“There’s something I need to tell you,” Sal said. He kept an eye on the man with the gun. The time for the truth had come, no time left for pretending.
“Dígame, tell me Sal.” Brother David spoke to the native in his own language. The man took a step back, keeping the gun out of Sal’s reach.
“Those men are here to do you harm,” Sal said. He did not tell Brother David everything, especially the part about being a pirate.
“¿Y esta pistola, is it their gun? D-did they send you here to harm us?” Brother David said. His stutter made him sound foolish. His glare threatened Sal more than the gun.
“The truth is, I’m a pirate, not the boy you remember from México. Not the man you pray for,” Sal said. He hung his head like a little boy, un niño.
“A-and you’ve come to steal from the ch-church? I can’t believe this,” Brother David said. His voice, the slow, low growl of a wounded animal.
“You don’t understand. Those pirates rescued me when Blas was murdered. They took me in. Y la iglesia, what’s the Church ever done for me?” Sal avoided Brother David’s eyes.
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