St. Agnes’ Stand. Thomas Eidson

his eyes away from the direction of the noise, looking that way from the side so he could see better.

      ‘It’s near the wagon,’ the nun said softly. ‘Mr Swanson, don’t shoot.’

      ‘Shhh,’ he whispered. He could see it now. A piece of shadow had seemed to grow from nothing at the far end of the wagon. It didn’t move for a long time, then he realized it was closer, and moving closer still. He raised the pistol. As he was aiming down the revolver’s long barrel, he felt her hand on his arm.

      ‘Don’t,’ she said.

      He hesitated and then he saw the shadow rise and trot into the open. The dog sat a few yards away from them, staring out in the direction of Santa Fe, staring as if he could see all the way there. He looked rested and fit, and while Swanson was glad to see him, he was angry about the scare.

      ‘Ma’am, tell the children not to touch that animal, he’ll tear an arm off. He flat can’t be trusted.’ The dog continued to peer out into the dark distance, ignoring them both.

      ‘What’s its name?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

      ‘What do you call it?’

      ‘Dog.’

      ‘Well then, I guess that’s its name.’

      Swanson and the old nun sat together in silence for a while longer. With the dog in the enclosure, he felt less tense and he spread his saddle blanket and lay back on the sand. He watched the stars for a time and then said, ‘What’s your name, ma’am?’

      ‘Sister St Agnes,’ her voice sounding as if she had been far away in her thoughts.

      ‘How do you get to be a saint?’

      ‘I’m not one.’ She chuckled. ‘That’s the name I took at the convent.’

      She had a young laugh, and it seemed odd in a woman of her years. In fact, much about her and what had happened to him over the past twenty-four hours seemed odd. He couldn’t figure it. She didn’t scare easy, he’d give her that much.

      ‘There were two Saint Agneses,’ she said, absently.

      ‘Two?’

      ‘Yes. One very famous. Agnes of Montepulciano. She was born in Tuscany in 1268 AD.’

      ‘I’ve never heard of Tuscany.’

      ‘It’s in Italy. Anyway, I’m not named after her. She established a nunnery in Montepulciano and had a lot of visions. And a great many miracles and other remarkable occurrences are attributed to her.’

      ‘But you’re not named after her.’

      ‘No. She was too grand a saint for me to be named after.’ She smiled. ‘I’m named after the little Saint Agnes.’

      ‘What did she do?’

      ‘She was martyred in Rome in 304 AD at the age of thirteen.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘She refused to marry and instead she consecrated her maidenhood to God. And when the Roman persecution of the Christians began, she offered herself in martyrdom. She was executed by being stabbed in the throat by a centurion’s sword.’

      ‘At thirteen, because she wouldn’t marry?’

      ‘No. At thirteen because she wouldn’t deny God.’

      ‘Why did you take her name?’

      ‘I guess I identified with her. I was seventeen when I entered the convent. And when my father, who didn’t like the idea, told me that someday I would want to marry and have children, I told him that I had already married God.’

      ‘He didn’t like that?’

      ‘He didn’t like that at all,’ she said. ‘And your name? Where does it come from?’

      Swanson continued to look at the stars without saying anything. Then he sat up and shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘From my parents.’

      She said, ‘Well, I guessed that much. Were you named after your father … your grandfather?’

      ‘My dad’s name was John. I had a grandfather name of Richard.’

      Sister St Agnes watched his face for a few minutes and then leaned back on her hands and looked up at the sky and the black silhouettes of the canyon walls.

      ‘It’s a lovely night.’

      They didn’t talk for a long time then. When Swanson finally spoke he was running a strip of fresh rawhide through the holster of his pistol.

      ‘Your church in New Mexico or Texas?’

      ‘Pennsylvania.’

      Swanson turned his head and looked at the dark, thin shape of the old nun sitting beside him. ‘That’s a piece. How did you get here?’

      ‘By train, stagecoach, wagon, horse and foot.’

      Swanson stared at the holster for a long while, then said, ‘Why would you come all the way down here to a place like this, a place you don’t know?’

      She didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, ‘Faith.’ She looked at the side of his face. ‘Does that make any sense to you?’

      ‘Not much.’

      ‘We came because of Jesus Christ, Mr Swanson. The children were suffering and alone. We came to give them God’s love.’

      ‘No matter what the price?’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Even if it costs you and the sisters your lives?’

      She smiled. ‘You make us sound so important. We are only three small instruments in God’s hand.’ She was smiling broadly now, her two large front teeth plainly visible. ‘You don’t smile enough, Mr Swanson. God loves a cheerful giver.’

      ‘You aren’t from these parts,’ he said quickly. ‘You don’t know the Apache.’

      ‘They’re God’s children, same as you or I.’

      ‘And the lady, the Mexican, the boy and the others?’ He was still watching her.

      ‘Ignorance and evil.’ She stood up as if the conversation had suddenly pushed her away, dusted her robes and then moved from him toward the far side of the enclosure.

      ‘Where did the Mexicans go who were driving your wagons?’ he called softly after her.

      She stopped and looked back at him. ‘They ran off the first night.’

      ‘Do you think they made it?’

      He watched her. She was smaller than he had first thought but she stood straight and proud, her frail shoulders squared against the massive canyons. He was surprised he had asked her the question. There was no way she could answer it. He knew that.

      ‘I’ve prayed for it.’ She turned away again.

      ‘How often do your prayers work?’

      She turned quickly, looking down at him, the first hint of annoyance flickering at the wrinkled corner of her mouth. Then she smiled. ‘They brought me you,’ she said, turning and walking to where the dog sat. The animal got up and moved away a few yards and then lay down and watched her.

      He couldn’t see her very well in the dark, but he knew she was praying. He heard his name once and the awkward feeling came over him again. He figured the chances of the two Mexicans couldn’t have been good. The Apaches would have expected just such a move and would have been waiting. Nevertheless, there was a chance one of the two might have got through, and if he knew anything about staying alive in the desert, he could make it to Sonora in seven or eight days. Swanson didn’t hang on the chance, but he tucked it away in his head