style="font-size:15px;"> Sister Martha was sitting up straight now, her hands clasped together in her lap as if they ached. ‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered louder. ‘Why else would he come?’
‘I don’t know why. I just suspect he’s not a saint,’ Sister Elizabeth insisted. ‘Sister says he killed one man. And I don’t believe in my heart he’ll stay and save the children. God wouldn’t send a man like that.’ She worked over the plate longer than it took to clean it.
Neither woman spoke after that. Sister Martha did not know what to say, and Sister Elizabeth felt she had said too much and was sorry for it.
‘He was sent to save the children,’ Sister St Agnes said from the shadows, her voice gentle but firm. ‘We must not question God’s gifts.’
Out of respect, Sister Elizabeth did not say anything else, but in her heart she did not believe that Sister St Agnes was correct.
A full hunter’s moon had crested the far mountain, splashing the canyon with a gentle light, by the time Swanson awoke. He moved his hand down slowly until he felt the comforting chill of the revolver’s handle. His leg felt somewhat better. He lay peering out at the grey shapes of the rocks, probing the familiar sounds of the night. A second later, he realized someone was sitting near him and he tensed.
‘The moon’s beautiful tonight,’ the old nun said softly.
His leg began to throb and he pulled himself slowly into a sitting position and studied the wagons and the shadows on the road. He watched her from the side of his eye.
‘Tell me about the children,’ he said.
‘There’s not much to tell, Mr Swanson.’ She was looking up at the stars overhead. ‘We learned six months ago a Mexican town had ransomed ten American children from a band of Comanche Indians in Sonora and wanted more money than they had paid for their release or they would sell them as slaves. Unfortunately, no one could come up with the names of their next of kin or the money, so our church raised it and Sisters Martha, Ruth and Elizabeth and I came for them.’
‘Where are the other three?’
‘They died before we could get to them,’ she said quietly.
He didn’t speak for a while, thinking about the children huddled in the dark of the cave. Then he thought of the sisters, Martha and Elizabeth, and felt better. ‘I’m sorry they died.’
‘I’m certain heaven is a wonderful place to grow up in, Mr Swanson.’
He looked at her profile in the dark. ‘Do you believe all that stuff you say, ma’am?’
‘Do you?’
He should have known she wouldn’t defend herself. That wasn’t her way. He sat thinking for a while and then he said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good, so do I.’
Swanson thought about her answer for a long time. Later, after the moon had risen to full height, he spoke again. ‘Why won’t the boy talk?’
He felt her shift on the sand beside him. She waited a few seconds as she resettled her cloak before answering. ‘He can’t very well. The Mexicans who bought him told us the Indians had cut his tongue out because he wouldn’t stop crying for his parents. And now I guess he’s ashamed or afraid to try.’
Swanson heard a rock fall somewhere out in the darkness. And, a little later, another. They were small sounds, but neither was a natural occurrence. He twisted his body slightly and slipped the pistol out of the holster. The nun was sitting on the other side of him, a few feet away, and he was certain she hadn’t noticed. He turned his head slowly, back and forth, to pick up any sounds in the hot air, and he moved his eyes away from the direction of the noise, looking that way from the side so he could see better.
‘It’s near the wagon,’ the nun said softly. ‘Mr Swanson, don’t shoot.’
‘Shhh,’ he whispered. He could see it now. A piece of shadow had seemed to grow from nothing at the far end of the wagon. It didn’t move for a long time, then he realized it was closer, and moving closer still. He raised the pistol. As he was aiming down the revolver’s long barrel, he felt her hand on his arm.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
He hesitated and then he saw the shadow rise and trot into the open. The dog sat a few yards away from them, staring out in the direction of Santa Fe, staring as if he could see all the way there. He looked rested and fit, and while Swanson was glad to see him, he was angry about the scare.
‘Ma’am, tell the children not to touch that animal, he’ll tear an arm off. He flat can’t be trusted.’ The dog continued to peer out into the dark distance, ignoring them both.
‘What’s its name?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘What do you call it?’
‘Dog.’
‘Well then, I guess that’s its name.’
Swanson and the old nun sat together in silence for a while longer. With the dog in the enclosure, he felt less tense and he spread his saddle blanket and lay back on the sand. He watched the stars for a time and then said, ‘What’s your name, ma’am?’
‘Sister St Agnes,’ her voice sounding as if she had been far away in her thoughts.
‘How do you get to be a saint?’
‘I’m not one.’ She chuckled. ‘That’s the name I took at the convent.’
She had a young laugh, and it seemed odd in a woman of her years. In fact, much about her and what had happened to him over the past twenty-four hours seemed odd. He couldn’t figure it. She didn’t scare easy, he’d give her that much.
‘There were two Saint Agneses,’ she said, absently.
‘Two?’
‘Yes. One very famous. Agnes of Montepulciano. She was born in Tuscany in 1268 AD.’
‘I’ve never heard of Tuscany.’
‘It’s in Italy. Anyway, I’m not named after her. She established a nunnery in Montepulciano and had a lot of visions. And a great many miracles and other remarkable occurrences are attributed to her.’
‘But you’re not named after her.’
‘No. She was too grand a saint for me to be named after.’ She smiled. ‘I’m named after the little Saint Agnes.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She was martyred in Rome in 304 AD at the age of thirteen.’
‘Why?’
‘She refused to marry and instead she consecrated her maidenhood to God. And when the Roman persecution of the Christians began, she offered herself in martyrdom. She was executed by being stabbed in the throat by a centurion’s sword.’
‘At
