The Protestant, Jewish, Catholic ranger shrugged and said, “I reckon nine out of ten priests respect secrets confided to them alone. As for the granting of Sanctuary, they ain't supposed to shelter common felons, and they're supposed to inform the local authorities they've given the Sanctuary of the Church to a want, no matter what he or she might be wanted for.”
Longarm insisted, “Are you saying no priest would hide Devil Dave or his pals without telling us he was doing so?”
The ranger who claimed to know shook his head and said, “What Rome says and what a particular man of the cloth might do ain't the same tidy package at all. Like I said, you may be able to trust your life to most such sky pilots. But Our Lord only had to trust His life to that one bad apple out of a dozen to end up in a mighty mean situation!”
Chapter 13
You had to play such chips as you had left with the cards you were dealt, unless you aimed to just get up and leave the table, safe and dumb. Longarm hadn't found anyone in Texas who was willing to own up to the whereabouts of Devil Dave and the less distinct Hogan, wanted on that same murder warrant after shooting up that Denver courtroom.
When he got over to the rectory that same old priest seemed to have been expecting him. He ushered Longarm into a Spartan study, sat him in a comfortable leather chair, and rang for refreshments as he helped his ownself to a straight-back seat left over from the Spanish Inquisition and said, “I have wondered when you would get around to us,
El
Brazo Largo.”
Longarm started to deny it. Then he smiled sheepishly and allowed, “That's what comes of having every Spanish speaker in town attending the same church, I reckon.”
The older man sighed and said, “If only. Let us be frank with one another, Deputy Long. The late Benito Juarez was of pure Indian blood and had little use for a church he felt had repressed his own Zapotec ancestors. Perhaps it had. I know little of the religious practices of the Zapotec. When Cortez entered Ciudad
Mejico
he had an army of Indian rebels following him and his few Spanish men-at-arms. The Aztecs your Yanqui schoolbooks feel so sorry for had terrorized the country coast-to-coast with their demands for slaves and human sacrifices. Our Mother Church put an end to this. Aztec priests wearing human bones and painted with human blood were executed as murderers by the new Spanish rulers, and you may have heard how complex a man we had in our own Archbishop Juan De Fonesca, no?”
Longarm said, “No. I ain't never seen a warrant sworn out against a gent by that name, Padre.”
The priest smiled thinly and replied, “Perhaps that is because he died some time ago. Ferdinand and Isabella authorized him to look after their new subjects in New Spain. De Fonesca spoke up for the Indians and had laws passed for to protect them from being exploited. He also burned many Aztec books and a good many Aztec priests. To protect the Indians from forced labor he authorized each Spanish family to import up to twelve Africans who were already slaves. As you may have guessed, that did not work out exactly as planned. Thousands of Africans who had not been slaves until then were rounded up and transported to the New World while the Indians were exploited just the same.”
Longarm asked, “Why are you telling me all this, Padre? I'm having enough trouble understanding Mexico in the here and now!”
A Mex gal in a maid's uniform brought a tray in, piled with pastries, a pitcher of sangria, and cut glass goblets. As she served the two of them the Mexican priest said, “The Mexico of today is left over from the Mexico of yesterday, so close to Los Estados Unidos, so far from God, with so many mistakes by well-meaning fools and deep-dyed sinners still haunting her and her people.”
He indicated that Longarm was to dig in as he continued. “Is impossible for most Mexicans to really understand the mess we call Mexico. I only wish for you to understand my own position a little. Was a priest by the name of Hidalgo who first led an uprising for Mexico's liberty in 1811. They killed him, of course, and took unjust revenge on the rest of us, as the winners always do. So those churchmen who survived tried for to, how you say, patch things up with the Spanish ruling class and, perhaps, some went a little too far.”
Longarm sipped some sangria, noting this batch had been mixed with finer wine, and allowed he'd heard Juarez had confiscated a heap of church property once his working-class party got to running things.
His host sighed, “Then that fool, Napoleon the Second, sent an even bigger fool called Maximilian in with the French Foreign Legion to put things back the way they'd been, and the next time Juarez won he was
really
mad! The persecution of priests, monks, and nuns that followed was an ugly chapter our current liberals do not wish for to talk about. When Juarez died, one of his generals, Porfirio Diaz, took over in perhaps an irregular manner.”
Longarm growled, “You mean he stole
La Revolucián,
the ruthless son of a bitch!”
The old priest nodded in agreement but demurred, “A ruthless smart son of a bitch who does not like surprises. He has made friends up in Washington and along your Wall Street by restoring law and order in a country sadly lacking either. His position with regard to the Church of Rome has been, how you say, a compromise. He and his strongarms in gray sombreros leave us alone and we, in turn, leave them alone. My official position, as far as a known enemy of the Diaz Government is concerned, is that I have no wish to aid or abet this
Yanqui
wildman called
El Brazo
Largo by so many of my poor misguided people.”
Longarm set his half-drained goblet aside and started to rise as he thanked the old cuss for what he'd already swallowed.
The priest said, “Sentarse, I had not finished. In my capacity as a priest of
La Santa
Fe I would have nothing for to say to this most desicreditado enemy of El Presidente Diaz. So perhaps it is just as well I have only heard rumors he might be in town and for how may I help you in your capacity as a lawman on this side of the border?”
Longarm chose his words before he cautiously replied, “To start with, was it the Widow Deveruex or her daughter who told you who I... might be, Padre?”
The priest said, “I do not think they know who you are. I can tell you that much. I am not at liberty to discuss what anyone may or may not have told me in the confessional. Now you wish for me to tell you whether poor David Deveruex or his comrades have sought Sanctuary with us, no?”
Longarm nodded and said, “Yep. Ain't a question I can come up with more important than that one, Padre.”
The older man sighed and said, “You have my word as an ordained man of God that David and his friend, Hogan, are nowhere to be found on the property of this parish, including some grazing land you will hear of as you ask around.”
Longarm sipped more sangria and asked, “Is it safe to say you'd tell me if he was somewhere else you knew of, Padre?”
The priest looked pained and replied, “Let us not play guessing games, my son. I have tried for to explain the delicate position I am in with some of my parish on one side while others stand ready to fight to the death for the other. I have told you as much as I have because I do not wish for you to make more trouble for anyone. The ones you seek are not here. They are not hiding with anyone who attends services at this church. That is all I can tell you. Please do not ask me to betray a confidence or lie to a lawman of these Estados
Unidos!”
So Longarm never. It would have been dumb to brag to the older man he'd used that “process of eliminating” to put the murderous little pissant out on the Deveruex-Lopez Grant, with his big sister instead of his little old momma covering up for him!
He finished the sangria and one of the galetta
dulces
to be polite and left the rectory friendly without pressing the priest about Hernando Nana popping out this same door like that the night before. The friendly old cuss had already told him more than he'd hoped for. So all he had to do now was search for an armed-and-dangerous needle in one hellishly big mesquite stack! That son of a bitching land grant covered many a square mile of rough range and it hardly seemed likely any D Bar L riders would be offering a helping hand to anybody but the bratty kid brother of their boss lady, Devil Dave's own sister!
Â
Springtime in West Texas was hot as High Summer in Denver. So Longarm paused in the shade of a blackjack arching over the churchyard walk to light a fresh cheroot as he tried to come up with some way to poke about the D Bar L without being challenged as a trespasser by riders who'd know their own range better.
As he shook out the match a ragged-ass Mexican kid came through the tombstones like a haunt fixing to ask for a hand-out. Longarm had made the mistake of giving money to one kid begging in Spanish. So he said,
“No me jodas, Muchacho.
No tengo dinero. No tengo tabaco. No tengo
mierda
por Usted.
¿Comprende?”
To which the kid sweetly replied. “Chingate! I do not wish for your money. I do not wish for tobacco and you can keep your shit! I was told you are the gringo called Dunk Crawford. The
viada
who sent me for to find you and bring you to her does not speak to me so
rudo.
But she must be loco en
las cabeza
to wish for your
visita desagradable.”
Longarm broke out another cheroot and soothed, “Have a smoke, you sassy little cuss. A widow woman sent you to fetch me, you say? Might we be talking about a little gray-haired
viada
of calidad?”
The kid took the cheroot without even a nod of thanks and told Longarm to judge the lady for himself. So Longarm fell in step with the kid, who put the cheroot away for later as Longarm tried to figure out where they were going.
When he asked if the Deveruex-Lopez town house wasn't more to the north of the churchyard the Mex kid snorted that everyone knew that.
So the old widow woman didn't want to meet him at home, and like the old church song suggested, farther along he'd understand why.
As they left the churchyard Longarm asked the kid whether he went to church back yonder and the kid snorted, “Por
que?
Life is too short for to waste any part of it praying for to live forever. Do
you
believe any of that
mierda,
Senor Crawford?”
Longarm shrugged and said, “I ain't as old and sure of myself as you, muchacho. The reason I asked was I was wondering whether there was a convent or a monastery attached to that old Spanish church.”
The kid shook his head and said,
“Ningundo
de los dos. Is a school for
muchachas
run by only a few, how you say, teaching nuns. But they take no direct orders from Padre Luis, so he is forced for to sleep with his housekeeper. For why do you ask?”
Longarm tried to sound less interested than he was when he replied he'd thought he'd seen a monk or nun walking home the widow he worked for.
The kid seemed to find this tough to buy and suggested Longarm was in the market for some specs. Longarm chose not to press the matter.
The raggedy kid led him to a part of town where the houses, albeit built of 'dobe, were set back a piece with their yards wrapped around them, Anglo style. The kid pointed ahead to a bay window bigger than any Mex would have in an outside wall, where a sign hung, advising one and all that Madame Irene made dresses to measure inside.
Longarm figured the widow woman who'd sent for him would tell him why she'd wanted to meet him in a dressmaker's shop once he asked her, if that was exactly what she, or somebody else, really had in mind.
He stopped in the shade of a blackjack oak across the way to fish in his pocket for a nickel as he told the kid he'd take it from there.
The fresh-mouthed street urchin accepted the coin without thanking Longarm and lit out on his bare feet to wherever raggedy kids lit out to with a whole nickel.
Longarm didn't waste time wondering how a kid so young could have gotten so old and bitter. He couldn't spot anybody watching for him inside that big bay window. That didn't mean nobody could be. It only meant he had a chance. So he strode off as if he was headed somewhere else entire and didn't cross the dusty road until nary a chink in the 'dobe walls of that dressmaker's was aimed his way.
Once he made it that far it was duck-soup-simple to work around to the back alley and, sure enough, there was a back door and no yard dog when he found his way to the cactus-hedged back garden of the odd address the Widow Deveruex had given for their get-together.
Hoping he was only about to embarrass his fool self, Longarm drew his .44â40 and dashed across the sunny garden to the back door, to find it locked in his fool face.
He shifted his sixgun to his left hand and got out a pocket knife with one blade filed in a manner to get anyone but a lawman arrested. But as he silently slipped his skeleton key in the lock, the door was flung wide and a marble goddess wearing an ecru silk kimono was asking him what had kept him so long and how come he'd come pussyfooting to her kitchen door.
On second glance the statuesque figure was that of a fair-sized gal with ivory-white skin, blue-black hair pinned up in a bun, and eyes as dark and smouldering as a pissed-off Apache.
Her kimono was almost as wide open as her kitchen door and he saw she was brunette all over as he ticked his hat brim to her and allowed he'd found her invite just a tad mysterious.
She said, “Come on in before the neighbors have us going at it out in the garden. I'm Irene Pantages. Didn't that boy I sent for you tell you that?”
As he followed her inside a not unpleasant but odd-smelling kitchen Longarm replied, “He described you as a widow woman, Miss Irene. I had another lady entire in mind and that's why I thought I'd best scout an address that took me by surprise. You say you're last name would be Pantages, ma'am? The same as that of this wrangler I know?”