Twisted Cross

On the third day, Father Serra finally slowed his pace. He discovered a small band of natives to baptize.

“Gracias a Dios, the baptisms stopped him,” Sal said. He and Jimenez stood apart and watched Father Serra preparing for the impromptu ceremony.

“We must get their names in my tally of baptisms,” Father Serra said. “Brother Blas, do your part, get the holy water.” Blas flicked holy water with his pudgy fingers onto the surprised natives. So clumsy, half of the blessed agua dripped along his sleeves.

“Look at those natives: dirt poor, but they still offer Father Serra gifts,” Sal said. Jimenez and Sal hid as they watched the spectacle. Blas nodded and muttered, doing his best to perform the ceremony.

“They’d be better off if we gave them a few supplies, not just holy water,” Jimenez said. Sal liked his blunt honesty. The son of a rich man, Jimenez spoke his mind.

The new converts loaded them with offerings. Sal figured out how to pile the baskets, blankets, and stone carvings into the overcrowded wagon. The load proved too much for the wagon. It wobbled for a few feet, then made a loud cracking sound and the wheel gave way.