When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

"Lie still, Miguel. Hold it. I'll tie this around your head."

"All right."

"I want it tight."

"It's tight."

"Now, I'll get Dr. Velasco."

"No," groaned Miguel.

Gabriel struggled into his robe and stood. "I'll open the side window, by the altar; I can climb out."

"No," said the old peasant, wanting to protect his priest.

Gabriel had no fear. He hated fear. Opening the window, he climbed out and crossed the cobbled courtyard, trying to minimize his limp. Another man was crossing the court, crates of chickens on his tump line. A dog began to bark near the chapel, his yaps becoming more and more frantic.

As Gabriel mounted the veranda steps, a shot rang out; he felt something gnaw his leg and put out his arms to break his fall, wondering why the dog had bitten him. Sprawled on the steps, he yanked up his robe and examined his leg—a bullet, right above the ankle ... what a shame!