Cries in the Desert

One hot August afternoon, in the year of Our Lord seventeen hundred and thirteen, a short, squat Indian came running across a field of squash calling,

“Padre . . . Padre.”

A thin man, a priest of middle years, who was making adobe bricks, quit stomping on the mud contained in a square wood box for a moment to see who was coming.  Then, he held up the bottom of his black robe again, lifted one foot out of the box and put it back in again.

The Indian, whose name was Juan, rushed up to him, and with downcast eyes announced, “Many g-strings coming.”  He pointed to the rough dirt path that led to the Vista.

The priest hurried out along the dirt path to meet his guests. 

In the bright glare of the sun, he put his hand over his brow and counted six Spanish soldiers riding prancing horses.  On top of burros, he saw three noisy ruffians jostling and digging their boots into the sides of them. 

His heart fell.  No one wore the elegant attire of Father Visitor. 

The padre stretched out his arms.

There was much grunting, pounding of hoofs, rattling of armor and the rambunctious noise of those on the burros.  His elegant words of welcome couldn’t be heard over all the noise.

Romeraz D’Alive, the largest and most mean-spirited Spaniard in the group, was the first to ride up to the priest.  He sat on an enormous golden stallion and wore a shining silver helmet and a chain-mail vest.

From his waist a sword hung down in an iron-mounted scabbard. 

His padded saddle was made of the finest silver.  A heavy woolen red blanket with a white, embroidered border lay under it.  Although stained and dirty, the cloth appeared elegant in the bright sun.

Expertly lifting his leg, D’Alive deftly clanked off the horse.  He handed the reins to the bewildered priest.  Then he unfastened the leather ear pieces tied under his chin and took off the helmet.  The red quilted linen inside showed a ring of dark stain.

“Apache ‘round here?”  Sweat dripped from his huge head onto his shaggy black beard.  His eyes scanned the squash and cornfields and all the structures in the compound.

Father Mauer shook his head.  He felt insignificant next to these two Spanish giants, man and horse.

“Just poor O’Odham.  Pima, you Spaniards call them.”  The priest had to shout to be heard over all the commotion.  

“We need food and water, and shelter for ourselves and the horses.” 

D’Alive’s vest of chain mail rattled.  The priest saw that he wore a red shirt underneath the silver mesh.

“Have you come far?” the priest shouted.

“Mexico City.  Apache killed one of us.  Not far from here.  Also two...like them.”  His thumb indicated the three men getting off burros.  One was heading off to attend to another string of burros.  The other two stood gazing at the compound.

“The king sent them.  They’re a present for you.”  He laughed and gestured wildly at the ruffians.

Father Mauer groaned.  He recognized the men as alley sorts, barely on the lowest rung of society. 

The men were without self-control or possessed with good traits.  They were lovers of pleasure rather than of God.  What would he do with such trash?

One of them, a muscular, powerfully-built man, turned his back to them, apparently searching for something in a bag latched to a burro.  When he turned around, the man uttered a profanity in German.  His red face matched the top of his long johns dangling from his waist.  Spittle came from his big mouth and landed on his reddish-brown mustache and nest of a beard.  When Father Mauer saw his lips form a curse, he winced.

A shorter man, picking his teeth with a big knife, came over to see what was upsetting the German.  He had olive skin, big dark eyes, and huge lips.  The way he sauntered said he thought himself intensely desirable to women.  Father Mauer knew the type and loathed what he represented.