past.”
An enigmatic smile crossed the priest’s face. “There is much more than memory here, sir. You see, the mission has been converted to a museum. It houses many rare and ancient relics.”
The man looked off across the sun-baked loneliness of the surrounding plain. “Strange place for a museum—or even for a mission.”
“Two centuries ago there was need for it in this place. It was erected by a little-known sect of Spanish priests as a haven for frontier wanderers, and for a small tribe of Indians who lived in the nearby hills.”
The visitor’s eyes lighted with interest. “What tribe?”
The old priest shrugged sadly. “Who can be sure? Their artifacts indicate that they were Yaqui, but they themselves have long since disappeared.”
“Didn’t the priests here keep records?”
“Yes, but they, too, were consumed by time.” The old man pointed toward a distant cluster of decaying buildings, the remains of a ghost town. “That place was known as Rileyville. The mission once served its inhabitants also.” He sighed. “But they vanished into the past, just as the Indians did.”
The visitor nodded. “I passed through it on my way here. Looks like it must’ve been quite a town.”
“It was. Many interesting things occurred there.”
The visitor was obviously intrigued. “All right if I look around?”
The old priest’s face lighted eagerly. “By all means. Come, I will be your guide.”
As they approached the courtyard, the visitor paused, his attention caught by a tarnished metal placard swinging from the high arch above the gateway. Squinting, he read the words on the placard.
“On this spot, Father Miguel, the priest, was hanged.” His stunned face showed disbelief. “A priest was hanged here!”
The caretaker nodded solemnly. “It is a matter of record. It has to do with ‘Father Diablo.’ . . .”
“Father Devil? Who was he?”
“The Indians called him a demon. They thought he haunted this place.” A sudden wind stirred dust devils around them and set the placard swaying creakily on its rusty chain.
A slight chill touched the visitor. “That’s a strange legend.”
“Or perhaps it is a strange truth.” A twinkle showed briefly in the old priest’s eyes. “I will let you decide which one for yourself.”
Guiding his guest to a shaded bench, he began to tell a startling story. . . .
Chapter One
It was 1864, the early morning of a chill, sunless day. A lonely male figure, broad-brimmed hat pulled low, collar turned up against the cold, rode slowly across a desolate expanse of Arizona plain toward a bleak frontier town. He was the only moving thing between earth and sky.
Lean and hard-muscled, his eyes crow-tracked at the corners and piercing as a brace of Bowie knives, he slouched loosehipped in the saddle, man and horse one movement. A Frontier Colt slapped his thigh, its slickened butt testifying to frequent use. He was still young, barely past his early thirties, but he had the look of a man who has come a far, hard way and doesn’t want to go back.
He glanced up, saw that he was approaching the edge of the town, and lifted his horse to a jog, a gleam of anticipation easing the weariness of his face. Glint McClain had been gone from this place a long time, but now . . . now he was coming home. He entered the town, riding the middle of its almost deserted street, looking neither to right nor left, his thoughts on the small cabin a mile ahead, the cabin he had built with his own hands, for the woman who should be waiting for him there.
As McClain neared the saloon, a muscular stranger tyin
g a scraggly mule to the hitch rail, studied him with sharp interest, his penetrating blue eyes in striking contrast to his strong Latin features.
Without seeming to, McClain noticed his scrutiny, saw that his dark buckskins and flat-crowned sombrero, both veiled with dust, were inscrutably plain and unadorned. A silver-handled sheath knife, fitted snugly against his back, was his only ornamentation. McClain noted, too, the man’s arresting magnetism, decided he was more than just an idle drifter, and felt vaguely disturbed by his interest.
A slovenly, slack-jawed young cowpoke lounging near the bat-wings also noticed McClain. He straightened, eyeing horse and rider narrowly for an instant, then turned to the bartender who was sweeping the saloon steps.
“Hey, ain’t that Glint McClain?”
The bartender glanced up impatiently, then froze, nodding strickenly.
Excitement flooded the cowpoke’s face. “Whooee! Wait’ll Hal Peters finds out!” Jerking his horse loose from the hitch rail, he pounded away, his shouts echoing along the street. “Glint McClain’s back! Glint McClain’s back!”
As he passed, the scattered handful of early risers looked after him, then each turned to stare uneasily toward the solitary rider continuing on toward the opposite edge of town.
The stranger noted their reactions thoughtfully, then finished tying his mule and ascended the saloon steps. He paused near the bartender, who had returned to his sweeping.
“Who is this Glint McClain?” His accent was traced with Spanish.
“Fast gun and a fast temper. ” The bartender’s voice was gruff with uneasiness.
The stranger’s blue eyes studied him shrewdly. “How fast?”
“Glint of steel. That’s how he came by his name.” The bartender turned back into the saloon.
The stranger looked after McClain for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. Then he turned and entered the saloon.
McClain rode steadily on. A short way beyond the town, he turned off the main road onto a rutted trail. He followed its winding path to the top of a small rise and reined in. A modest cabin stood in the meadow below. McClain saw, with a flood of warmth, that it was just as he remembered it—snugly built and sturdy. The curtains at its window were yellow muslin now instead of white, but the rosebush was still beside the door, the yard still neat and well tended.
Memories crowded his mind . . . the woman cutting roses, sitting with him before the crackling fireplace, humming as she worked at the stove. His throat tightened as he remembered the warmth of her body in the darkness, the smoothness of her breasts, the musky sweetness between her thighs. They’d shared so much together . . . everything but marriage and kids. Back then he wasn’t sure enough to give her those . . . not sure he could stay put, keep his gun on the wall. Now he was.
McClain lifted the reins, squeezed his horse forward, his tired eyes alight with anticipation.
At the side of the cabin, a pretty young woman hung the last pair of faded overalls on the clothesline. As she picked up her empty wash basket, she heard the soft thud of approaching hooves. She walked to the corner of the cabin and looked toward the rise which ended a short distance from the front yard. Glint McClain had almost completed his descent.
The woman stared toward him disbelievingly for an instant, then terrified recognition engulfed her face. She whirled, raced toward the small barn behind the cabin. A man in stained coveralls was just emerging, a pail of milk in his hand. He stopped, startled by her expression.
“What’s wrong, Em? What is it?”
“Glint McClain’s here.” Her voice was strangled.
The man dropped the pail. Its contents spilled across the dirt, unnoticed. “He’ll kill me sure!” His eyes were blind with fear.
She cluthced his arm desperately. “Quick! He mustn’t see you! Get the horse!” She hurried back toward the cabin yard as he scurried into the barn.
McClain dismounted near the door, started up the steps, then saw the woman coming toward him. She stopped as their eyes met, and he saw that she was taut and guarded.
“Em! Em, don’t you know me?” He strode to her, his face warm, eager.
“Course I know you, Glint, course.” She looked away from the hunger in his eyes. “But it’s been so long. Nearly five years. ”
“I was fightin’ for the Union.”
“You was always fightin’ somethin’.”
“That’s over now. I’m through with it. The fightin’, the driftin’. Through with everything except you and this place.”
She clenched her hands nervously. “You never wrote, never sent word, not since the day y’left.” Her voice was tight, unsteady. “I thought you . . . you wasn’t coming back.”
“But you waited, Em. You still waited!” He reached for her ardently.
She backed away, fright clear on her face now. He saw it with surprise. “What is it, Em? What’re you scared of?”
She shook her head, choking on words she couldn’t say. Suddenly McClain noticed the clothesline, the wet overalls, the faded shirts. He crossed, tore a shirt from its place, and stared at it, rage slowly blackening his features.
She moved to him, desperate with terror. “Glint, I did wait . . . months, years!”
The fury pounding in his blood drowned her words. “Where is he?” He gripped her arm cruelly. Where?”
From behind the cabin, the barn door creaked briefly. McClain tossed the shirt aside, strode toward the sound. She ran after him, clutching at him, shrieking.
“No, Glint! You gotta listen. Please! Please!”
McClain shook her off, kept walking. He rounded the cabin and saw the man in overalls near the open barn door. He was trying to mount a skittish workhorse.
McClain stopped, eyeing him coldly. “You won’t be needin’ the horse, fella.”
The man stiffened, one foot in a stirrup. Then he eased to the ground and turned, ashen-faced, toward the gunfighter.
Stumbling, the woman thrust herself in front of McClain. “Glint, we’re married! I’m his wife!”
McClain’s eyes wavered for an instant, then went hard again. “So now you’ll be his widow.” He thrust her aside roughly, returned his gaze to the man. “Get your gun.”
“I’m a farmer, McClain, just a farmer. You’ll be doin’ murder!”
“Get your gun.” McClain’s voice was deadly.
The man fought to stop his trembling, leaned against the horse for support. Then he straightened slowly, summoning final, desperate courage.
“Gun won’t save me, McClain.” He met the gunfighter’s gaze challengingly now, motioned toward the sobbing woman. “But killin’ won’t stop her lovin’ me either.”
The truth of his words hit McClain hard. He stared at the man, knowing he was right, knowing you could shoot away a life but not the feelings it had . . . the love or the tenderness, or even the hate and rage. No bullet could touch those. And they were what mattered, what counted between people. Once they were gone . . .
Slowly the anger drained from McClain’s face, leaving it bleak and haggard.
“Forget it, farmer. I’ve had a bellyful of killin’ anyhow.” He turned away wearily, paused beside the woman, a terrible emptiness in his eyes. “Good luck, Em.”
He walked stonily to the front of the cabin, mounted his horse, and jogged slowly away toward town.
Chapter Two
It was only midmoming, but the saloon was already crowded, its bar lined with a dusty assortment of leather-faced ranchers, wranglers, and farmers, its atmosphere charged with tension. Conversation stopped abruptly as McClain stepped through the bat-wings, and he knew at once that word of his return had spread.
Most of the faces turned toward him were familiar, but he saw no welcome in them. They held only the awareness of what he had been, and the dread of what he would bring back. McClain smiled bitterly. Fear had a long memory.
He crossed to the bar, returning the nervous greetings of those near him with a brusque nod. The line of men made room for him hastily. The bartend
er wiped a glass and set it in front of him.
“Whiskey, Glint?” The pleasantness in his tone was forced.
McClain nodded. “A double.”
At a nearby table the stranger who rode the scraggly mule sat alone, a bottle of whiskey before him. He studied the gunfighter with the same sharp interest as before, sizing him up, taking his measure with odd intensity.
McClain drained his glass at a gulp, ordered a refill. As the bartender obliged, an Indian wearing the khaki of an army scout entered. He crossed unobtrusively to the bar and took the empty place next to McClain.
“Whiskey, please.” The scout dropped a half-dollar on the counter.
The barkeep scowled at him. “ Don’t serve Injuns here. It’s against the law.”
“By army rules I’m the same as any trooper.” The scout’s quiet tones held undercurrents of irony.
“I told you—I don’t serve Injuns.”
McClain had listened to the exchange expressionlessly. Now he pulled a clean glass from the line on the inside edge of the bar. He turned it up, slid it in front of the scout.
“I’ll serve him. Gimme the bottle.”
The bartender hesitated uneasily. At his table the stranger’s gaze sharpened. Suddenly he called out.
“Señor McClain!”
The gunfighter looked toward him.
“My compliments!” He tossed McClain his whiskey bottle.
McClain caught it, his eyes flicking the stranger briefly. “Gracias.”
He turned back to the bar, filled the scout’s glass, then raised his glance challengingly to the watching customers. They evaded his eyes uneasily. Nobody spoke.
McClain returned his attention to the Indian. “Drink up, soldier.”
As they lifted their glasses, the batwings burst open and a tall, raunchy, mean-eyed kid of about twenty swaggered in. The young cowpoke who had first recognized McClain accompanied him.
The kid took in the scene at a glance. He called arrogantly, “Hold it, McClain!”
The other customers edged hastily to cover. Only the stranger at the table remained unmoving, his eyes alert and watchful.