She grabbed the only things she could, her rosary and her habit, and ran out the back door. She crossed the Orkenso River barefoot, walked all night and the next day until her strength gave out.
Jack listened without blinking. In his mind appeared the face of his late wife, Lucia, who had died five years earlier because there was no money to take her to the doctor in Hchedo. The fever took her in fifteen days.
From then on, Jack lived alone with his cows and his resentment.
When Alice finished speaking, he simply said:
—She stays here until she can walk.
Not another word of forbidden. I didn’t touch her with bad intentions, and God knows it.
The following days were strange and beautiful. Jack would go out at dawn to work the cattle and return at dusk with fresh milk, eggs, and a rabbit for broth. At first, Alice refused to eat at the same table.
She would pray quietly with her back to him, but hunger is stubborn, and little by little, she sat down opposite him.
They didn’t talk much. She would ask him about the stars. He would tell her stories of the Comanches who still roamed the area.
One night, Jack lent her one of his shirts to wash her habit. Alice looked at herself in the cracked mirror on the wall and saw her long, golden, tangled hair.
Jack caught her cutting it with the sheep shears.
—What are you doing, woman?
“I can’t continue being a nun if I’ve already broken my vows of obedience,” she said, and continued cutting.
When it was over, she looked like someone else, just an ordinary girl, pretty like her mother, with green eyes full of fear and something else that Jack didn’t dare to name.
One morning, Alice could walk without a limp. She stood in the doorway with the sun behind her and spoke clearly.
“I have to go back, Jack. Otherwise, they’ll never believe me. I have to go into the mission and open that drawer in front of the whole town.”
—They’re going to kill her.
—Then we’ll both die. But no more girls will disappear.
Jack remained silent for a very long time. Then he went to the corner, took out his Winchester rifle, a .44 to .40 caliber, and calmly cleaned it.
—Whenever you say, sister.
They left the next day before the rooster crowed. Jack had Alice sitting in the back, her arms around his waist. She no longer said, “It’s forbidden.”
Dere appeared at noon, dusty and noisy, with the cowboys shouting and the train whistling in the distance.
In front of the mission, a dozen orphans were playing with a mangy dog. Father Whitlac stood in the doorway, fat and ruddy, talking to Sheriff Collins, who had a bright star and a viper’s grin.
When they saw Alice healthy and with short hair, accompanied by the rancher, their faces froze.
—Sister Alice, praise the Lord, are you alive? —cried the father, opening his fake arms.
The sheriff put his hand on the butt of the revolver.
—Come, my daughter, let us go inside to say thanksgiving prayers— said Whitlac.
Alice got off the horse with dignity.
—I’m not going in as a prisoner, I’m going in as a witness.
And she raised her voice so that all the people could hear her.
“This man and this sheriff have stolen the orphans’ money. They have the gold hidden behind the altar. Three sisters have already died because they found out.”
First there was silence, then drunken laughter. Then a Mexican woman, a mother of five, shouted: