Tugging his robe about him, Gabriel prayed for those who had been harmed by the revolutionists. Surely it was God's destiny to free mankind. He prayed for guidance, for patience. An act of kindness might save a nation.
An old man entered the chapel and shut the door behind him, fumbling with the latch. Slowly, he staggered toward the altar, a serape over his left shoulder.
In the candlelight, where vigil cups burned, Gabriel took in his bristling beard and tousled hair.
Miguel Calvo, the sheepherder, Gabriel told himself.
Miguel knelt laboriously, his lips moving soundlessly. He motioned to Gabriel, and then fell.
"What's wrong, Miguel?" said Gabriel, going to him.
"Someone..." Miguel's face wrinkled with pain; his jaw clamped.
"Are you sick, Miguel?"
Gabriel tried to make the man comfortable by pushing his serape under him. His hand found the bullet wound. Blood sopped Miguel's neck and shoulder.
"You've been shot," said Gabriel.