Twisted Cross

“Of all the missionaries, Brother David is the most kind. No one would deny such a good man shelter. God will protect him, Sal, keep the faith,” Blas said.

“Yeah sure, keep the faith. Just remember, you are a false cleric talking to a man impersonating a dead soldier,” Sal said. He lost all hope of finding David.

“¡Por Dios! Dead soldier? For the love of God, Sal, don’t tell me…,” Blas said. He shook his head, unable to complete his sentence. How much had his time alone changed Sal?

“What are you trying to say? You think I murdered Jimenez?” Sal said. “Did you kill for that robe?” What kind of a friend would think such a thing?

“But the uniform, it is Jimenez’s. ¿Sì?” Blas said. He lunged for the military satchel, opened it, found Jimenez’s identification. “I knew you brought him along for a reason.” He backed away from Sal in horror. “You planned this all along.” He looked Sal over for a weapon, blood or any sign of his violence.

“Sure, it’s Jimenez’s uniform,” Sal said. How could he remove the fear he saw in Blas’s face? “You can’t blame me. Jimenez died of fever before we reached Mazatlán. I tried to save him. I even buried him. I have a right to use his identity, just like you use a cleric’s robe,” Sal said.

“I want to believe you,” Blas said. Having accused Sal of murder, he burned with shame. “Forgive me, amigo. This New World has cast its spell on all of us. One thing I know, God has made a way for both you and me. And now we are back together, for life.”

“A spell? Don’t worry about it. Maybe you and God can help me move this load,” Sal said. He liked to tease when Blas got overly serious and religious. “I’m sure ready for some good food.”

The friends worked together to move the old cart toward the Mission grounds. They did not speak again until a stranger appeared on the pathway.