The padre always concluded his midweek liturgy by dispensing the contents of the poor box as fairly and judiciously as he could. But tonight there would be no mass. The disappointed families turned away from the church and filed toward the front gate. Ben McQueen rode through the gate and past the faithful who headed dejectedly toward the jacals, where they lived in close proximity to the church. Ben pointed his gelding toward the church and the Yaqui maintaining his lonely vigil on the steps. Bats swept across the evening sky while an owl in the bell tower voiced its distinctive, questioning cry. Veils of silvery moonlight washed the front of the church. Overhead, a vast array of stars stretched from horizon to horizon. Old Esteban listened to the owl and shuddered as the horseman approached. “Esteban …” Ben pushed back his sombrero to reveal his features. “Do you know me?” He wore a coarsely woven, loose-fitting cotton shirt, a faded brown woolen poncho, and nankeen breeches tucked into his Army-issue boots.
