Since the wedding of Amos Martin’s daughter, Agatha, to Javier Ballesteros, a Mexican lad, there has been tension building in certain quarters in Durango.  The newlyweds were gone from the scene, but not before there was considerable confrontation.  Even on the way to Taos there was an attempt to break up the marriage.  Now, the priest who had performed the ceremony had been severely beaten, the parish church covered with paint and red markings of X.  There was even a warning given to Marshal Forrest in the form of the painting and marking of their cabin and the scarring of Hawk.  Join me, in another exciting tale from yesteryear…

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     “Hurry, Marshal!  Doc says to come quickly; it’s the priest!” yelled young Jimmy Hopkins.

     I jumped up, saw Jimmy and Molly, then headed towards them to meet them in the yard.  “Here,” I reached out to hand the spur I found to Molly, “hold this!”  Then headed off jogging with Jimmy.

     “What’s wrong,” I asked as we hurried away.

     “Didn’t say, just said to get yuh down here as fast as possible.  Yuh need to run faster, Marshal.”

     I didn’t figure five or ten minutes would make much difference, plus I didn’t want to be completely out of breath in case something more sinister was waiting for me.  The Catholic church sat on the far side of town between the white section and the Mexican section.  Most of the time there was little squabble between the two groups; they seemed for the most part to get along fine.  

     Arriving at the priest’s quarters, I slowed, took in a few deep breaths of air, then entered.  Doc was sitting beside Father Damian who had one eye partially open.  When I entered he tried to move his head to see who I was, and I saw pain grip him by the countenance on his face.

     “Easy, padre,” whispered Doc.  “Don’t move, it’s the marshal.”

     The priest released Doc’s hand and feebly offered it to me.  “I’m sorry to be causing you so much trouble, Marshal.”  He murmured, then began to lick his lips.  Doc reached to the little table for a glass half full of water to which he helped the man drink gently reaching behind him to lift his head.

     “Now, father, do you know who did this?”

     A tear formed at the one eye that was open.  “Take it easy, Miles,” warned Doc.  “This man’s been through quite an ordeal.  He’s fortunate to be alive.”

     Before I knelt down beside him, I noticed that Jimmy was in the room.  “Get on home, Jimmy,” I ordered, reaching in my pocket for my coin bag. 

     He was shaking his head when I offered him a dime.  “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he muttered, then looked at me, eyes wide open in a state of shock.  “Will he live?”

     Doc reached out to pat the boy on the arm, nodding and adding a wink.  “He’s going to be all right.  Now you get along home, and thanks for helping out.”

     Jimmy started to back out of the room, then when he hit the doorway he turned and ran.  I turned my attention back to the padre.  Grasping his hand again, I asked in a softer voice, “Father, do you know who did this?”

     He started to shake his head, when a sound came from Doc, who added, “Don’t move your head, keep it still.”

     “No, Marshal, all I know is that there were three of them.  They wore some kind of sack over their heads, flour sacks I believe.”

     “Could you recognize their voices?  What did they say?”

     “Sorry, Marshal, I can’t be of any more help.  They asked where the beaner went, and Martin’s daughter.  When I told them I didn’t know they proceeded with beating me.”

     I got close to the padre, I could see that he was getting tired.  “Are you sure they said, ‘Martin’s daughter’?

     He squeezed my hand, and whispered, “Yes,” then his eye shut.

     Doc quickly moved me aside, then proceeded to check his heart and breathing.  I was now standing and Doc came up to me.  “He needs to rest now more than anything.  Unless there’s more damage to his head than I can see, he should recover.  Let’s move outside and let him rest.”

     “Did he tell you anything?” I asked.

     “No more than he told you.  He said he didn’t know anything about the red X except that the X is Saint Andrew’s Cross.  As far as he knew there was no symbolic meaning to it.”

     “Well, Doc. you watch yourself.  This has taken an ugly and more personal tone.”  Then I proceeded to tell him about the cabin, the oats, and the scarring and painting of Hawk.  “I’ll be waitin’ at Amos Martin’s door when he opens in the mornin’, you can be assured of that.  I have Father Damian mentioning Martin, and that was the last words of the man I shot on the train.”

     “You never mentioned that before…”

We cleaned up the place the best we could; it was going to take some paint which I didn’t have available.  There was whitewash thrown on all the walls along with red X slashed around it.  The door was still locked so when we went inside we hoped that nothing was damaged.  Molly’s not a crier, but when she sat down in the rocker in front of the fireplace I could see tears in her eyes.

     Touching her on the shoulder, I said, “Put some coffee on, I’m goin’ to check on the horses.”

     I walked up to the stable and was sure that I left Hawk inside, but he wasn’t there.  Looking out at the pasture I saw all three horses.  As I started walking towards them Star and Two-Bits trotted my direction, while Hawk was hesitant then began to follow the others.  I hugged both the horses around the neck then checked them over good.  

     Hawk finally joined in with the other three, but it seemed that he had a look in his eyes, as if to say, “Why did you let them do this to me?”  It was when he nudged me that I saw the red X painted on his forehead.  Then I looked him over and to my chagrin there was a red X slashed on his right hip.  I touched it tenderly, noticing that the blood had dried.  

     “I’m sorry, Hawk.  I promise you I’ll find the ones that did this.  Come on, let’s get you to your stall so’s I can doctor this up.”  The three horses followed me, Star and Two-Bits going right in while Hawk lingered outside.  It was in the stall where the men got to him.  He stood there whilst I got a bucket and filled it from the rain barrel, pouring it in the troughs for the other two horses, after which I started to give them some oats when I saw that red paint had been poured on the open bag.  Not taking time to examine it, I ripped open another bag to feed them.

     I didn’t see Molly walking up the little hill.  “Everything all right?” she asked upon reaching me, handing a cup of freshly boiled coffee to me.  

     It was hot, but I took a long swallow anyway.  It burned all the way down through my gullet.  I took another sip, then sat the cup over by the trough.  “They whipped Hawk,” I blurted.  “He’s not bad, but, but…”

     Molly was holding the cup in both hands taking small sips, but when I told her she placed the cup on a shelf.  “Let me look at him,” she said, and I showed her the mark on his hip, then the red X on his forehead.  She looked at his forehead closely, “Not paint,” she uttered, then grabbed a rag from the shelf, went to the trough to wet it.  When she came back she rubbed on the red spot.  It began to come off with the water.  “Blood,” she murmured, going back to wet the cloth some more.  

     She worked on Hawk for several minutes, talking calmly to him.  He seemed to know that she was trying to help.  Finishing that job she went to his hip.  “Let me clean it off before you put any salve on it.  You just hold him still.”

     The blood had congealed so Molly worked slowly and as tenderly as possible.  Hawk knew we were helping, but once in a while a tremor would flow down his muscles.  It took us close to thirty minutes before the wound was clean and I had covered it with a salve.  Molly refilled the bucket to pour in his trough while I looked around for any type of clue.  Nothing, that is nothing until Hawk nudged me to a corner.  He pawed at the ground, snorting.  I bent down and found a spur covered with dirt and straw.  Hawk gave a whinny nodding his head, and I thought for a moment he smiled.  It wasn’t a whip, or rope, but a spur that was used to cut him.

     “Easy,” came a voice.  “Don’t get riled up, just find the man.”  Molly was standing with hands on her hip, looking at the object in my hand.

     I turned my head her direction, “Don’t worry, I will.”  

    She came up to me placing her hands on my shoulders, then said a little prayer.  “Nothing more to do here.  Let’s go in.”  She then picked up the two cups and started for the house.  

     “I’m goin’ to stay out here a while longer.  Hawk needs some company.  Maybe he’ll be able to tell me who the culprit was.”

     Nodding she went on down to the house.  I took a seat on a pile of straw and must have dozed off.  I don’t know how long I was asleep, but when I heard the voice hollering my name it was dark.  

     It was Jimmy Hopkins running toward me, Molly now close behind.  “Marshal, it’s the priest…”

Father Damian Cisneros had been severely beaten and warnings left on him in symbolic fashion.  As of yet Miles Forrest, nor Mateo or Charlie Gold had any idea what they meant as the priest had not regained consciousness.  It had been three days since the attack on him.  Join with me for another thrilling episode and return to those exciting days of yore with the Saga of Miles Forrest.

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     Rev. Chapman and his wife Betty arrived on the morning train and he wasted no time in coming to see the unconscious priest.  Doc Jones had thought it best to leave him on his own bed and not try to move him with his skull bashed the way it was.   It was great the way the community rallied around him.  Catholic and non both joined in to stay by his bedside.  Doc had given instructions that if he regained consciousness to call him immediately.

     Molly happened to be sitting with him, and I had brought her some sandwiches to eat when the Parson showed up.  Briefly I filled him in on what had taken place.  From time to time he would shake his head, and the concern was etched on his face.

     “You have no idea who did this?” he questioned as he looked down on the still form on the bed.

     Sighing, I shook my head before answering, “I don’t know who did it, but I have a pretty good idea who was behind it.  Problem is I have no proof.  I’m hoping that when the padre wakens he might shed some light on the culprits.”

     Parson Chapman stepped up to the bed.  “Molly, do you mind if I sit there and pray for him?”

     “No, of course not,” she softly replied, getting up to come stand by my side.

     The cuts and abrasions were better, but his face still showed the color of black, blue and yellow from the beating.  The Parson lifted his hand to look closely at the X that was now beginning to scab over.  The pardre’s head was covered with a white bandage and Molly kept a soft cloth over his eyes per Doc’s instructions.

     As the preacher began to pray, Molly bowed her head to join in silent agreement with him.  I stared at the man lying in almost lifeless condition on the bed following an adage that I had picked up years ago from the Good Book–“watch and pray.”  I found in my business it doesn’t pay to close one’s eyes, and I was sure that the Lord would hear my prayers, eyes open or shut.

     The Parson bent low, next to the padre’s head, praying softly for about fifteen minutes.  Then he lightly touched all around his head.  Finishing, he turned to look up at us.  There was a faint smile on his face.  “I feel assured that the Lord heard our prayers.  It may take a while, but the good father will be all right.”

     He stood and Molly retained her position by the bed.  The Parson came to stand by me.  “So I take it you think Amos Martin had something to do with this?”

     I hesitated to answer but then said, “I do, and if he does you may be on his list.”

     Putting his hand on my shoulder he said, “I will take care and I’d best be getting back to Betty.  She’ll want to know what is going on.”  He looked at Molly, “Put her on the list to sit with the father, I’m sure she would want that.”

     I stayed with Molly until one of the ladies from the barrio came to take her place.  Mateo was with her and introduced us.  I found that the woman was a distant cousin of his.  We left her with the priest as Mateo went on with his rounds and I walked Molly home.

     “Miles!” she exclaimed pointing at our cabin.  “Look!”

     Lifting my eyes to our little place I was taken back and was aghast with…

I had only been inside this church one other time.  It was when I was town marshal and had to chase down a man who cut up one of the saloon girls.  He claimed what he called “sanctuary.”  Now I know to respect the church, but from what I recall only the Levites could declare a sanctuary and there ain’t no Levites today unless they’re up in Mormon country.  I remember thumping him on the head with the Greener and dragging him out and down the street.  If I recall right, he earned twenty-five years in the penitentiary.  I didn’t know who the priest was then, but Father Damien had come into the diner a couple of times with Parson Chapman.  

     Mateo led me to a little alcove just outside the church and another small building which I assumed was where the priest lived.  He was gone a couple of minutes when he hollered, “Miles, get in here quick!”

     The priest was half leaning on the side of a bed and laying on the floor.  There was blood around him and he was unconscious.  I looked at Mateo, “Is he alive?”  

     “Si, but I think in bad shape.  You stay here, I’ll go get Doc Jones.”

     Nodding to him he rushed out.  I wasn’t sure if I should place him on the bed, but he looked so uncomfortable in the position he was in.  I didn’t think his neck was broken, and maybe I did wrong but I lifted him up and laid him down on the bed.  His eyelids fluttered a few times, and I thought I heard a moan, but he didn’t come to.  I stayed with him, uttered a prayer on his behalf.  I’ve heard that in an unconscious state a person sometimes can hear you and it sure wouldn’t hurt the good man to know someone was praying for him.

     Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, I heard voices.  One couldn’t miss Doc’s grumbling.  “Caught him just in time,” uttered Mateo bringing Doc into the little room.

     “I was heading out to the Fordhams.  Phoebe’s expecting and one of the boys was sent to fetch me, so this better be urgent,” snapped Doc.  Then when he saw the condition of Father Damien, he exclaimed, “O my mercy!  Get out of the way Miles, so I can look him over!”

     I stood away then began to examine the room.  It was small, a cot for a bed, a table upon which a couple of books lay along with a candle.  There was a trunk against the far wall and by the doorway another stand with a basin and pitcher.  

     “One of you hand me my bag,” commanded Doc.  Mateo reacted first giving the bag to Doc from which he took a pair of scissors.  He began to cut the shirt away.  After he was barechested Doc started his probing.  Then he requested that the basin of water be given to him.  Taking a clean cloth from the bag, he began to clean the blood from the man’s face, and the one side of his head.  There was also a deep cut on the back of his right hand of the priest in the form of an X.

     I moved so I could get a closer look.  “That appears to be a cut from a knife,” I muttered to no one in particular.

     “Very astute, Miles,” retorted Doc.

     I glanced at Mateo.  “Ever seen that before?”

     He shook his head along with a shrug.  “It must mean something, but no, I have never seen it before,” he replied then paused.  “I wonder if it was among the marks left on the church.  We’ll have to wait to ask the Padre.”

     Doc stood up, rubbing his chin.  “If you get the chance.  I don’t know if he’ll live or not.  He’s resting now, but I’m concerned about internal injuries and I don’t like the looks of that head.  The skull has been crushed in this one spot.  I need to get him down to the office, but I darst not move him.”

     “I need to get on out to the Fordhams, but I don’t want to leave him alone in case he regains consciousness.  After I return I’ll bring something to bandage him, and look at his head in a better light.  That is, if one of you two could find a couple of lamps.”

     He started to move on out of the room, then stopped to turn to look at the priest again.  “Shame, downright shame.”

     “What do you mean, Doc?” I questioned softly.

     “A man of peace treated worse than a cur dog.”

     Mateo had already left to find someone to sit with the priest until Doc could return.  “Can you tell me anything?”

     Shaking his head, “Not really, except that he’s in bad shape.  If he comes to he might be able to tell you something, but mind you, that’s a big if.”

     The last time I had seen this man, he had just performed a wedding and had a large smile on his face.  He was laughing along with Rev. Chapman, and now, now…I would find the man or men who did this…