The Hanging of Father Miguel Read online

Miguel looked at him sadly. “How little you trust me, my friend.”

  “I don’t trust a coyote in a chicken house, either,” answered McClain.

  “I can understand your doubts,” said Miguel humbly, “but I am not a thief, McClain. The offerings belong to the mission. They were meant to be used only in its service.”

  “So where are they?”

  “They were in a secret place beneath the altar. Stored for safekeeping.”

  “What d’you mean were?” McClain demanded sharply.

  Miguel slumped on the bench. “I will come to that, McClain.” He went on with his story emotionally. “The Indians knew that white men valued their ‘yellow rocks.’ They asked me never to reveal how I got the altar offerings. I swore a sacred vow with their tribal chief not to do so.” Memories darkened his eyes. “I meant to keep the vow, but somehow Lathrop and his men learned of the trinkets.”

  “Lathrop? That was the name on the bullion wagon!”

  Miguel nodded. “He is a ruthless man. He and his gang are feared by everyone. Even the town of Rileyville dares not stand against Lathrop’s men.

  “I take it they headquarter in these parts.”

  “Yes. Lathrop poses as a rancher. In reality, he is a thief and a murderer.” Hatred filled Miguel’s face for an instant. Then he went on miserably, “They came here one night. Lathrop and five others. They forced their way into the chapel and demanded to know where the gold was. I tried to deny any knowledge of it, but they beat me until I told them everything . . . even the location of the tribal cave. ” Miguel buried his face in his hands, agonized.

  Voice breaking, he told how the outlaws tore away the altar cloth and took the offerings from their hiding place. Then, leaving him for dead, they headed for the Indian camp. Somehow he dragged himself to his mule and went to the nearby town of Rileyville for help.

  “But the people were too afraid of Lathrop. They would not help me, McClain. They wanted to drive me away. All of them except one . . . a young woman. Brave and pure as a saint! She is called Annie Johnson. She insisted on hiding me, nursing me until I was strong enough to travel. She begged for me! Begged until the others agreed to let me stay. But only if I promised to leave as soon as possible and never return.” Shame flooded Miguel’s face. “To save my miserable life, I gave them my word. A week later I left. I cannot explain about the grave or tell you why I am called ‘devil.’ I only know that I spent six months searching for a way to bring Lathrop to justice. You were the answer I prayed for, McClain.”

  McClain stared at him, a mixture of sympathy and bewilderment on his face. “You’re still talkin’ puzzles,” he said.

  “No! It is very clear! With a famous gunfighter to lead them, the people here will take courage. They will unite and drive Lathrop out. Then the Indians will be free again . . . and so will I.” His pleading eyes met the gunfighter’s urgently.

  McClain hesitated uncomfortably, then asked, “Ain’t there some kinda law around here? A marshal or somebody?”

  “There have been two sheriffs. Lathrop’s men made sure they did not stay long.”

  “Why should I take on a fight that’s not mine?”

  “You fought against slavery before.”

  “That’s how I learned t’mind my own business. And I don’t plan t’change that leamin’.” McClain holstered his gun and scowled stubbornly at the priest. “So you better figure a different way for me t’pay off my bet.”

  Miguel rose with a sigh. “I know I tricked you into coming here, my friend. But the need is desperate. I hoped you would understand that.” He fixed McClain with a solemn stare. “Just as I understood your need when I found you at the stream.”

  His meaning was sharply clear. It cut at the gunfighter like a knife, sending a thrust of guilt through him. He scowled and reminded Miguel that he wasn’t a top gunfighter anymore— except on sunny days.

  “And since a lotta days ain’t sunny, I’m liable t’end up in a quick grave. Now why should I risk that for a poker-cheatin’ snake like you?”

  His words shook Miguel with sudden, face-crumbling shame. “You are right. There is no reason, my friend. I am a coward who deserves nothing from any man.”

  McClain accepted his admission uneasily. “Well, at least you’re man enough t’own up to it.”

  “I admit also that I have tricked you enough. Go! I release you from your bargain. Take your property and go!” Miguel turned forlornly toward the chapel.

  McClain watched him, taken aback by his sudden change of attitude. “Where you goin’?”

  The priest continued toward the chapel door. “To pray,” he answered.

  McClain shook his head bewilderedly, then started toward his horse. A sudden thought made him pause and call out. “What happens if Lathrop finds out you’re alive?”

  “He’ll hang me.” Miguel disappeared into the chapel.

  McClain glared after him for a moment, angry at his conflicting emotions. Then, with a distracted curse, he mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of Rileyville.

  From the shadows beyond the ravaged chapel door, Miguel watched him speculatively, the humble dejection of a few minutes earlier completely gone from his manner.

  Chapter Nine

  The chained Indians huddled together, shaking their heads and shrieking the name “Padre Diablo, ” refusing to enter the mine despite curses and blows from their two guards.

  At last the guards hauled an elderly Indian from the group and shoved a pistol against his forehead. Angrily, they announced that unless work in the mine resumed, the man would be shot.

  As the prisoners fell silent, exchanging uneasy glances, the old Indian squared his shoulders and shouted, “Do not hear them! The cave is taboo now! Padre Diablo has put evil spirits there!”

  The guard with the pistol increased its pressure against the old man’s temple. “Shut up!” he yelled. He eyed the other tribesmen threateningly. “This fleabag is your chiefs father. Do you work or does he die?”

  The Indians hesitated, whispered among themselves. Then a young warrior fixed the guards with a savage glare. “We cannot let these dogs shed the old one’s blood,” he cried. “We will work.”

  Cursing, the second guard brought his whip down across the young warrior’s shoulders as his companion shoved the old Indian back into line. Trembling and reluctant, the prisoners filed into the cave, the guards prodding them brutally.

  As work resumed, Bart Lathrop, a heavyset, shrewd-eyed man of about forty, rode to a halt near the cave entrance. He sat watching the activity, holding his restless, highly bred mount in check expertly. A coldly magnetic figure, he was expensively dressed, his saddle richly tooled and studded with silver. Two stony-faced, thin-lipped gunmen rode with him.

  Lathrop was a canny, totally amoral leader of men who stopped at nothing to get and keep what he wanted. He was known for his fancy clothes, unscrupulous methods, and thirst for power. His followers consisted of twenty hardcases, all as cold-blooded and dangerous as their leader.

  The gang’s domain extended from the hills to the plain and the ranching town of Rileyville, which they dominated through terror and treachery. Until Lathrop discovered the existence of the Indian mine, their activities were limited to robberies and rustling. Now the gang was rapidly accumulating a wealth of gold, and Lathrop congratulated himself frequently on the luck which had brought a certain golden trinket to his attention.

  Lathrop’s sharp-eyed gaze quickly noted the Indians’ uneasiness. “What’s botherin’ ’em?” he asked the guards. “They’re actin’ funny.”

  One of the guards replied diffidently. “They’re scared, Mr. Lathrop. Claim they saw that dead priest from the mission stan-din’ on the hill.”

  Lathrop frowned. “Father Miguel?”

  “That’s right. Only now they’re callin’ him ‘Padre Diablo. ’ They swear he’s hooked up with the devil ’cause he broke some kinda promise while he was alive. They think he’s come back to turn evil spirits loose on �
�em.”

  Lathrop scanned the surrounding hills narrowly. “You boys see anything in the hills?”

  “Nothin’ at all,” replied the guard.

  Lathrop’s face cleared. “Then forget it. Damn savages are probably tryin’ to get out of workin’. Give the next one that sees a devil twenty lashes. That’ll take the spook out of ’em.”

  Lathrop spun his horse and galloped away toward town. The two gunmen followed him.

  Except for periodic, brawling visits from Lathrop’s men, Rileyville was a small, serene town. Its main street was lined with neatly painted stores, one selling dry goods, one feed and grain, and one grocery supplies. There was a Chinese laundry, a livery stable, a blacksmith, a boardinghouse, and at the far end of the street, the town’s only saloon. All the establishments owed their prosperity to the success of the many surrounding ranches. The town itself existed because of them and because of their owners’ need for some semblance of civilization amid the vast emptiness which surrounded them. It was a place where they could herd together and forget for a while that they were intruders in this lonely, savage land.

  McClain’s horse was tied in front of the saloon between two others. Except for the animals and several men lounging in front of the livery stable, the street was deserted.

  Inside the honkytonk, unimaginatively named “Cattlemen’s Saloon,” McClain was the only customer at the bar. Three middle-aged men, all in city clothes, sat at a nearby table drinking beer and eyeing the gunfighter uneasily. They were the mayor, Horace Spencer, the boardinghouse owner, Jake Gulden, and Emmet Fowler, the chairman of the town council. The husky bartender and an attractive, bosomy saloon hostess were the only others present. They, too, eyed McClain with sober curiosity.

  The gunfighter was aware of their interest and of the undercur­rents of uneasiness which accompanied it. He had sensed the tension as soon as he entered, and wondered resentfully what it meant.

  As he drained his whiskey glass, his mind still broodingly occupied with Miguel, the mayor called out cheerfully, “Next drink’s on us, stranger.”

  McClain had expected some such invitation. He frowned, pre­ferring to be left alone, then turned, his face carefully unreadable. “Much obliged. Any special reason?”

  The three men smiled with exaggerated heartiness. “Customary town welcome, that’s all,” replied Mayor Spencer. He rose, introduced himself and his companions, and asked McClain’s name. The gunfighter supplied it reluctantly, felt relieved when the men seemed not to recognize it.

  “What brings you to Rileyville?” asked Chairman Fowler as the bartender refilled McClain’s glass.

  McClain knew instantly that this was the key question. “Just seein’ the country. Be pushin’ on when my horse’s rested.”

  The relief on their faces puzzled him. Then he dismissed it and raised his glass to them. “Well, here’s to you, gents.” He tossed the whiskey down neatly and turned back to the bar, his attitude discouraging further conversation.

  Undisturbed by his dismissal, the three townsmen exchanged satisfied glances and resumed talking, showing no further curiosity about him. As the gunfighter continued to drink, the hostess approached him.

  “Want some company, stranger?” Her voice was soft and sweet, in striking contrast to her painted face and garish costume.

  The sweetness brought McClain a sudden image of Em, and turned his negative head shake into a curt “Why not?”

  The girl leaned against the bar, tilted her head so she could see his eyes better, and said with an inviting smile, “I’m Annie Johnson.”

  For an instant McClain was taken aback. Then he burst into sardonic laughter. “Annie Johnson, huh? I should’ve figured!”

  “What’s so funny?” asked the hostess defensively.

  “An hombre named Miguel,” chuckled McClain, “calls himself Father Miguel.”

  Annie stiffened nervously. “Who? Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

  McClain met her eyes levelly. “Funny—he knows you.”

  The girl’s nervousness increased. “Mission used to have a priest by that name . . . ”

  “I’m not sure he’s a priest, but I know he’s a prime liar.”

  “Must be another fella. The priest who was here—he’s dead.”

  “Rides a big, scraggly old mule.” McClain watched her reaction narrowly, saw the flash of recognition which she tried to hide.

  She hesitated uneasily, then leaned closer and glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. “This fella—you got a score against him?”

  “Owe him a gamblin’ debt.”

  Relief showed in her eyes. She ran a hand caressingly up his arm, spoke with soft, husky invitation. “Let’s talk in my room, okay?”

  Her manner intrigued McClain. “What’s the price?”

  She raised her voice so everyone could overhear. “Four bucks, stranger.”

  “Fair enough.” McClain picked up his whiskey bottle. “Lead on, saintly lady.” He gave her a mocking bow and followed as she led the way quickly toward a rear stairway.

  Chapter Ten

  Lathrop and the two gunmen who had accompanied him from the mine strode noisily through the batwings and headed for a table. As they sat down, Lathrop spotted Annie and McClain ascending the stairs.

  He frowned, called sharply, “Hey, Annie! Where you goin’? Come on down here!”

  The hostess froze, gave McClain a scared look. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered.

  She started down, but the gunfighter put a firm hand on her arm. His gaze met Lathrop’s coolly. “She’s busy, friend.” He resumed climbing the stairs, taking Annie with him.

  Lathrop’s face blackened with fury. He rose, his companions doing the same. “I want her down here. Pronto!”

  McClain turned. “No can do. You’ll have t’wait.”

  Lathrop gestured sharply to his men. They started forward, then one of them suddenly recognized McClain. He halted abruptly and turned back to Lathrop. “Boss, that’s Glint McClain!” he whispered.

  The outlaw leader gave him a startled look. “You sure?”

  The man nodded. “We used t’hang out in the same town. Played poker with him.”

  Lathrop looked toward the gunfighter. McClain had descended to the bottom of the stairs. He was waiting, eyes narrowed and wary. He looked as dangerous as a crouched cougar.

  Lathrop’s face smoothed as if wiped with a damp towel. “Looks like there’s been a little mistake.” He nodded toward the man beside him. “Rafe here says you’re a buddy of his—Glint McClain.”

  Rafe said hastily, “Mesa City, Glint. Recollect?”

  McClain’s militant scrutiny changed to recognition. “Rafe Cluny, right?” His tone was friendly but not enthusiastic.

  “Right! Been a long time!”

  McClain nodded agreement, then looked at Lathrop. “The lady’s still busy,” he said pointedly.

  Lathrop smiled good-naturedly. “That bein’ the case, I’ll wait my turn.”

  “Good.”

  “By the way, I’m Bart Lathrop—Rafe’s boss.” The tension in the room eased as Lathrop extended his hand and McClain took it.

  Their handshake was hard and competitive, each man taking the other’s measure. Lathrop was the first to loosen his grip. His eyes glittered dangerously at the defeat, but his manner remained friendly.

  “Heard a lot about you, McClain. What brings you to Rileyville?”

  “Just driftin’.”

  “Open for a job? My outfit could use a top gun.”

  McClain’s face remained carefully unreadable. “What would I be gunnin’ for?”

  “I’ve got a little gold mine up in the hills. Need protection for my bullion wagons—among other things.”

  McClain considered thoughtfully. “Like I said, I’m just driftin’ through. But I could pause awhile if the job pays enough.”

  “Pays just about whatever you want. Long as you do whatever I want.”

  Their eyes met levelly for
a moment, then McClain said, “I’ll think on it. Let you know. ” He turned abruptly and ascended the stairs to the waiting girl. Sliding an arm around her, he drew her through the corridor archway and out of sight.

  Lathrop looked after them narrowly, the geniality gone from his face. “McClain’s mighty high-handed.”

  Rafe nodded. “Always was, boss. Calls his own tune.”

  “He as fast with a gun as I heard?”

  “Draws quicker than a strikin’ rattler. I know. I seen him gun one down.”

  “He better be that good. I don’t like t’be kept waitin’.” Giving Rafe an ominous glare, Lathrop sat down at the table. Hurriedly, the bartender brought them a bottle and some glasses.

  Annie led McClain to a small, sparsely furnished room. She closed the door behind them and bolted it carefully. McClain tossed his hat at a bedpost, sat down wearily beside a three-legged table with some glasses on it. He turned up two of the glasses and began to fill them as Annie crossed to him, unbuttoning her dress.

  “How do you want your lovin’?” There were nervous under­currents in her businesslike tone.

  “First we talk.”

  Annie evaded his probing glance. “Father Miguel’s not a popular subject around here.”

  “You act like he’s a dangerous subject.”

  “It’s best t’let the dead be.”

  The gunfighter studied her narrowly. “You sayin’ the priest’s really dead?”

  The question seemed to increase Annie’s uneasiness. She dropped into the chair opposite McClain and downed the whiskey he’d poured for her hastily.

  “Sure the priest’s dead. He’s buried at the mission.”

  McClain gave her a long, steady look. “Now, that’s what I’ve gotta decide. Is he buried or is he a double-dealin’ varmint pretendin’ t’be somethin’ he’s not.”

  Annie’s reaction was totally unexpected. Her nervousness changed to sudden, hot anger. “Double-dealin’ varmint? That’s a lie! Maybe he slipped a little as a priest, but he was the finest man I ever knew.”

  “Hard t’believe that. Maybe you knew him better than I do.”