St. Agnes’ Stand

‘Hurry up, lady,’ he hissed.

‘In God’s own time,’ she responded.

Swanson heard soft scuffling noises behind him and he turned his head to see the last of the children crawl out of the hole in the mountain. It was almost completely dark now and they were small darker shapes squatting forlornly against the mountainside. There was a larger shadow at the end of the line. Swanson watched it suspiciously for a few seconds until he realized it was the third nun.

‘Ahhh, Sister Elizabeth, children, there you are,’ the old nun said. ‘Isn’t it wonderful to be out in the night air.’ Her voice was as light and breezy as if they were on a summer picnic. ‘Children, I’d like you to meet the man who has come to take you out of here.’

Swanson shot her an angry glance, but she wasn’t looking at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said loudly, leaning over a large pot, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.’

Swanson waited a few seconds and then said, ‘Nat Swanson.’ He turned his head towards the night and the canyon sounds.

‘Nat Swanson,’ she said gaily. ‘What a strong-sounding name. Children, come for your dinner and say hello to Mr Swanson. Jessica, you first.’

‘Hello, Mr Swanson,’ the small voice said.

Swanson watched the darkness for a few seconds longer, but the innocence of the voice tugged at him and he turned, instantly bothered by what he saw. Jessica was small, maybe nine, thin and dirty looking in a rag dress; her tiny face seemed far too old.

‘Hello, Jessica,’ he said, glancing at the nun. She was smiling approvingly.

There were twins, Betty and Nan, perhaps ten or eleven, but it was difficult to be certain because of their starved condition. Next came a gangly girl of about thirteen wearing a filthy calico dress and swollen with child.

‘Tell Mr Swanson your name, child,’ the older nun said softly. The girl didn’t speak. She stood holding her stomach awkwardly as if she wanted to set it down and watched the flames of the fire. ‘Well, that’s okay,’ the nun said pleasantly. ‘Mr Swanson, we don’t know this lovely child’s name yet, but we have christened her Millie until we do.’

Then two little girls, Bonnie and Anna, six or seven years old, came into the light of the campfire. They were holding hands as if they were lost and they were as dirty and poorly clothed as the others. The last child would not leave the shadows until the third nun brought him forward.

‘And this, Mr Swanson,’ the old nun said proudly, ‘is the man of our party, Matthew.’

The boy was in the worst shape of all of them. He was perhaps eight. His face had been disfigured by fire. Swanson had seen those kinds of scars before. They had been done on purpose. He was almost naked, and he limped badly on a leg that had been broken and not set.

‘Nice to meet you, Matthew.’ The boy stared at the ground. He looked ashamed to speak. The third nun was holding him gently by the shoulders. Swanson glanced at her. She was tall and thin, in her thirties, and had a very pleasant face. He remembered her name was Sister Elizabeth. She was proper, proud and pretty, and he watched her for longer than he felt comfortable. She was a handsome woman. She was staring at the top of the little boy’s head.

After the last child had been served, the old nun put dirt on the fire and seemingly total darkness fell on the party. Swanson sat by the wagons, listening to the night, amazed the Indians had not fired on the campfire light. It was still and hot. Somewhere off in the distance a hunting owl sounded, once, then twice more. He focused on the sound and decided it was the real thing, not an Indian imitator. Sister Martha brought him a plate of beans and half a cup of water. He ate, thinking about the children and the old nun. Then, with his plate half full and without realizing it, he fell asleep.

The cave had the faint odour of burned incense and a snug feel about it. The three nuns and seven children fitted nicely into it, and there was a clean starkness that reminded the three sisters of a monastery, and this gave them great comfort. The children were asleep in a long row on the soft, sandy floor. They lay peacefully on the blankets spread for them, and for the first night none were crying, none shaking. The heels of Sister Martha’s plain black shoes thumped softly against the large rock she was sitting on. Her face was beaming and she was leaning forward with both of her hands on her knees, the heavy cloth of her habit spread over the rock. Sister Elizabeth was kneeling nearby, rubbing a pan that had been used for supper with clean sand. A large candle burned on a smaller rock near the back wall of the cave casting a warm glow over the children’s faces, softening the gauntness and sadness somewhat. In the deeper shadows sat Sister St Agnes, her thin back propped against the sandstone wall, her eyes closed.

Sister Martha looked lovingly over the faces of the children. ‘Wasn’t he wonderful to come?’ she whispered. ‘He’s a sainted man to risk his life for theirs.’

Sister Elizabeth poured the sand from the pan and set it aside, reaching for a plate. ‘I don’t think we should enroll him among the saints.’ Her voice was low and carrying a practical edge to it. ‘We don’t know why he came.’ She scrubbed hard at the plate.

‘He came to save the children,’ Sister Martha said. Her words were gentle, but slightly worried sounding.

‘Perhaps, but perhaps not.’

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 thirteen, because she wouldn’t marry?’

‘No. At thirteen because she wouldn’t deny God.’

‘Why did you take her name?’

‘I guess I identified with her. I was seventeen when I entered the convent. And when my father, who didn’t like the idea, told me that someday I would want to marry and have children, I told him that I had already married God.’

‘He didn’t like that?’

‘He didn’t like that at all,’ she said. ‘And your name? Where does it come from?’

Swanson continued to look at the stars without saying anything. Then he sat up and shrugged his shoulders.

‘From my parents.’

She said, ‘Well, I guessed that much. Were you named after your father … your grandfather?’

‘My dad’s name was John. I had a grandfather name of Richard.’

Sister St Agnes watched his face for a few minutes and then leaned back on her hands and looked up at the sky and the black silhouettes of the canyon walls.

‘It’s a lovely night.’

They didn’t talk for a long time then. When Swanson finally spoke he was running a strip of fresh rawhide through the holster of his pistol.

‘Your church in New Mexico or Texas?’

‘Pennsylvania.’

Swanson turned his head and looked at the dark, thin shape of the old nun sitting beside him. ‘That’s a piece. How did you get here?’

‘By train, stagecoach, wagon, horse and foot.’

Swanson stared at the holster for a long while, then said, ‘Why would you come all the way down here to a place like this, a place you don’t know?’

She didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, ‘Faith.’ She looked at the side of his face. ‘Does that make any sense to you?’

‘Not much.’

‘We came because of Jesus Christ, Mr Swanson. The children were suffering and alone. We came to give them God’s love.’

‘No matter what the price?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Even if it costs you and the sisters your lives?’

She smiled. ‘You make us sound so important. We are only three small instruments in God’s hand.’ She was smiling broadly now, her two large front teeth plainly visible. ‘You don’t smile enough, Mr Swanson. God loves a cheerful giver.’

‘You aren’t from these parts,’ he said quickly. ‘You don’t know the Apache.’

‘They’re God’s children, same as you or I.’

‘And the lady, the Mexican, the boy and the others?’ He was still watching her.

‘Ignorance and evil.’ She stood up as if the conversation had suddenly pushed her away, dusted her robes and then moved from him toward the far side of the enclosure.

‘Where did the Mexicans go who were driving your wagons?’ he called softly after her.

She stopped and looked back at him. ‘They ran off the first night.’

‘Do you think they made it?’

He watched her. She was smaller than he had first thought but she stood straight and proud, her frail shoulders squared against the massive canyons. He was surprised he had asked her the question. There was no way she could answer it. He knew that.

‘I’ve prayed for it.’ She turned away again.

‘How often do your prayers work?’

She turned quickly, looking down at him, the first hint of annoyance flickering at the wrinkled corner of her mouth. Then she smiled. ‘They brought me you,’ she said, turning and walking to where the dog sat. The animal got up and moved away a few yards and then lay down and watched her.

He couldn’t see her very well in the dark, but he knew she was praying. He heard his name once and the awkward feeling came over him again. He figured the chances of the two Mexicans couldn’t have been good. The Apaches would have expected just such a move and would have been waiting. Nevertheless, there was a chance one of the two might have got through, and if he knew anything about staying alive in the desert, he could make it to Sonora in seven or eight days. Swanson didn’t hang on the chance, but he tucked it away in his head as a possible way out. There weren’t many.

Sister St Agnes sat studying the dark silhouette of the man sitting a few yards away. He was one of God’s mysteries. He was plainly handsome enough to be an angel of God, she thought, perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life. But his looks seemed the only thing even partly angelic about him. She had seen enough wounds to know that the thin scar that ran the length of his jaw had been made by a knife, and the hole in his leg had been made by a bullet. And he had already killed one man in front of her and was ready to kill more. And he had used poor Sister Ruth’s torn body as a decoy, debasing it as much as the savages had. He swore a great deal. He showed no sign of religious feelings.

She couldn’t answer the questions pounding in her head. She tipped her chin forward on to her breast. ‘Dear God,’ she whispered, ‘I have never questioned Your wisdom or Your authority … I’m not questioning them now. I only wonder … wonder why You sent this man to save the children. And how I should deal with him. I thank You for Your blessings and Your guidance.’ She stared at her hands, knowing that she had received no answers.

DAY TWO …

The horned toad had wiggled itself down into the sand leaving only the spikes on its back and the longer horns on its blunt-snouted head exposed. He guessed it was hunting flies. Swanson was leaning against a large rock in the shade watching the lizard hunt. The Hawken lay across his lap. It was close to noon and Sisters Elizabeth and Martha had just finished feeding the children their dinner. Sister St Agnes was in the cave, probably praying, he figured. The dog was sleeping on its back in the shade of the wagon, its long legs helter-skelter in the air. The lizard dropped what seemed like a clear shade over its eye, then it disappeared. Lying half buried in the sand, it looked like a newspaper drawing he had once seen of something called a dinosaur.

The heat was brutal.

Swanson scanned the road and then looked to his right at the children. They were sitting quietly in a band of shade next to the cliff. They were tired and listless and hot. Their faces were burned and he knew that their throats were as parched as his own. He searched the sand around him and began to pick up and examine small pebbles. Some he kept. Some he tossed away. Then with a movement so quick it was hard to see, he grabbed the squat little lizard out of the sand.

The twins were closest to him. ‘Come take a look.’ He had pulled his sombrero off and laid it over the hand holding the horned toad.

The girls stood slowly and helped the little ones, Bonnie and Anna, to their feet. Jessica came too. Only Millie and the boy, Matthew, stayed where they were. The five girls formed a half circle around him.

‘What you got?’ Anna asked.

Sister Elizabeth had wandered over and was standing looking out at the canyon, listening. He knew she didn’t approve of him.

‘I’ve got a Texas devil under my hat,’ he said.

‘Go on!’

‘I do.’

‘Naw,’ said Jessica, ‘there ain’t no such thing as a Texas devil.’

‘There must be because I caught him. He’s under my hat. Go ahead and take a peek.’

Jessica reached a hand out slowly towards his sombrero and then jerked it back and ran in place on the tips of her toes for a few seconds. The others shrieked with the thrill of it.

‘If you’ve got him, what’s he look like?’

‘Well, he’s got horns on his head … and spikes on his tail and when he gets mad he spits blood.’

The children screamed and laughed.

Sister Elizabeth had turned and she was staring angrily at him, her arms akimbo. He paid her no mind.

‘I’ve got him sure enough. But before I show him to you, I want you each to take a pebble out of my hand and put it under your tongue and keep it there.’

‘Why?’ It was Anna. She was small and lightly built, but she was smart and bright-eyed.

‘Because it will make you feel better. These are magic pebbles.’

He held his hand flat and let each select a pebble. They put them in their mouths.

‘Good. Now let me count to five … one, two, three, four … and five. There, Feel better?’

They all nodded. He knew they would. The small stones would help them fight the thirst by drawing saliva into their mouths which they could swallow.

‘Good. Now who wants to be the first to see the Texas devil?’

‘I will.’ It was Betty, the eleven-year-old. She looked scared but she reached a hand and grabbed the crown of the sombrero and yanked it off. As she did, Swanson shoved the lizard at her and growled. She jumped up and backward and the other children yelled and ran for the pure joy of it.

‘Really, Mr Swanson. You should be ashamed of yourself scaring the children and telling them you have the devil in your hand. What kind of nonsense do you want to put in their heads?’

Swanson stroked the lizard’s belly gently with his finger. He didn’t look up at Sister Elizabeth. ‘I was just trying to give them some fun. They don’t look like they’ve had much lately.’

They came back giggling and ready to run.

‘Let us see him.’

Swanson held the horned toad out for them and one by one they touched his spiny backside. Sister Elizabeth was walking toward the cave.

‘You said he could spit blood.’

Swanson glanced across the enclosure to make sure the nun wasn’t watching him. ‘And he can. Stand back.’

When they had cleared a pathway in front of him, Swanson teased the lizard with his finger for a moment, then pointed its head toward the open area and squeezed his stomach some. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but the pressure made him nervous that he was about to be eaten and the little dinosaur let go. A bright red stream of blood spurted out of one of his eyes a full five feet across the sand. The children’s eyes got wide. Anna stooped and touched her finger to the red trail on the sand.

‘It’s really blood!’ she screamed. ‘He is the Texas devil!’

The children ran away again.

A few minutes later, Jessica came back and asked for the Texas devil. Swanson gave it to her with the promise she wouldn’t pester it. She took the little creature to the other children and they spent an hour or so playing with it and laughing. He felt better.

Later, when it was close to evening and the strip of shadow near the rocks had reached halfway across the enclosure, when the Gambel’s quail had started calling each other for the night roost, Anna came and stood in front of Swanson, holding something behind her back. Her face was thin and smudged with dirt. She looked happy.

‘I have something for you, Mr Swanson.’

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