The Hanging of Father Miguel by M. A. Armen

Author:M. A. Armen
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781590772263
Publisher: M. Evans & Company
Published: 2014-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The mission was as silent and lonely as when McClain first saw it. He reined in beside the courtyard arch, dismounted, and tied his horse to the weathered hitch rack. He looked around soberly, remembering how Miguel had first described the place to him, struck by the accuracy of the priest’s fond words. Even ravaged and neglected, the mission held an atmosphere of peace. In view of the violence which had taken place here, McClain wondered why this should be so, why, standing here, he should feel so strongly that he had reached a haven.

He wasn’t an introspective man, but the staunch old building seemed a testimony to permanence, to patient strength in the face of assault. McClain realized suddenly that, in his own strange way, Miguel had the same kind of strength. It was a form of hope, just as the mission was. The place and the man had given McClain hope by forcing him to make a decision. For the moment he was no longer drifting. He had a goal. He was needed.

The gunfighter smiled wryly, thinking that Miguel had done him a favor by tricking him. Then he strode across the courtyard and entered the chapel.

McClain had not visited a holy place for many years. His gun had been his god and his salvation. He paused inside the battered door, removed his hat, and stood blinking in the gloom, filled with an unaccustomed deference.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw that the chapel was plain, its rows of wooden benches crude, its stone walls without ornamentation. It should have been dismal, but the huge, oaken cross above the altar was polished to a gleaming brilliance which mirrored the flames of the candles beneath it, and seemed to illuminate everything it touched.

The thorn-crowned figure nailed to the cross was carved with exquisite care. Its pain-racked eyes held a lifelike quality, a wisdom as ancient as the stars. They sought McClain, seemed to speak to him.

The gunfighter stood motionless, inspired by this humble sanctuary. Then he became aware of a figure kneeling in the shadows before the altar. It was Miguel. He looked oddly unfamiliar in his priest’s robe, his head bent in silent prayer.

McClain moved slowly up the aisle toward him. The priest heard his step and rose. Their eyes met and held as McClain spoke quietly.

“Padre, I’ve come back to help.”

“What changed your mind, my son?”

“Miss Annie Johnson.”

Miguel’s countenance lighted. “I told you she was a saint!”

Miguel’s small room was behind the chapel. A chest, a cot, and a rough table near the hearth were its only furnishings. Seated at the table, bowls of thick soup before them, McClain repeated to Miguel the story that Annie had told him about the grave in the mission courtyard.

Miguel was stunned. “The grave is empty? A trick to make people believe I am dead? That is a dangerous hoax! The town will be in great peril if Lathrop discovers it!”

McClain shrugged. “Town deserves what it gets. But

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