Chapter 3: Hector Guerrero

“Were there any white people at church that morning?” I asked. The three of them looked at one another, the uncertainty plain on their faces.

Both Salazars, Hector Guerrero, and I were seated at a table in an airy cantina just kitty-corner across the plaza from the courthouse. The weather was warm at this lower elevation and the breeze through the open doors and windows was appreciated. The cantina had bottled beer kept chilled in water diverted from the Mora River, which ran behind the business.

When no answer to my inquiry was forthcoming, I asked, “Are there any Catholic white people in town?” We had been conversing in Spanish. My question earned shrugs and head shakes from my table companions.

The woman who had served us, now standing behind the bar stirring a pot of beans on a big iron stove, said, “What about Sister Mary Catherine?”

Guerrero slapped his forehead while the Salazars smiled in relief. Guerrero said, “Of course, Sister Mary Catherine. She is Irish, by birth, I believe. She and Sister Maria Josefa would have been at church for holy Mass”

Sofia explained, “The Sisters teach at the parish school. Sister Mary Catherine teaches the younger children academics and teaches all of the children music. Sister Maria Josefa teaches the older children academics and some practical subjects, like sewing and cooking.”

Nodding, Sheriff Salazar added, absently, “She is an excellent cook.”

Sofia shot her husband a baleful look. “What he means,” Sofia said, “is that I am not such a good cook.”

Guerrero, now “stirring the pot” said, “And -- from what you can see of her -- Sister Maria Josefa is quite attractive, eh, Matias?” He tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin, but Sofia gave him a look anyway.

“It is fortunate for my husband that the good Sister is a bride of the Christ else Marshal Becker might be taking me back to Santa Fe on murder charges, like he is you, Hector,” she said, thereby taking a verbal swipe at both men.

Bringing them back to the issue at hand, I asked, “Do you think she’ll sign an affidavit, this Sister Mary Catherine?”

Sofia said, “I do not see why she would not, especially if the Padre signs one.”

“Is there anyone else,” I pressed, “any other white person who might have seen you? At church or anywhere that Monday?” That day, March nineteenth, I had been informed, was the traditional feast of St. Joseph, the husband of Mary, the mother of Jesus. There had been a special fiesta, including the Mass.

Salazar asked, “Did Doctor Smith come to the house on Monday?”

Guerrero shook his head. “He came Sunday and Tuesday. On Monday he was attending a difficult birth in Chacon.”

“Still,” I said, “if he would provide a sworn statement that you were here on both Sunday and Tuesday, logic would dictate that it was unlikely you traveled a hundred miles and twice over a winter-blocked mountain pass on Monday to be able to commit the murder.”

Guerrero looked at me. “You begin to give me hope, Deputy. I do not like to feel hope. It is a fool’s emotion.”

I shrugged, “Then, if it is any comfort, I doubt that this will make any difference. You’ll probably be hanged in any event.”

“Qué?” Sofía shouted. (“What?”) “How can you say that? Are they stupid in that Santa Fe courthouse?”

Grinning, I said (still in Spanish), “I was only trying to provide some solace for Señor Guerrero’s misgivings about hope.”

She shook her head. “You are as misguided as these two.”

I had supper with Hector’s family: his mother, sister-in-law, and nephew, who, it turned out, was less of a babe in arms and more of a toddler of two years. The meal wasn’t a social occasion as much as it was necessitated by the terms of custody I had imposed upon Hector. I told him that he would either be secured from flight by physical means, such as a jail cell or chaining to a substantial tree, or he would be in my company for as long as I could reliably stay awake.

Hector had already agreed, voluntarily, to accompany me back to Santa Fe to face the charges and his accusers. However, good sense dictated that I not depend solely on his assurances in light of a federal fugitive warrant that had necessitated the involvement of the United States Marshal. Therefore, I set some unsentimental limits on my trust and his constancy. Plus, I harbored some fear of being humiliated, perhaps to the cost of my job, if I should lose a fugitive to what would appear as my naivete.