Bless Me, Ultima(67)

My leaden feet turned at the end of the bridge and I felt the pebbles of the goat path beneath the drift of snow. I was very tired, and lightheaded. I was not able to control my thoughts, I walked as if in a dream. But the closer we got to home the more assured I was of Ultima’s safety. I did not worry about Narciso getting ahead of me now. I was concerned only with struggling up the slope of the hill. Perhaps if I had been closer to Narciso what happened would not have happened, or perhaps we would both be dead.

I heard a pistol shot just ahead of me. I paused and listened for the report that always follows a shot, but the screaming wind muffled it. Still I was positive it had been a shot and I bolted forward. It was beneath the big juniper that I caught sight of the two figures. As before, I was almost upon them before I knew what was happening. They were locked together in a death-grip, rocking back and forth in their death-dance. They cursed and pounded at each other, and this time there was no one to stop them.

I knew now what Tenorio had done, and I hated myself for not having guessed it, and I hated Andrew for not listening to Narciso. The devil Tenorio had sneaked around while we lingered at Rosie’s house, and had waited to ambush Narciso under the juniper tree. I looked for help, but there was none. Their battle would be to the end this time, with only me to witness.

“Ay diablo, you have shot me in cowardly fashion!” Narciso cried in pain and rage.

“You are a dead man, cabrón!” Tenorio shouted back.

They clutched at each other and spun around and around, like two huge animals. Blood was already blackening the snow as the wind buckled the two to the ground.

Under the protection of the juniper they rolled and grunted and cursed. I stood frozen, watching the deadly scene, unable to do anything. Then I heard the second shot. This time it was not muffled by the wind but by the body against which it had been fired. I held my breath as the living man untangled himself from the dead one and stumbled to his feet. It was Tenorio.

“May your soul be damned and go to hell!” Tenorio cursed. His body heaved as he gasped and grunted for breath. Then to add to his curse he spit on the body of Narciso. I heard a low moan as Tenorio aimed his pistol at the head of Narciso. I screamed with fear and Tenorio spun around and saw me. He aimed the pistol at me and I heard the click of the firing pin. But there was no shot.

“You bastard of the witch!” he snarled. He stuffed the pistol into his pocket, turned and fled towards the highway.

For some time I did not move. I could not believe I was alive; I could not believe I was not dreaming a frightful nightmare. Then a moan from the dying man called me, and I walked to Narciso and knelt at his side.

It was peaceful under the juniper tree. The snow continued to fall dense and heavy, but the wind was still. The tree’s huge, dark branches offered protection, like a confessional. I looked down at the bloodied face of Narciso, and I almost felt relieved of the terrible tension my fevered body had carried for so many hours. He seemed asleep. Snow covered the huge, brown, mustached face. I brushed some of the snow away and his eyelids fluttered.

“Narciso,” I heard myself say faintly.

“Hijo—” he murmured.

I slipped my hand under his head and whispered, “Are you dead?”

He smiled faintly, his eyelids fluttered open, and I saw a glaze on his eyes that I had never seen before. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, and when his huge hand moved from his chest I saw that he had been clutching the wound from the bullet. A warm, pulsating stream of blood wet his jacket and the snow. He made the sign of the cross, leaving dabs of blood where he touched his forehead, his chest, and the sides.

“Muchacho,” his hoarse voice whispered, “I need confession—I am dying—”

I shook my head in desperation. There would be no time to go for the priest. I couldn’t, I couldn’t make it back across the bridge, back to town, to the church. My cheeks did not feel the warm, salty tears that began flowing down and splattering on his bloodied face.

“I am not a priest,” I said. I felt his body jerk and stiffen. He was dying.

“Ultima—” His voice was very faint, dying.

“There is not time,” I whispered.

“Then pray for me,” he said weakly and closed his eyes, “you are pure of heart—”

I knew what I had to pray. I had to pray an Act of Contrition for his departing soul, like I prayed for Lupito. But I had not held Lupito while his body went cold. I had not bloodied my hands with his life’s blood. I looked at the wound on the chest and saw the blood stop flowing; rage and protest filled me. I wanted to cry out into the storm that it was not fair that Narciso die for doing good, that it was not fair for a mere boy to be at the dying of a man.