Unholy Read online

  “It will scar,” one voice said. It was the voice of a woman, a young woman. Her words were soft and pleasant with a Mexican accent.

  “The scaring will be the least of his worries,” another said, this one much older and wiser. She was Anglo, this one.

  “Will he live, Mother?”

  “Only time will tell…”

  ♦

  Rain from the first storm in memory greeted the lawman as he dared open his eyes.

  “Good morning, señor,” the pleasant voice from the dream said.

  Bardwell rolled his face to the voice. A young Mexican woman sat in a chair at his bedside, dressed in black. She had an old book in her lap.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Am I alive?”

  The young woman smiled. “Si, it is a miracle, señor.”

  “Then, I’ll take that coffee, sister.”

  The book placed on a small table, the black-robed woman left the infirmary for the requested bitter brew.

  Strange smells of rain dampened earth drifted on unseen currents of morning air. One of the windows had been raised to allow a cool breeze inside.

  “Thank you,” he said to the young woman when she returned. “Gracias.”

  “You are welcome.”

  She took her seat next to the bed.

  “Is it raining?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There will be water for our garden.”

  The lawman smiled. “Does it rain often?”

  “No,” she replied. “It is a miracle. Some of the sisters and I have never seen this?”

  The young woman turned to a knock on the door. A young man of maybe thirty stood just outside of the room.

  “Come, come,” she said, getting to her feet. “This is Brother Francisco. He is the one who found you in the desert.”

  “Gracias, mi Padre,” the young man, dressed in heavy brown cloth said to no one.

  The young man drew closer to the bed, reluctant to say more. He seemed frightened of the man lying there.

  “Thank you, son,” Bardwell said in a low voice. “You may have saved my life?”

  The young man nodded, but said nothing.

  “Francisco,” the young woman said. “You take the chair. I will leave the two of you alone.”

  “Where did you find me?” Bardwell asked, once the young woman in habit had left the infirmary and pulled the door closed.

  “The Mission de la Cantua.”

  “Ah.”

  “I saw the black birds.”

  “Did you see the old priest, Father John?”

  “No, señor,” he said. “But I did see an old Indian.”

  “Ahote.”

  “I believe this was his name?”

  “Then you have walked with the spirits, Francisco.”

  The expression on the young man’s face went blank. Sweat beaded on his brow as he continued to stare at the lawman in the infirmary bed.

  “Did you see those who did this?”

  “No, señor,” the monk said. “But I have seen them before, when I was a boy.”

  “Is that how you came to the church?”

  “Si, they killed my madre and padre. They killed my whole family. I am the only one left.”

  “Do the others know?”

  “No, señor, they do not.”

  “Then you are special, Francisco,” the lawman said. “There are few who have witnessed the undead and then traveled with the great spirits.”

  “Espiritu?”

  “Si,” Bardwell replied, “espiritu.”

  A knock was followed by several of the nuns. Only the oldest of the group spoke.

  “How are you this morning, Mister Bardwell?”

  “Good, I think? How long have I slept?”

  “Five days.”

  “Fever?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You are fighting a bad infection. You have lost a lot of blood.”

  The lawman nodded.

  “You will stay with the sisters and I for a few days, until you are well enough to travel.”

  “Is there a town nearby?” he asked. “A train station or telegraph?”

  “Tulare?” the older woman said, questioning those in the room. “I believe they will have a coach that leaves each week for the capitol?”

  “Si,” Francisco replied.

  “I need to get there,” the lawman said. “I must get word to the capitol that I am still alive.”

  “But you are too weak to travel, Mister Bardwell?”

  “Do you have a wagon here at the convent?” Bardwell asked. “Could Francisco not drive me into town?”

  “We do, but no horse to pull it,” the black-robed woman replied. “We have no need.”

  “Either of my horses will. Would you do me the favor, son?”

  “Si, señor,” the monk said. “When you are ready, I will drive you into town.”

  ♦

  Three days passed as the lawman healed enough to travel. It rained a little each night, bringing new life to the surrounding desert.

  Mother Frances spoke in private with the lawman on the morning that he and Francisco—the young monk—were to leave.

  “We are in the season of what the natives call an evil moon,” she said. “As it is a day’s travel in getting there, I would suggest that the two of you remain at the settlement for the night and return on the morrow?”

  Bardwell nodded his agreement.

  “There are many unholy things in the desert at night.”

  Francisco had the mare in harness. The sisters had packed food and water to see them into the settlement. Goodbyes were said and shopping lists were handed off as the young monk helped the lawman into the seat.

  On the board floor between their feet laid a pair of timeworn leather saddlebags and the saddle holster with a pair of blued Navy Colt pistols. Two more of the Colts were at the lawman’s side with the Winchester long rifle standing between.

  “Nothing will bother us, señor,” the young man said as they pulled away. “You have the pistolas to protect us, no?”

  The lawman laughed. “I have no bullets, son. I used them all.”

  “Will you get more?”

  “Yes,” Bardwell said. “When we get into town, I plan to buy plenty. There is much evil in this world as you already know.”

  “Mucho.”

  “Have you ever shot the pistola, Francisco?”

  “Si, señor. As a boy, mi padre would often take me out into the hills to shoot his guns.”

  Time passed as the pair covered miles of highway macadam. The rain had long since passed and the sky was clear for the first time in memory. With the recent precipitation, hardy desert grasses grew and forgotten flowers bloomed.

  “Mi padre,” the young man continued. “They say that he is the reason the unholy came upon our village?”

  “Say again?”

  “My father,” Francisco repeated. “They say that he brought the undead with him.”

  “What did your father do?”

  The young man paused, reflecting. “He was a highwayman.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, señor,” the young man with the reins continued. “Did you ever hear of Roberto Quesada?”

  “Chased the man for years, never did corner him?”

  “He was my father.”

  “So the church and the vows and…”

  “I am trying to make things right,” the young man said.

  “You doing right don’t make up for what your father did, son,” Bardwell replied. “It is not your place to right his wrongs.”

  “I know señor.”

  Silence settled as the wagon rolled along.

  “What will you do when we get into town?”

  Bardwell laughed. “Besides buying tobacco and bullets, I need to get word to Sacramento that I am still alive.”

  “A man like you does not die señor.”

  “Huh,” Bardwell said, looking at the bandages on his arms. “And how do you know this?”


  “As a boy, I was told of a vaquero, an hombre that was put here many calendars ago to keep an eye on things.”

  “You didn’t hear this in the church?”

  “You are right, señor, this I hear from the elders,” the young man said. “But in the church it is also written of the Angeles?”

  The lawman said nothing.

  “Am I right?” the young man asked. “No one survives the attack of the unholy and lives to tell about it.”

  “Then you are like me, son?”

  “How is that, señor?”

  “You survived it also.”

  “You are wrong,” the young man said. “I was a little boy and was able to crawl along the floor undetected.”

  “Bullshit, son,” Bardwell replied in a firm voice. “You survived because God wanted you to survive. There are few of us left, but it is our calling.”

  “No, no, I don’t believe what you say.”

  “You can believe anything that you like, but you are one of the chosen, Francisco. You can continue to hide behind the church if you wish, but you know as well as I do that I am right.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I knew it when we first met.”

  “At the Mission de la Cantua?”

  “We met in Matalores, where you lived with your mother and father as a boy.”

  The boy nodded, remembering. “Yes,” he said. “There was a gringo gunslinger. He spoke to me and told me where to go. If he had not come along, I would have perished along with my family.”

  “I and others have watched over you, Gustav.”

  “You know my name, señor? How do you know this?”

  The Sacramento lawman smiled. “There are many things that I know, my son and many things that you will also know in time.

  End

  Find Out More @ www.christopherdaviswrites.com

  If you enjoyed this story, please leave a review and help to support an indie author.

  Thank You for reading.

  Other Stories by Christopher Davis

  Ain’t No Law in California…A Dan Bardwell Western

  Scratches…A Dan Bardwell Western

  Walking to Babylon

  Meet Me in Tulsa

  Going Back to Dallas

  Cinnamon Girl

  Crossfire