The Hanging of Father Miguel Page 9

  “Unite!” cried Ben. “Ranchers and a bunch of Indians with spears! What chance’d we have against Lathrop’s gunfighters?”

  “He’s right,” yelled a wrangler, “an’ we ain’t dyin’ for a tribe of heathens! Or for you either, priest!” He lunged at Miguel, halted sharply as he found two spears against his belly. He glared at the priest.

  “You got the drop on us now, but y’can’t keep it like this. You gotta let us loose or tomorrow you’ll be facin’ Lathrop and us!”

  His companions murmured agreement, their attitudes a mixture of hostility and guilt. Miguel studied them sadly, perceiving their emotions. After a silent moment, he pointed out that if they murdered him, as Lathrop demanded, they would take on the evil which the outlaws offered. They would be killers, just as Lathrop and his men were and having shed innocent blood, they would never escape its stain. Even more, they would need to kill McClain and also Yomuli’s people because they would be witnesses to their actions.

  “Murder is never an end, my friends,” said the priest. “It is the beginning of inner torment, the death not only of the victim, but of the killer’s soul.”

  The townsmen exchanged glances, disturbed by his commanding words and compelling authority.

  Miguel’s eyes searched their faces urgently. “I offer you a choice, my friends. A lifetime of fear and guilty pretense, or the courage to fight for the life you had before these outlaws came to terrorize you.”

  The men conferred, almost convinced by the priest’s plea but uneasy about their chances of success against Lathrop’s band.

  Miguel brushed aside their doubts, pointed out that united with Yomuli’s people, the town inhabitants outnumbered the outlaws. He added that none of Lathrop’s men was as fast a gun as Glint McClain, and the outlaws would recognize that danger.

  “Furthermore, there will be no need for actual fighting. You see, I have a plan which will accomplish our success without bloodshed.”

  “What kinda plan?” asked Ben dubiously.

  Miguel smiled at the gathering with benign confidence. “A foolproof one, my friends. All you have to do is arm yourselves and trust me.” He was a silver-tongued savior now, and he held their hopes in the palm of his hand.

  The mayor scanned his companions’ faces. “Well, what do you say, boys?”

  Impressed by the priest’s assurance, the men found new courage.

  “Guess anything’s better’n murder,” offered Ben.

  “Long as there won’t be no shootin’,” agreed a wrangler.

  The mayor turned to Miguel. “All right, Father, we’ll go along with you.”

  “Just tell us what t’do, Padre.” The cowpoke’s voice held a new deference.

  “When and where are you to deliver me to Lathrop?” asked Miguel.

  “They’ll be coming for you at noon tomorrow. Here,” replied Spencer.

  “I will be waiting for them at the courtyard gate,” smiled Miguel.

  Everyone stared at him, startled. “They’re liable t’shoot you on sight, Padre!” warned a rancher.

  “Do not fear, my friends. Heaven will protect me,” the priest declared serenely.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The following morning was chill and somber. It remained so, with dank clouds and a drifting mist obscuring the midday sun when Lathrop and his men appeared on a rise overlooking the mission.

  Bunched together, grim-faced and gun-heavy, they made an ominous tableau as they reined in, eyes raking the landscape suspiciously.

  The mission appeared unchanged to them, a silent, decaying ghost.

  Rafe squinted, trying to see through the mist. “Don’t see anybody. They should be waitin’ for us.”

  Hank leaned forward in his saddle, gaze sharpening. “What’s that hangin’ from the gate? See it, boss?”

  Lathrop raised a spyglass and focused it on the courtyard entrance. It revealed a dark-robed figure dangling from the gate’s arch by a hangman’s rope. Lathrop scrutinized the figure with growing astonishment, then lowered the glass and shouted triumphantly to the others.

  “It’s the priest! They’ve hanged him!”

  Yelling exultantly, the band galloped forward. They burst into the deserted courtyard and milled to a noisy stop, leaping from their saddles. As they started toward the swinging figure, a volley of spears and arrows whizzed past their heads. The quivering shafts dug into the ground ahead, forming a warning barrier between them and the gate. As they froze, Yomuli and his braves rose from concealment on the chapel roof. A warrior raised his bow and sent another arrow speeding toward the courtyard gate. It severed the rope above the black-robed figure. Miguel dropped to the ground lightly and removed the loosely draped noose from his neck, revealing that it was a fake. Tossing off his robes, he removed another rope which passed under his armpits, enabling him to “hang” without injury.

  He grinned at the stunned outlaws impudently. “You seem surprised, bandidos. Have you never heard of a ‘stage noose’?”

  As he spoke, the men of Rileyville showed themselves on the courtyard walls, their guns and rifles leveled. Tensely the outlaws assessed the situation and realized that they were completely surrounded.

  Lathrop yelled desperately, “Let’s ride, boys!” He dove for his horse. The others did the same.

  Spears and arrows streaked from above to pierce the ground between them and the animals. The horses reared and scattered, dashing past the frustrated outlaws.

  Miguel’s voice whirled them around. He stood among the men on the walls now. “You are trapped, Lathrop. It would be wise to surrender.”

  Lathrop glared contemptuously at the surrounding townsmen. “You can’t hold us. You’re too lily-livered t’shoot!”

  “Do not underestimate us, Lathrop. We will not let you go,” advised Miguel grimly.

  Pretending to consider the priest’s warning, Lathrop spoke softly to his men. “Start shootin’, boys. We’ll make a run for the chapel.”

  He jerked out his gun and snapped a shot at Miguel. It grazed the priest’s cheek. As Miguel dropped to cover, Lathrop’s companions raced for the mission doors, firing at their captors as they ran.

  Spears and arrows flew, rifles spoke, but the outlaws disappeared into the chapel unharmed, leaving two wounded towns­men behind them.

  Gathered in the small adobe cook shack behind the mission, Spencer, Ben, and several other ranchers conferred while Miguel cleaned and dressed the wounds of the two injured townsmen. He seemed unaware of the blood welling from his own wound. McClain, seated in a chair tilted against the wall, kept a watchful eye on the window that overlooked the rear courtyard of the mission.

  “You said there’d be no bloodshed, Padre.” There was accusation in Spencer’s voice.

  “I did not think Lathrop would be so unwise.”

  “Might not have happened if you’d let ’em see McClain was with us.”

  “Keeping him unseen was part of my plan,” responded the priest. He glanced at the others reassuringly. “Do not worry, compadres. Their bullets accomplished nothing.”

  “Knocked out two of our guns,” remarked McClain dryly.

  “The men are not badly hurt, and we no longer need so many guns.”

  McClain threw him a skeptical look. “How come? Lathrop’s bunch has been holed up in that chapel all day. Can’t be too comfortable. They’re bound t’try another breakout, and a hard one.”

  Miguel shook his head, undisturbed. “Perhaps. But from now on, your gun will be our shield, McClain. That is the other part of my plan.

  “Should’ve figured I’d get the trouble part.”

  “The path to justice is seldom easy, my friend.” The priest completed bandaging and doused his bloodied face in a nearby basin of water. He mopped it dry with a ragged towel and turned toward the door.

  “And now, compadres, I will speak to Lathrop about his plan.”

  The others frowned bewilderedly. “How d’you know he’s got one?” Ben queried.

  Miguel
grinned wickedly. “If he has not, I shall induce one. Watch for my signal, McClain.” He opened the door a crack, peered out to make sure the way was clear, then raced toward the courtyard wall.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Crouching, Miguel raced to a crude wooden ladder fitted into a niche of the courtyard’s side wall. Yomuli’s warriors and the guarding townsmen covered his progress. He moved swiftly along the narrow walkway at the top of the wall to a position opposite the chapel doors. Shielded behind a raised section of the wall’s inner bulwark, he shouted loudly to the outlaw leader.

  “Come out, Lathrop! You will not be harmed. We wish to parley. ” There was no reply. Miguel shouted again, “I give you my word as a priest. You will be safe.”

  For a moment there was only silence. Then the chapel door opened a few inches, and Lathrop called harshly.

  “Show yourself, priest. I’ll come out when you do.”

  The townsman standing near Miguel shook his head in sharp negation. “Don’t do it, Padre. They’ll cut y’down!”

  “If they do, stand firm. Do not allow them to escape. There is too much at stake.” Miguel raised an arm, signaling to Yomuli’s braves and the surrounding townsmen to cover him. Then he dropped to the ground.

  “I am out, Lathrop. Come and meet me!” He strode boldly to the center of the courtyard.

  Slowly Lathrop emerged from the chapel. Three men with leveled rifles accompanied him. He paused at the top of the steps, glancing around tensely at the grim guardians on the walls.

  “Closer, Lathrop! It is difficult to parley while shouting.”

  Lathrop descended the steps uneasily and advanced to within a few feet of Miguel. “Anybody shoots, you’re dead, priest.”

  “No one will shoot. We wish to avoid further bloodshed. Your surrender will accomplish that.”

  Lathrop scowled. “We’ll see you in hell first!”

  “Your attitude is foolish,” pointed out Miguel. “You cannot escape. There are too many of us against you.”

  “Maybe. But my men are better shots. And they don’t mind killin’. The ranchers do, and they hate the idea of dyin’.”

  “Even so, they will never permit you to escape.”

  “When the shootin’ starts again, they’ll change their minds,” Lathrop declared smugly.

  “We can starve you out.”

  “Try it. There’ll be shootin’ all the way.”

  “Your bullets may be more accurate than ours, but they will not protect you from flames.”

  Lathrop stared at him, appalled, “You’d let ’em bum your mission? You’re bluffin’!”

  Their eyes locked. Miguel’s were cold as death. “We will bum it to the ground—with you in it if necessary.”

  Lathrop whitened, reading the iron determination in the priest’s face. Miguel studied him narrowly, sensing that he had won an advantage.

  “As I said, we would prefer to avoid violence. If you could suggest a compromise, perhaps even a mutual gamble . . . ”

  “You mean like a bet, an’ if we won, you’d let us go?” Lathrop asked shrewdly.

  “We would escort you out of the territory.”

  Lathrop considered for a moment, then suggested slyly, “You willin’ to risk a two-man shoot-out?”

  A flicker of triumph showed briefly on Miguel’s face. “You suggest a duel?”

  “You could call it that,” said Lathrop. “One of my boys against anybody you want.”

  Miguel seemed shocked. “But more blood would be shed!”

  “One dead man’s better than a bunch.”

  “That is true.” Miguel weighed the idea for a moment, then asked, “And if the dead man is yours, you will surrender peacefully?”

  Lathrop smirked. “That’s right.”

  “And you will accept any champion we name?” asked Miguel insistently.

  “That’s what I said.”

  The priest hesitated, then nodded. “Very well, we have an agreement.”

  Lathrop’s eyes gleamed with the cunning conviction that he had suckered the priest into a losing bargain. “Who’s your man?”

  Miguel raised an arm in signal to the men on the walls. In response, McClain appeared from behind a section of the bulwark, showing himself among them for the first time.

  “Name’s McClain,” he called, “Glint McClain.” He dropped to the ground and crossed to Miguel’s side.

  Lathrop stared at him, dismayed. His feelings were echoed in the faces of his three backup men on the steps of the chapel. As comprehension dawned, the outlaw leader turned furiously on Miguel.

  “You slimy sidewinder! You foxed me in!”

  Miguel seemed taken aback. “You agreed to accept any man chosen.”

  “You didn’t say y’had Glint McClain. None of my boys’ll draw against himl ”

  The bewilderment on Miguel’s face increased. “But your followers are experienced gunmen. All of them!”

  “Too experienced t’draw against McClain. The deal’s off!”

  Both men looked up as a strange male voice called sharply from just outside the courtyard gate.

  “I’ll draw against him!”

  Smugly aware that all attention was centered on him, Hal Peters rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Twirling McClain’s lucky piece in his fingers, he swaggered to Lathrop’s side.

  “Took this off him when I gunned him down before,” he boasted, looking insolently at McClain. “Been trailin’ him for days. Came t’finish what I started back at the stream, McClain.”

  Miguel and McClain exchanged a glance, both acutely aware of the drifting mist and the chill of approaching dusk.

  “Been expectin’ you. Call your time and place.” The gun­fighter kept his tone even, without sign of the uncertainty he was feeling.

  “How about right now?”

  Miguel spoke hastily. “No, it will soon be dark. The contest must take place in full daylight so that everyone can see it clearly and be sure that it is completely fair.”

  Peters scowled. “I ain’t waitin’ around all night for—”

  Miguel interrupted him coldly, gesturing at the surrounding townsmen and Indians. “You will wait, Peters, or there will be no duel. My people are making the rules!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The night was inky and starless, punctuated by the low rumble of distant thunder. A mist-veiled moon played hide-and-seek with drifting clouds, and dampness hung heavily in the air, adding to its chill.

  Both townsmen and Indians guarded the mission walls, but the courtyard was deserted and only a flicker of lantern light showed from within the chapel to acknowledge the presence of those inside.

  A large fire blazed just outside of the courtyard walls. Yomuli and his braves clustered around it, the warriors helping themselves to the aromatic contents of a caldron of meat simmering above the flames. Their talk was intermittent, subdued by reflections on the day’s grim events and somber anticipation of what the morning would bring.

  McClain stood with hands outstretched to the fire’s warmth, flexing his fingers experimentally. Miguel hunkered beside him, a worried frown creasing his forehead as the gunfighter grimaced with discomfort.

  “Fingers are stiff as a sweaty cinch. No way I can outdraw Peters if it don’t warm up.”

  Miguel nodded unhappily. “I am sorry, my friend. I did not anticipate his arrival.”

  The gunfighter shrugged. “Can’t be helped. I just hope tomorrow’s sunny an’ warm.”

  Miguel rose and placed a hand on McClain’s shoulder. “I shall pray for it, my friend,” he said fervently, “with all my soul.”

  He strode away into the darkness. From the opposite side of the fire, Yomuli looked after him, concerned by his troubled attitude. After a moment, the chief rose and slipped into the night, moving in the direction taken by Miguel.

  He found the priest on a sandy rise. He knelt, rosary in hand, face turned to the heavens, praying silently. Yomuli moved to him soundlessly and waited until Migu
el became aware of his presence.

  Then he asked softly, “Why does priest kneel alone with empty heart?”

  “I have done a wrong thing, Yomuli. I have endangered the life of a man who trusted me.”

  “What man?”

  “The gun-warrior whom I brought to help us.”

  The bewilderment on Yomuli’s face increased. “Gun-warrior not die. His medicine strong like shield. He kill stranger.”

  Miguel shook his head sadly. “He has a sickness in his hands. When it is cold, they move slowly and his gun medicine is weak.”

  Yomuli listened sympathetically as the priest explained that if the next day’s weather remained damp and chill, McClain would probably die.

  “And his death will be my fault, Yomuli. My sin.”

  Yomuli studied the priest’s anguished face, placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “Priest find way. Always find way.”

  “Not this time. I have tried, but I can see no way. Even my prayers seem unanswered.” Desperation showed in Miguel’s eyes.

  “Will of Heaven not help?” asked Yomuli uncertainly.

  “In this, the will of Heaven is not clear to me.”

  The chief hesitated, then revealed diffidently that his tribe had an ancient remedy for stiffness of the limbs. It was a medicine of their old gods, passed down through the centuries to keep warriors nimble and diminish the sickness of age.

  “It not from your Heaven, but much strong. Make sickness go. Make good medicine for gun-warrior.”

  Miguel stared at him, hope dawning on his face. “This medicine . . . can it make the sickness go by morning?”

  Yomuli nodded confidently. “Day come, no pain for gun-warrior. Hands go like arrow.”

  “Come, Yomuli. Your people must start making medicine at once.”

  As the two men strode briskly back toward the campfire, Yomuli remarked with a touch of pride, “Old gods sometimes smart like will of Heaven.”

  “In this instance, I think they are the will of Heaven,” agreed Miguel gratefully.