Dead Reckoning (15 page)

They were on their way out of town now, which gave him some relief. But they were heading ever farther north, which only made him feel sick for the familiarities of home. Everything had slipped hopelessly beyond Ramon's control. There was no way he could abandon Sister Petra now and make his own way back to Guajolote. He didn't speak the language of this place. There were no friendly societies of
penitentes
to provide him with direction and sustenance. He hated feeling this dependent on the nun, but he clung to her like a child to its mother.

Worst of all, the bitterness and homesickness he felt was beginning to make him doubt her. They had actually gotten along very well since Del Norte—working together, entertaining each other with conversation and stories. Still, he was beginning to have an evil thought.

It had first occurred to him when they crossed Poncha Pass, leaving San Luis Valley and all its Mexican settlements behind. It struck him then that the Anglo photographer they had met in Del Norte had spoken only English. Sister Petra had been the only one in the village able to translate for him. What if she had lied about what the photographer said? What if she had simply made up the story of this white man photographing a cross on a mountain? How would anyone know the difference? Petra was the only one who spoke the photographer's language.

This was the idea that burdened Ramon with guilt—the notion that Sister Petra was a liar. It was a sin to think such a thing of a nun, but he couldn't help it. She could have been lying to him all along for all he knew. God might never have spoken to her in the first place. Maybe she was just plain crazy.

The road led them out of town and up the rocky valley of the Arkansas River, a stream of white water, rushing like the Anglos back in Buena Vista who seemed ceaselessly to scramble for wealth or influence, or whatever it was that drove them so.

“What's wrong with you today?” Petra said to him as they mounted their familiar gait—an easy rhythm, efficient in its regularity.

“I'm keeping up,” Ramon said defensively.

“Not that,” she replied. “You haven't spoken in hours.”

He turned his head from her and sighed. He really didn't want to talk about it. “Did they say anything about the cross back there?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I should have told you,” she said. “Yes, everybody around here has heard of it, though I met no one who has actually seen it. They said the Indians first spoke about it, but they didn't really believe the Indians. Then, several years ago, an old prospector got lost—turned around up in the mountains—and he went above the timberline trying to find his way. As he came over a divide, he suddenly saw the cross. And then, he found his way all of a sudden, like magic!” She beamed her pretty green eyes at him.

Ramon looked away. “And where is this old prospector now?”

“Oh, he wandered away long ago. That is the way with prospectors, always searching for new diggings.”

He rolled his eyes a little, almost hoping that she noticed. “And what about the photographer?”

“They didn't know of him, but that is because he never came through Buena Vista on his expeditions. One man I met had heard of the geological survey, though—the Hayden Survey, as he called it.”

Ramon slapped his palms against his thighs, flailing the lead rope of the burro that had plodded so stupidly along with him on this ridiculous quest. “So we still have no guide to take us to this mountain, this cross, this vision of yours.”

“It was never a vision,” she said, her voice hardening. “And we do have a guide, of sorts. We have the directions given to us by the photographer.”

“Given to
you,
” Ramon blurted. “I heard only
Ingles.
”

“But I translated it for you,” Petra said. She stopped in the road. “You believe me, of course.”

Ramon took a few steps, then stopped. He did not turn to look back at her.

“Ramon? You
do
believe me?”

He wheeled, glared at her. “Of course! You are Sister Petra, the Divine. God talks to you, like me talking to this stupid burro to hurry up, or to get his foot off of the rope! You could not be a liar. You are too perfect.”

She felt suddenly disappointed in him. He hadn't thrown a fit in many days, and she had come to think that he had grown beyond that. Now he was acting like a little boy again. She stalked off the road, toward a big rock near a slow bend of the river, in the shade of a cottonwood. “I am no more perfect than you are,” she insisted as she passed him. “We will eat our lunch over here. Maybe we can catch some fish for tonight.”

“Wouldn't that be
perfect,
” he grumbled.

“Stop that!”

“I can't. I'm not a perfect angel like you. I have sins in my heart. Great big ones! Maybe one of them thinks you are a liar, but that could not be, because you are so perfect.”

“Then why am I mad enough to pull your little nose off?” She clawed at the packsaddle, looking for the dried meat and fruits.

“You know what!” he said. “It would have been easier just to leave Guajolote and move to some other village than it is following you all this way on this stupid trip.”

“I am not interested in what is easiest for you. I am interested in what God tells me I must do.”

“Why? To save a little village nobody even cares about? Not even the church cares about it, because if they did, they would send us a priest instead of just a nun. Why would God want to save a little place like Guajolote, anyway? It doesn't matter to anybody. What do you think you're going to find, if you ever see this cross? How is it going to help?”

“Neither you nor I know how God works. We must simply do his will.”

“No,
you
must because you are so perfect. I am only here because my father made me go, and I was too stupid to disobey him.”

“For the last time, Ramon, I am just as human as anybody else. Quit called me perfect, or I will prove to you that I am not!” She raised her hand threateningly.

Ramon was beyond fear of the little woman. Maybe she would slap the devil out of him, but he was willing to risk it in order to speak his mind. “What sin did you ever commit?” he said. “I bet you never even had a thought to do anything wrong.”

“You want me to brag about my sins? That is preposterous! I don't have to prove my humanity to you by my sins!”

“Ah!” he shouted. “That's what I thought. You don't have any to brag about!”

She gathered her lips together in frustration and pounded a half loaf of rock-hard bread down on the boulder. “All right, Ramon! If you really must know, I will tell you one. Oh, you want to hear a
big
sin, don't you? Well, fine. I will tell you one. When I lived in Santa Fe … When I was at the Loretto convent there … Well, it was a very difficult time for me, and…”

“And what?” Ramon demanded.

“I had impure thoughts!”

His face writhed in wicked laughter. “Not
thoughts
!” he cried. “Now you are going to hell with the rest of us, Sister Petra!”

“It was not just the thoughts! I
acted
upon them!”

The mocking leer dropped from Ramon's face. “
Impure
thoughts?” he said quietly.

“Now you see that I am just as wicked as everybody else, don't you?” It was a little like bragging, she realized. It did suddenly put her on more even footing with Ramon, and that was what was needed.

“Wait a moment,” he said, still uncertain as to whether or not he and Petra understood each other. “What exactly happened?”

She hesitated. The truth was she wanted to tell him. She had always wanted to tell somebody but had been too afraid. She had never even confessed it to a priest, which had driven her guilt even deeper. But she had come a long way with Ramon and gotten to know him well. Perhaps she owed him this. He was a good boy. They were friends now. Maybe this would help him to keep going somehow. She felt one thing for certain: Ramon might not agree with everything she dragged him through, but she could trust him.

“You have to promise never to tell anyone,” she said. “Ever. If you do, I will commit another sin when I get my hands on your neck!”

“I won't tell,” he said, sitting on the boulder to break a piece of bread.

She looked away from him. “You must understand that it was not an easy time for me,” she began. “I had grown into a woman and was starting to regret that I had never done the things most girls do. I was beginning to doubt. The words God had spoken to me before seemed like a dream. I began to think maybe I had imagined them or something. Like my mother said: a heatstroke. I didn't know if I was supposed to be a nun all of my life. I was alone in Santa Fe, and I was confused.”

“Yes, yes,” Ramon said, urging her along with gestures. “Get to the impure thoughts.”

She frowned at him. “I was teaching at the orphanage for girls, and there was a carpenter who came there to build a new staircase. He was an American from Kentucky, like me. His voice reminded me of home, and I liked talking to him. He was about my age—about twenty-five—and he was very good looking.

“Well, we became friends, and I started thinking about him all the time, wondering what I had missed. So I decided to find out. I knew it was wrong. I knew it went against my vows. But that is the way with sin. It makes you enjoy your betrayal of God. That is the true evil of it.”

“So…” Ramon said, trying to avoid the sermon and get back to the story. “What did you do with the American?”

“I told him the truth. That I wasn't sure I wanted to be a nun anymore. He told me he would help me find out. He rented a room. We met.” She shrugged as if she had said all she intended and picked up a piece of cured meat.

“But what did you do together?” Ramon demanded.

“Oh, come now. Your father raises chickens and goats, does he not? You know about the birds and the bees.”

“Ay!” The boy gasped with quiet astonishment, as if he were talking now to some explorer returned from exotic lands. “How did you know what to do?”

“I didn't. I was terrified. I felt clumsy and foolish. But he knew.”

Ramon chewed a piece of jerked beef for some time in silence. “What happened after you met the American there?”

“I was a little disappointed, once it was done. It wasn't all I had expected. I felt guilty, too. Ashamed that I had broken my vows in such a way. And yet, the pure thrill of sinning was part of me now, and I didn't want to let that thrill go.”

“Did you meet him again?”

“Yes, I met him every now and then, when we could arrange it. Our affair lasted about two months.” Embarrassed, she put her fingertips against her forehead to shield her eyes.

“What happened after two months? Did somebody find out?”

“No one ever knew but he and I. He was a decent young man, as some sinners are, Ramon. He was just led astray. By me, I suppose. Anyway, after two months went by, I realized something. I had been waiting for a feeling that would tell me I should quit the order to marry this man. I was waiting to fall in love with him, in other words, but it wasn't going to happen, and I knew it.”

Ramon shook his head. “I bet you broke his poor heart.”

Her eyes cut toward the river. “That was the greatest sin of all. And for that I felt so terribly shameful, Ramon. You will never know. It was a terrible thing to do to another person, to myself. And most of all, to God. I had made promises, Ramon, and had broken them in the most selfish way—right in the sight of God!

“I dictated my own penance, and I was more severe on myself than any priest or bishop would have been. Even the pope!”

“What did you do?” Ramon asked, thinking of the physical rigors the members of the brotherhood forced themselves to endure.

“I banished myself to Guajolote. Where there were no handsome young men who spoke in Southern drawls. Where there were no markets, or artists, or grand festivals. I banished myself to that dusty little village of yours and begged God that some good might come of my sins.

“And some good will come of it, Ramon. My faith is restored. God has forgiven me. And I have learned to love that remote little place. It is strange how the Good Lord works. It is almost as if he wanted me to sin.” She shook her head. “It is more than I can understand.”

“Maybe it's better that you committed that sin,” Ramon said. “If you hadn't, you would always be wondering. I know I would.”

“Ah, but that is the nature of faith, Ramon. You accept the road God gives you. You have faith that it is the right and only path for you. And you do not wonder anymore.”

The boy dusted some bread crumbs from his shirt and remembered what she had said about fishing. There was a line and a hook in the pack, and various bugs around to use for bait.

“I'm going to try to catch a trout,” he said. “You might as well take a siesta. It doesn't take two people to catch a trout.”

He secured the line, caught a grasshopper. Before he went to the river's edge, he saw Petra spreading a blanket to lie on under the shade of the pine. “Sister,” he said. “I am sorry I called you a liar.”

She smiled, waved him away with her graceful little hand. “There will be none of that.” Kneeling, she added, “Ramon, I have not had a friend like you in a long time. A very long time.”

Twenty

Easy money spent fast. This Charlie Holt had learned by the time he got to Frisco. He was all but broke when he left the café, but his stomach was full of venison steak and fried potatoes, and he had just enough stolen cash remaining from the shoe store till to get mildly drunk, which was exactly what the outlaw in Charlie needed right now.

The valley lay cooling as he walked to the nearest saloon, the sun having plunged beyond the Sawatch Range. This wasn't like Kansas, he thought, where the blazing summer daylight scalded you hour upon hour in the fields. This was life such as Charlie had only dreamed of. This was the outlaw trail. Why he had ever lived another way was a mystery to him.