and when his huge hand moved from his chest I saw that he had been clutching the wound from the bullet. A warm, pulsating stream of blood wet his jacket and the snow. He made the sign of the cross, leaving dabs of blood where he touched his forehead, his chest, and the sides.
“Muchacho,” his hoarse voice whispered, “I need confession—I am dying—”
I shook my head in desperation. There would be no time to go for the priest. I couldn’t, I couldn’t make it back across the bridge, back to town, to the church. My cheeks did not feel the warm, salty tears that began flowing down and splattering on his bloodied face.
“I am not a priest,” I said. I felt his body jerk and stiffen. He was dying.
“Ultima—” His voice was very faint, dying.
“There is not time,” I whispered.
“Then pray for me,” he said weakly and closed his eyes, “you are pure of heart—”
I knew what I had to pray. I had to pray an Act of Contrition for his departing soul, like I prayed for Lupito. But I had not held Lupito while his body went cold. I had not bloodied my hands with his life’s blood. I looked at the wound on the chest and saw the blood stop flowing; rage and protest filled me. I wanted to cry out into the storm that it was not fair that Narciso die for doing good, that it was not fair for a mere boy to be at the dying of a man.
“Confess me—”
I placed my ear to his mouth and heard his mumbled confession. I felt the tears running now, flooding my eyes and blinding me, flowing into the corners of my mouth, and I felt great sobs choking at my throat, trying to get loose.
“Thank you, father, I will sin no more—”
I prayed, “Oh my God, I am sorry for all of my sins, not because I dread the fires of Hell, but because they displease you, Lord, Who art all good, and deserving of all my love—and with Thy help, I will sin no more—”
Then I made the sign of the cross over him.
“It is good to die on a hill of the llano, beneath the juniper—” were his last words. I felt his last intake of air, and the moan as he breathed for the last time. I slipped my hand from under his head, then the sobs came. I knelt by his side for a long time, crying, thinking of all that had happened.
And when the crying had cleansed my soul of the great weight of pity, I got up and ran home. I felt very weak and sick by the time I burst into my mother’s kitchen.
“¡Antonio!” my mother cried. I rushed into her warm arms and was safe. “Ay, Jesús, María y José—”
“Where have you been?” I heard my father ask from his chair.
“School’s been out a long time—” It was Deborah teasing.
I think I started laughing, or crying, because my mother looked at me strangely and felt my forehead. “Your clothes are wet, and you have a fever!”
Then I felt Ultima’s hand on mine. “¡Sangre!” she whispered. It was the blood of Narciso on my hands. The room and the faces staring at me began to swim, as if I was the center of a dark, rushing whirlpool.
“¡Dios mío!” my mother cried. “Are you hurt, Tony?”
“I knew those were pistol shots I heard!” my father leaped from his chair and grabbed me by the collar of my jacket. “Are you hurt? What has happened?”
“Narciso!” I blurted out.
“By the juniper—” I thought I heard Ultima say. She knit her brow and seemed to be testing the air for any trace of danger left to us.
“He is dead!” I cried.
“But where?” My father said in disbelief. My mother’s eyes fluttered and she stumbled back. Ultima picked me up.
“On the goat path—”
“But how? Did you see it?” He was already reaching for his jacket.
“The boy can speak no more. He must rest,” Ultima said.
“Sí,” my mother cried anxiously. Together they carried me to her room.
“I will go and see,” my father said. I heard the door bang.
“More blankets,” Ultima told my mother and she ran to obey. They had taken off my wet, frozen clothes and stuffed me under thick, warm blankets.
“He was coming to warn you,” I whispered to Ultima, “Tenorio threatened to kill you, there was a terrible fight, he was coming to warn you—”
“He was a good man,” her sad eyes