“He’s ridin’ off,” the monk answered.
Taylor chuckled, then put his pistol away. He looked at the short, overweight monk. “You done that real good, Padre,” he said. “I don’t think he suspects a thing.”
“I am not a priest,” the monk said. “Therefore I am not addressed as Father.”
“Really? Well, hell, it don’t matter none to me what you’re called,” Taylor said. “I don’t care what I’m called either, as long as I’m called in time for supper.” Taylor laughed at his own joke. “You get it? As long as I’m called in time for supper,” he repeated, and he laughed again.
“Yes, that’s quite amusing,” Brother James said without laughing.
“Yeah, well, speakin’ of supper, what do you say we go see if the cook has our supper finished? I’m starvin’.”
The three men walked back across the little courtyard, which, because of the irrigation system and the loving care bestowed upon it by the brothers of the order, was lush with flowers, fruit trees, and a vegetable garden. There were a dozen or more monks in the yard, each one occupied in some specific task.
The building the three men entered was surprisingly cool, kept that way by the hanging gourds of water called “ollas,” which, while sacrificing some of the precious water by evaporation, paid off the investment by lowering the temperature by several degrees.
“Brother James, who was at the gate?” Father Gaston asked.
“A stranger, Father. I do not know who he was,” Brother James replied.
“And you denied him sanctuary?”
“I had no choice, Father,” Brother James said, rolling his eyes toward Taylor and Simmons.
“You sent him away?” Father Gaston asked Taylor.
Taylor was a small man, with a ferretlike face and skin that was heavily pocked from the scars of some childhood disease.
“He was a United States marshal,” Taylor replied. “A United States marshal ain’t exactly someone we want around right now.”
“I see,” Father Gaston said. “Still, to turn someone away is unthinkable. It is a show of Christian kindness to offer water, food, and shelter to those who ask it of us.”
“Yeah, well, there’s enough of that Christian kindness goin’ on now, what with you takin’ care of us ’n’ all,” Taylor said. “Now, what about that food? How long does it take your cook to fix a little supper?”
“Forgive me for not mentioning it the moment you came in,” Father Gaston said. “The cook has informed me that your supper is ready.”
“Well, now, that’s more like it! Why didn’t you say somethin’?” Taylor said. “Come on, Simmons, let’s me ’n’ you get somethin’ to eat.”
Brother James led the two outlaws into the dining room. The room was bare, except for one long wooden table, flanked on either side by an attached wooden bench. On the mud-plaster-covered wall, there hung a large crucifix with the body of Jesus, clearly depicting the agony of the passion. Simmons stood there looking at it for a moment.
“I tell you the truth, that would be one hell of a way to die,” Simmons said.
“What would be?” Taylor asked. Unlike Simmons, Taylor had not noticed the cross.
“That,” Simmons said, nodding toward the crucifix.
Taylor looked around, then shrugged. “Yeah? Well, I doubt that hangin’ is any better, and more than likely me ’n’ you both are goin’ to wind up gettin’ ourselves hung.”
Almost unconsciously, Simmons put his hand to his throat, then shuddered. “Don’t talk like that,” he said.
Taylor laughed. “I’m just tellin’ you the facts of life is all,” he said. He looked at Brother James. “What about that supper that’s supposed to be ready?” he asked.
“Here it comes now,” Brother James said.
Another monk, who, like Brother James, was wearing a simple, brown, homespun cassock held together with a rope around his waist, came into the dining room then, carrying a tray. Their dinner consisted of a bowl of beans and a crust of bread.
“What the hell is this?” Taylor asked.
“This is your supper,” Brother James said.
“Is this it? What about that Christian kindness you were talkin’ about? You didn’t offer us no meat,” Taylor said with a disapproving growl.
Brother James shook his head. “I’m sorry, in this order we do not eat meat. We cannot offer you what we do not have.”
“Yeah? Are you telling me this is what you people eat?”
“Only one day in three do we get beans,” Brother James said. “The other two days we get bread only.”
“Hell, it ain’t that bad, Taylor,” Simmons said, shoveling a spoonful of beans into his mouth. “It ain’t bad at all. In fact, it’s kind of tasty, and it sure as hell beats jerky.”
Kyle waited until after dark before he returned to the monastery. Leaving his horse hobbled, he slipped up to one of the side walls. Then, using chinks and holes in the stone facade to provide footholds and handholds, he climbed up, slipped over the top, and dropped to the ground inside the abbey walls.
Most of the buildings inside the monastery grounds were dark, for candles and oil for lamps were precious
