Redemption At Purgatory

By Joseph M. Przygodzinski and Nicholas F. Nascati

Purgatory, Arizona where even the paint on buildings appears in need of deliverance. In the aftermath of a power struggle that massacred the Town's lawmen; the people of Purgatory were mired in hope's shallow end. Could the Purgatory bound stranger reunite with a former Yuma Penitentiary cellmate and find redemption and make things better for the town?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483514710

Book preview

Chapter 1

The year was 1879 in the heart of June; Brett Dawson rode alone at midday, the intense Arizona sun overhead causing him to squint past the brim of his Stetson hat. He was contemplating the last few years of his life as he journeyed along through the desert.

It was peaceful out in the empty spaces, dotted with an occasional cactus or other desert foliage; the rest of the landscape was filled with rock formations resting in various depths of sand. Tumbleweeds rivaled living creatures in the way they seemed to find each other and travel the same paths. He tried to control what entered his mind choosing only the events that he wanted to remember or the subjects in his life to be envisaged while traveling along alone.

He had been released from Yuma Territorial Prison 23 hours ago and his mind was still not fully grasping why he chose to take the back road out into the desert instead of traveling towards Phoenix and the outposts of civilization along the way. He had often cast a wanton eye from his cell on Prison Hill, out over the wall toward the back of the prison into Mother Nature’s distant desolation. Every evening he marked the close of a day this way and now there was a weird and wonderful familiarity with his chosen course.

He glanced back one last time, thinking about how there was nothing there where the prison now stands when he arrived manacled to a wagon that he was forced to walk behind hour after hour in the sun's unremitting discharge. He recalled what a revelation it was to him that in the cold of February he could still find the sun uncomfortable. He remembered how he was glad to have finally reached that rock hill with the few nearly leafless trees standing out like a colorful patch on the otherwise desiccated landscape that blanketed their destination.

They had lost two of the original ten men who were with him on the forced march to Yuma. Both men buried along the trail without formal markers noting who they were, with just enough of the fine desert sand to cover their gaunt bodies. The rocks they piled on top of the first grave barely covered the little trench they had buried his body in. The guards stripped anything of value or identifiable from the corpse leaving it void of whatever would be considered a vestige of a civilized human being. They removed his prison stripes before he was buried and wrapped him in an already worn canvass tarp without any procedural standards. What remained underneath would be an anonymous mystery should anyone dig up his remains.

The man was a former slave who spoke little. When after he was buried the guards mentioned his name as Ezra Cartwright; everyone was amused to finally know it. He seemed to want to die anyway rather than lose the freedom he had enjoyed only a short while.

The second burial, a hundred miles later, was done with a little more solemnity. The deceased was an Irish Catholic and one of the others in the bevy of misfortune was a countryman who said a few words over him and bade the others to place the covering rocks into a crude but recognizable Celtic cross.

It was quirky how you didn’t keep time on your march through desolation. You just reached prominent markers on the map that silently testified that you actually were somewhere that had been visited before and given a name.

They finally reached a dried up water hole that was five miles from their final destination. It was the final marker and a guard showed him the little printed description on the map that said water hole, the only landmark designated on the map for a wide area. He pondered that there may have been a water hole with water in it when the map was made. The guard solved that mystery for him when he informed him it was only a water hole when it rained. The guard made a note and marked his map intermittent above water hole.

On the march you didn’t have to worry about when you would wake up, or eat your meals, or go to sleep because the guards did it all for you. Time was passing but it never announced where it was on any given moment. The sun served as time’s arbiter until the moon took over.

He was glad the insufferable march was ending. He would be released from the everyday droning on through the monotonous landscape; parts of his life, like the pages turned in a picture book, kept playing over and over again in his mind. On the long march to Yuma he lost the ability to pick and choose what he thought about, it seems that only the events that landed him in the prison were clear in his mind and he wanted to blot them out but couldn’t.

Finally they reached Yuma. Having spent the previous years of his life before his incarceration in Tucson; he wondered why they even bothered to give this little hamlet a name. He thought it was humorous and laughed out loud when he first saw the buildings silhouetted against the setting sun. In the distance the town buildings looked like brilliantly colored blocks of wood and the flickering light coming out of the windows seemed to be fighting to be noticed in the dwindling radiance of the sun.

The village of Yuma was set out from the hill and for the first six months after their arrival they were billeted in a barn that lacked every comfort save protection from the elements. They were tasked with most of the heavy labor necessary to build a secure structure for their incarceration.

He laughed inside himself recalling that second day after their arrival, 18 February 1876.

The cornerstone for the prison house was laid and the town of Yuma hosted a party for the dignitaries who were present from the Territorial Government along with an agent from Washington. The rest of the United States was probably in Philadelphia enjoying the Centennial.

That was the last time he ate a real meal. The food in the prison was mostly bread and water with a little meat on Sundays. When they had it, the salt bacon was almost always rancid.

He keenly recalled what wholesome food tasted like and he imagined sitting in the little cafe in Tucson across from the jailhouse that he called his office back in those days now long passed. He could sometimes smell the aroma and almost taste the wholesome goodness of the meals they served there before he drifted off to sleep.

If he had a friend at all among the men he had traveled with to that hell on the hill; Sam Cunningham was it. Poor Sam never got to spend a night in the new prison quarters he spent so much of his time helping to build. He slipped on some loose gravel and fell backwards, not a foot distant from Brett. Side by side they carried buckets of wet mortar up a ramp of loose planks. Brett wondered why he wasn’t paying attention enough to reach out and grab Sam; he might have saved Sam’s life.

He reasoned his body was habitually immersed in the monotony of the routines it performed. He was constantly being engaged in ceaseless repetitions till the tasks assigned him were finished. Over time he no longer needed to have his presence of mind oversee his actions.

His thoughts would drift in and out and back and forth between his memories without being focused on the dreary procedures his body was doing automatically. He drifted back to thinking about Sam and thought of a fitting obituary that would commemorate his friend’s life. The heading might be Sam Cunningham, dead at 26 of a busted skull, suffered in a construction accident, on June 29th, 1876, how ironic that was.

Sam was a young stonemason who got caught using some of his employer’s cut stones for his own home without permission and not paying for them. His sentence for the pilfering of the finished rocks was 17 months in prison at hard labor. Sam was convinced that if his skills were that of a leather worker rather than a stone cutter he would never have been sentenced to Yuma. It turned out that his sentence was to be a death penalty. Brett never completed the full obituary, his mind already left that subject and now it was lodged in something else totally different from the Sam Cunningham epitaph.

It was as if his memories were the numbered squares on a roulette wheel and you never knew on which memories the ball would land. It let you recall certain memories clearly. He couldn't remember the day he first wore the lawman’s badge but he remembered prison milestones like they had happened yesterday.

In the years he was there the prison filled with men from several different foreign countries including Mexico, China, Russian occupied Poland, English ruled Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Germany, and England. A good number of the American-born were Negroes, most former slaves, who had trouble adjusting to being free in a land where they weren’t afforded the least bit of dignity or aid. The Indians who came through mostly for short sentences seemed to take incarceration the hardest; to deny an Indian his freedom was as harsh as killing him by slow tortures. There was a rumor one of the young braves committed suicide after only a month.

Brett was lucky enough to spend his time on the prison work-gang tasked with construction of the ever-expanding complex. The work was hard and as long as everyone on the work-gang behaved and followed the rules their reward was some free time to rest. They were off half of Saturdays and all of Sundays and used a bit of the time to mingle with the other prison yard fowl.

Brett discovered his jailbird fellows were not all career felons; some were carpenters, cooks, farmers, gamblers, wheelwrights, sailors, and laborers. None ever dreamed they would wind up doing hard labor in a penitentiary for their moment of diminished reasoning.

More common on the rolls of the prison was a dignitary’s list of the most desperate and notorious criminals in the region. Some of the imprisoned were men he had dealings with in the past and surprisingly a number of former lawmen were there. Brett noticed many of the lawmen he knew to be corrupt were adjusting well to their new prison environment and found affinity with the equally corrupt guards and prison staff.

He got to know his fellow jailbirds well especially after rendering a few of them unconscious when they challenged his fighting prowess. When he was a Sheriff he had many brawls with very tough lawbreakers and now, in the pecking order of the prison yard, he was alone at the top of his own roost. It took at least two men to make an even fight of it against Brett Dawson.

One of the other inmates, he was close with, had been a Mexican Federale now doing time for pistol-whipping a bartender on the wrong side of the border. His kindred Mexican’s name was Martin Allende but in prison they knew him as Senor Bear for his size and strength. Bear Allende had the ability to smell out trouble before it was unavoidable. He never failed to detect the aroma of trouble that was not avoidable to begin with either and he met it head on. Martin always had Brett’s back and the prison population began thinking of him as Brett’s big, scary shadow. Indeed Martin was the right combination of tough, strong and fearless.

Brett thought about their plan to be bounty hunters and their future pursuing such a dangerous career. Martin convinced him it was the natural thing for ex-lawmen to do once they were unable to be a part of the justice system. He made the decision without a lot of thinking knowing he would never have a chance to regain meaningful employment as a sheriff again.

His wandering mind began to try and recall Martin’s many profound speeches he delivered to anyone who was within earshot. He was in the cell next to the Bear’s den so he couldn’t escape them.

He grew to admire Martin for the sheer right over wrong philosophy the tough Mexican expounded upon. Martin was the closest thing to a wiser, older brother Brett had ever had. His own brother died from the fever in Saint Louis with his parents and sister and he was sent out to Tucson to live with his spinster aunt May.

Martin had told him tales of his favorite cousin and her lawman husband. Anima Roseate Cortez was the daughter of Martin’s father’s sister and Don Manuel Rodriguez Cortez a man of means who counted the progeny of the great conquistador and his Indian mistress among his ancestors. Martin had spent most of his early days in the company of his aunt and uncle and their families were very close. They all grew up on his grandfather’s large ranch that housed his father’s other siblings and their families. Of all the cousins and other relatives he was closest to Anima.

Anima married Ben Calhoun a local man of Irish ancestry. Ben’s father was a hero of the Mexican-American war who served in the Mexican Army and became the chief of his town’s constabulary. Anima’s husband followed in his father’s footsteps and proposed marriage to her when he was selected to be the Marshall of a town called Purgatory in Arizona. In the ten years since their marriage Ben Calhoun became well known in the territory as a champion for justice and a force against corruption. The couple was the perfect combination to help usher the transition of Arizona, from a part of New Spain then Mexico, to American Territory and likely statehood.

Martin wrote one letter for Brett to present to Ben Calhoun when he reached Purgatory. It was to introduce him to the Marshall and announce that Martin would follow soon to visit his favorite cousin. Martin had written the introductory letter on the extra paper Anima always enclosed in her letters to him and he re-used one of her envelopes to place it in.

He also wrote his usual personal letter, bribing a friendly guard to be sure the other letter got sent off to her. It was in the unused envelope she always provided. He never failed to write a letter to answer one of hers. It was almost a contest to see who would write more often. He wanted this to be the last letter he ever sent that was written in a prison cell. He wanted to let her know personally of his release from Yuma and let it close this chapter of his life.

Brett always knew when the Bear got a letter from his most beautiful precious Anima because the sensuous aroma of her perfume clung to the paper and permeated the entire section of the prison where their cells were located. When Brett smelled the fragrance he would nearly go into olfactory arrest and his mind would be filled with pretend images of the beautiful Anima painted into his memory from the adoring descriptions Martin gave him of his beloved cousin.

The promise of meeting someone like the alluring Anima was probably one of his reasons for his seeking a new beginning in a town called Purgatory. It wasn’t like him to have thoughts about married women and he made a note in his mind to stop doing it.

Allende’s only directions to get to Purgatory were simple to a fault, take the left choice when the road reached a fork not a crossroad. He had to run right into Purgatory, it straddled that road twenty-two miles from the fork. All he knew was that he was heading due North somewhere between the Rio Gila and the Rio Colorado and the further the two rivers drifted apart the dryer the country in between became. He was anxious to meet Ben Calhoun and start the groundwork for himself and Martin who would arrive in Purgatory sometime after finishing his sentence in six weeks.

Brett’s anticipated release was almost held up because a spectacular escape, the first ever from Yuma, had occurred just the week before. The guards weren’t sure whether the prisoners got out or if they were just hiding somewhere in the prison itself. The warden had cancelled all guard leaves and convict discharges until he could figure out if there was a wider conspiracy. None of the guards were in on it and that rubbed them the wrong way that someone escaped out of their prison without them profiting from it.

Brett suspected that Apache Mike, a convict released a few weeks before, had something to do with it. He had made friends with the amazing Apache during his stretch and also with Mike’s prison-buddies, Worthington Tewkesbury and Stanislaus Grzestewski, who were the missing convicts.

The three of them worked together for the better part of two years, Tewkesbury was a former slave and Grzestewski was a Polish revolutionary who was employed as a circus strongman before he became a convict. This eccentric pair of inmates had been inseparable since they arrived and befriended Apache Mike who took them under his powerful wing. They were an odd trio, the kind of friendships that could form only in remote places or random situations.

Brett again thought about the plan to start a career as a bounty hunter. During the long desert days on the way to Purgatory he would do useful things to break the boredom of his journey. He practiced his quick draw skills and found a way to modify his holster so he just had to spin it to fire his gun. He could reach the trigger during the spin and fire with increasingly better accuracy the more he practiced.

He fondly thought of Judge Bradshaw, who had sentenced him to prison. His honor visited him before he left for Yuma and promised Brett that his twin colt .44 revolvers and Sharps buffalo rifle would be handed to him when he finished his sentence. The rumor was that the judge had something to do with the warden’s appointment and was in contact with him. The judge personally shipped Brett’s weapons along with most of his other belongings to Yuma for him and the warden saw to it that they were given to him unmolested on his release. Regardless, Brett was surprised to find the weapons and most of his belongings waiting for him.

He had a personal note from the judge that was folded around a Yuma First Philadelphia bank account savings-book. The judge presided over the auctioning of his belongings and after settling Brett’s accounts put the remaining proceeds into the Bank for him. He was grateful to have just over $ 400 when he closed the account. He was given a bank draft for that amount that would be good at the bank in Purgatory.

Nestled in a small box was his brand new Sheriff’s badge. He had never gotten to pin it on. By having a smaller gold star in the center of the solid silver badge his rank was very noticeable when he wore it.

When he wore it? He thought that was certain never to happen. The judge had a gold chain made for it and he placed it around his neck as the judge’s note had requested. There was a Latin inscription courtesy of Judge Bradshaw on the back that was roughly translated into go forth reminded that you are forever a man of the law.

Brett’s mind drifted back to the reality of the moment. He really was free from the life he had been living over the last few years. The future scared him but the present exhilarated him. He rode up to the small mesa he had been watching for the last few hours and found a way to its flat top. He could see for miles in every direction and the realization that he was not on a cot in a small cell surrounded by walls and bars or enclosed within the stone ramparts of Yuma Territorial Prison made him feel chills up and down his entire body. He took a deep breath and determined he was breathing in the air of freedom, exhaling with a new vigor that he all but lost.

He saw a storm in the distance and a lonely ruin of some sorts in its path. He could see it better when the storm moved closer and noticed it was an old mission or church of Spanish origins. The ruins looked abandoned from where he was observing them. He expected it might have enough shelter to provide a good place for weathering the storm. He spurred his horse back down the steep trail he had used to climb the butte and headed towards the ruins hoping to be there before the sun went down.

He stopped on a small hill so he could get a better look at his destination. There were two burros and two horses outside of the ruins’ main building that he decided was a church because it had a belfry. It looked like a small roofed corral that was sheltering the animals. It had already started to rain down on the decaying structures. He could see the water dropping off the tiled roofs flowed into a coarsely-walled depression with a sandy bottom, in front of the complex.

The moisture from the rain clouds felt good against his face as the wind blew the damp air against him. He wasn’t under the driving rain yet; the first gentle mists were starting to precipitate on his cheeks.

As he urged his horse forward, he saw something that raised his natural tendency towards outrage and sent caution alarms whirling through all his senses including that sixth one he had become better acquainted with during his time in the Penitentiary. The hairy bristles on the back of his neck were electrified by the promise of the danger he was sensing in the near distance.

Two men dressed in a riot of faded military and Texas cowhand garments were brusquely dragging a smaller man, garbed in the faded, common, cotton outfit of the Mexican peasant class.

Brett slowed his mount watching the two taller men rifle through the bags on the burros that were tied under the covered veranda in front of the church. Both had revolvers drawn on the smaller man. They forced him to stand in the middle of the depression that was filling with water that was presently higher than the persecuted fellow’s knees. It occurred to Brett that the depression may have once been a cistern as the water uncovered the cut stone sides of a rapidly filling bowl.

The man in the water surely was imploring his two tormentors. Brett led his horse on foot towards the rear of the clustered structures knowing the loud patter of the heavy rainfall would allow him to stay unnoticed.

The two men were pointing guns at the man; the rising water now up to his waist. They were screaming something about the gold. Covered by the din of the heavy downpour Brett maneuvered sixty paces behind them and noticed the two gunslingers were unshaven for at least a week and one of them had a whiskey bottle he swigged from now and then.

All right Miguel, this is your last chance to fess up and tell us where you got the gold, Brett distinctly heard one of the ruffians growl.

I have no gold Senor, only the few pesos of silver that you took from my bags; please Senor let me go the water is cold, he continued to plead. The silent one of the two desperados cocked his gun and fired at the shivering peasant, sending his straw hat twisting off his head into the rain and then landing behind him where it started to sink like a damaged boat.

The next shot is going to be in your baby maker Miguel or maybe one of your knees, the growler shouted at his cowering victim.

Brett had one of his six shooters in each hand and he held them against the opposite armpit to keep them dry. He watched the silent shooter raise his weapon in the direction of the tormented Miguel, who was sobbing with his hands completing the sign of the cross on his lowering head. Brett looked out of his left eye and then his right eye as he used a marksman’s technique many attempt but few master. A loud crack of thunder followed by lightning distracted the two and Brett fired the gun in his left hand taking off the more articulate outlaw’s hat and the bullet launched from his right hand shattered the bottle of cheap whiskey the silent one held.

The two outlaws whirled around facing Brett and the silent one spoke, who might you be Mister?

Brett waved his irons in line with the two men facing him nestling them against his hips and spoke, I’m someone who doesn’t like the odds he sees.

Well you haven’t changed them trail bum, we are still two against one.

Not so, was Brett’s answer. I have two guns and you men have two guns; I think that makes it pretty even.

Do you know who you are singing to trail bum? the now talkative gunman bellowed.

I don’t really care to make the acquaintance of yellow-bellied bushwhackers but I suppose introducing me would be a mannerly thing to do. My aunt raised me to be gracious to everyone.

I’m Brett Dawson, that’s Brett with two T’s if you know how to read any, Brett cautiously mentioned watching both men move farther apart from each other. He also noticed the small man had picked up a fist-sized rock out of the pond he was in and was pedaling backwards towards the edge of the water. The rain had been steady the last few minutes and Brett was comfortable enough under his hat.

My Brother and I are the Bellinger brothers and we don’t take kindly to insinuations that we are yellow. Our courage was tested at Shiloh, Gettysburg and Manassas and we both got an A grade.

Brett actually had heard of them; Bill and Tom Bellinger fraternal twins. They were bank robbers and mercenary guns for hire to anyone who could afford them. They had pulled a stunning daytime bank robbery in Tucson once and were wanted there and several other places. He knew he had big trouble.

The brother on Brett’s left suddenly dove down into the mud and started to roll.

The short fellow was now behind the pond wall and he launched his rock with intensity and technique. The rock hit the man on Brett’s right between the shoulders and he was distracted enough for Brett to send a bullet into his solar plexus. A split second later Brett fired at the prone man on his left and hit him in the shoulder, the man rolled in the opposite direction but Brett shot him in the forehead and in the shoulder again before he could get a shot off.

Brett ignored the short fellow as he checked on the dead outlaws figuring out who Tom was from his monogrammed gun handle. He dragged them under the covered corral and emptied their pockets and took their holsters off putting their guns back in them.

The short man returned with Brett’s horse and tied him next to the burros. Brett was about to thank him and introduce himself when he heard a noise behind him. In an eye-blink Brett dropped to one knee while turning towards the noise with his gun pointed.

The sound was made by a small boy of about twelve. Brett holstered his guns and watched the boy run to the man he had rescued. Papa, Papa, you must come and bring the gringo hombre.

I told you to stay hidden Javier. Where is Mirabella? Miguel was now frantic and crying as he hugged the boy. Where is your sister, Javier? Where is she?

Come Papa, Come! The boy called as he ran into the Church.

Brett followed them as Miguel ran to follow his son across the church floor, behind the altar and down a narrow rock staircase. He followed them down the stairs and through a series of chambers that had had been dug out of the hard desert floor. Javier was able to squeeze by a huge wooden barrel but Brett had to help the boy’s father roll the heavy obstacle out of the way for them to enter what looked like a small closet.

There was another staircase and this one was so narrow Brett had to angle his body to navigate it. Once at the bottom they were in a very dark place that may have been a cavern. They could hear a child crying and followed the sound. Brett could not see but felt large wooden casks lining the tunnel he was walking through on both sides.

Where are your lantern Javier and the matches I gave you? his father asked.

It must have gone out Papa. I am looking for it.

Brett wasted no time but kept following the sound. It was getting weaker and less frequent but he could hear the gentle sobbing and crying closer and closer. He used his feeble Spanish to speak to her. He forced his voice to be soft spoken while gasping in the dank air. I am a friend of your Papa little angel and I am here to save you.

I am Mirabella Senor and I am stuck in heavy mud, she answered in mildly accented English.

My name is Brett, reach your hand out if you can Mirabella, Brett told her.

I have my hand out Brett, She cried out to him.

Brett waved his outstretched arm back and forth in the darkness. He started noticing that he was in mud nearly to the top of his boots and feeling the wall was all he could do not to slip and fall. He finally had her in his grasp, feeling his way down the tiny arm to a shaking hand. He found her shoulder by feeling back again up her arm. The girl was in an avalanche of mud and water was spurting over her shoulder at him. The mud was over the top of his boots and oozing around his legs as he felt across the little girl’s upper-body for her other arm.

I want to hold your other arm Mirabella can you pull it out? He asked.

No Brett, My arm is bent behind me and I am stuck against the wall, was her surprisingly calm answer.

Brett continued to feel along and he located her other shoulder. He gently moved the muck that surrounded her side and was able to excavate down to her elbow. Her arm was twisted all the way behind her back and she moaned when he tugged at her elbow.

It is all right Senor Brett, you can pull and I will wiggle, she said to him.

Brett gently placed his hand between her elbow and the wall and pulled with his left hand while he pushed her opposite shoulder with his right. She was free now and he started moving the muck around her upper torso. He put his right shoulder gently against her stomach and told her to lean over him and grab his clothing. He wrapped his arms around her waist and stood up releasing her from the encompassing mud, rock and wiggling things.

I am free Senor Brett! I am free, She squealed in delight just as a wave of water crashed around them and nearly lifted Brett off his feet.

A light was now lit and they could see what a mess they were in. The water washed down into the cavern leaving behind mud, rock and wiggling fish.

Javier shouted, Papa, Papa there are the blind fish, there are so many of them Papa! It is a miracle! It is a blessing from God.

Brett handed the little girl over to her father. They were both shivering and he noticed she looked pale and purple.

Take her into the church Miguel, Brett yelled as he started to go back along the stairs and through the rooms. He got to the horses in less than two minutes and grabbed his bedroll. He rifled through the belongings of the late Bellingers and found they each had a sizeable bedroll. He rushed back into the church as the little family came out from behind the altar.

Follow me Brett, the man called to him as he exited the church. We should go to the Monk’s kitchen and eating room where it is very dry.

Brett followed him into a separate building via a covered pathway. The man wasted no time pulling off his daughter’s mud-soaked clothing and wrapping the blankets Brett handed him around her. She was shivering and Brett could hear her teeth chattering from the exposure she had suffered.

The man sent Javier out to get some things that were on the burros. I thank you Senor Brett for saving my life and my family. Those men were the kind of hardened souls who would do bad things to my children. My name is Miguel Flores.

Brett extended his hand to Miguel, Brett Dawson, call me Brett please will you Miguel?

Yes, I will call you Brett and my children are Mirabella and Javier.

Well Miguel, they are not my children but I am proud of them, Brett smiled as he stroked the little girl’s hair. Your boy is as brave as they come and Mirabella is not one to let fear get the better of her good sense.

Javier returned with their bedrolls and other necessities for remaining overnight and then left towards the Church. The storm had intensified and now the rain was pummeling the entire area. It grew colder and they were able to get the kitchen hearth lit, moving Mirabella closer to it.

Miguel had dried himself off and changed his wet clothing. I almost forgot Brett, I was so frightened about my Mirabella that I forgot about how excited I am about the amazing miracle below the chapel. Please stay with my Mirabella till I return with Javier.

You did not know I cannot see did you Brett? the little girl revealed to a startled Brett.

Do you mean to tell me that you are blind?

Yes Brett, I am blind and my father has been searching for the caverns where there are fish that are needed to make me see.

Brett was startled and he was so overcome that such a beautiful, brave, cheerful young girl was blind that he was unable to stop his tears from flowing.

Do not be sorrowful for me Brett and please do not cry. It was God’s will that I have a different vision than people who can only see with their eyes. I can feel people with my gift that the Lord has given me. I know you are very sorrowful now and pity me. I am not to be pitied. My gift allows me to help people and feel their love.

Brett was confused. How did you know I was crying?

I just know things Brett. Things come into my heart sometimes when I touch them or when I hear a person’s voice. I knew you were kind and would not hurt me when we first touched and I feel very safe when you are with me.

Miguel returned with a small unopened cask and he and Javier were dragging a cask of about ten gallons capacity full of the strange pink fish that were carried into the cavern with the muddy deluge.

Brett, we must all pray, Miguel finally said. He held Mirabella’s hand and his son’s hand and told Brett to hold Mirabella’s and Javier’s hands so they formed a circle together.

Miguel was crying loudly and never fully regaining his composure as he prayed. Oh dear Jesus, I thank you for answering my prayers for my Mirabella. I know that using her powers for our own gain is not permitted but I wanted so for her to see and be able to play with the other children. I am sorry for being so selfish. Please take away my eyesight if I am wrong. There are enough fish to help other girls too. I promise to restore the fields here and to use this property only for good. May I forever feel your power and glory! Amen.

Having finished the prayer, Brett got some of his provisions out and with his things and the utensils left behind they were able to prepare a very good meal. Mirabella and Javier were able to eat and both fell asleep shortly afterwards.

Miguel and Brett drank some more of the wine Miguel had brought up in the small cask and by the flickering hearth light revealed to Brett an ancient history of the land. He started his story with the ruins around them as he prepared the fish entrails, carefully cutting out the livers and placing them in a jar of water that had been boiled, strained and cooled.

"When the Spanish first came to these lands they were looking only for gold. They caused much suffering for the people who were living here when they came. My ancestor Miguel Flores who could be called a Conquistador was one of the cruelest. He was saved from a fever that killed most of his men by the same native people he had been tormenting and trying to enslave.

His heart was softened by the kindness of the people and the Grace of God flowed to him. He vowed to become a man devoted to God and to do only good. He decided he would begin a monastery here. He started an order of Monks who purchased this land from the native tribe that lived here at that time. He became the Friar and soon there were eight others who took the vows of poverty, service, and prayer with him. The Monks devoted their lives to prayer and good