Mano shivered and raised the collar of his shirt tightly around his neck. It was a cold rain and his now soaked clothes offered little in the way of protection. He leaned to his right and scooped out a depresion beneath his rump. Turning to his left , repeated the act. He lowered his rear end back down and wiggled until his posterior held firmly in the recess. In doing so, the possibility of sliding off this small island of hope lessened. In the distance he heard the long rumble of thunder. Immediately he thought of Mackadoo.
That horse was an extension of himself, stable as a rock, not at all gunshy. Mano had fired from the saddle hundreds of times. With lightening, however, Mackadoo could be a little skittish. If that thunder got any closer, and there was no reason to believe it wouldn't, the horse would bolt and run home. Mano was glad that he had taken the time to tie the reins to the pommel. If Mackadoo were to take off, at least he wouldn't get injured stepping on the leads.
The possibilities of the animal's return to the ranch without a rider got Manolo Montoya to thinking. If the horse left now, he would get to the ranch right around darkness. The message to the men would be clear. Somewhere, between the Chaparral and Tucson, their friend and brother would be afoot, possibly injured. It chagrined Mano to think of the men heading out in the darkness and weather to look for someone who wasn't there. The heavy rains would wash away Mackadoo's hoofprints almost as soon as they were made. The men would have absolutely no reason to head for Tubac. Not for at least a few days, reasoned Mano. He had first seen the rosary while in Buck's presence and had mentioned aloud how much he liked it. Perhaps Buck might remember and draw the only conclusion which might save him. Even then, the trail carried at least a mile away from the Palisades and Mano was on the backside of the rocks which faced the trail.
Mano reached back and counted the bullets on his belt. Twelve. Counting the six he had in his pistol, that left less than two days' supply of rounds were he to fire a shot for help once every hour. As it was, it would be at least a day before anyone might be close enough to hear. Maybe two days. Maybe three. For now, though, that didn't matter. It was one hour at a time, not one day at a time. He had a few pieces of jerkey in his shirt pocket and could fill his hat with rain water should he get thirsty. He could survive at least a week ,if it came down to it, and if the painful ankle didn't hold any unknown threat.
Mano sighed deeply and watched the rain fall.
His shaking body awoke him with a jolt. A memory from his early adolescence came flooding to the forefront of his thoughts. He had been out with old Ruiz, his father's lead hand, rounding up steers. After going out on his own to get a few stragglers in a side canyon, Mano was thrown from his horse. It was cold and raining, just like today , and Mano began to shiver as he walked back to the ranch. He curled up under a rock overhang and fell asleep while waiting for the rain to end. It was then that Ruiz had grabbed him and shook him awake. Ruiz demanded that Mano recite a Hail Mary. When Manolito stumbled over the words, " thy womb, Jesus", Ruiz slapped him, hard, and demanded that he try again .For the second time, Mano bumbled the words, and, for the second time, got slapped. The third and fourth times the prayer was recited, the young man got every word right. It was only then that he could see the concern, the fear, in Ruiz's moist eyes.
"You can die from exposure here as quickly as from the heat, Manolito." he admonished, shaking the boy, " You mumble, you fumble and then you stumble. You land at death's threshold. You must never go to sleep when you are in this condition or you might never wake up. Do you understand me, Monolito? Do you understand?"
Mano was breathing heavily as though the event had just occurred. With his body shaking from the cold, Mano began reciting the Hail Mary aloud. When he reached the words "thy womb, Jesus" an unintelligible jumble of sounds fell from his lips. Again he tried. Again he failed. On the third attempt, all the words came out correctly. Raising the volume of his voice, Mano recited the prayer for the fourth time. The shivering lessened,
Mano reached into his jacket and grabbed the gaily wrapped gift he had gotten for his sister. He pulled the rosary from the paper and clutched it in his hands. He removed the glove from his right hand and gently held the Crucifix. Deliberately, he made the Sign of the Cross.
"I believe in God, the Father Almighty," he spoke to the sky, " Creator of Heaven and earth..."
It took an hour for Mano to complete the rosary, but when he finished, the shivering had stopped, and his focus returned. He felt a lift of sorts, an optimism which had been lost since the fall. One rosary every three hours, he vowed. It might be too late to save his soul, but perhaps this tool could help him save his life. The thought made Mano laugh.
Saying the rosary was one of the very few Catholic traditions Mano ever enjoyed. The reason was simple. It was something his mother did with him, and him alone, twice each week. Sometimes she would change the words of the prayers to see if he was paying attention. It would make him giggle and always brought a smile to Dona Maria's lips. It was their private time, a moment reserved only for the two of them. The boy loved hearing his voice speaking in rythym with that of his mother as they recited the prayers together. He was always antsy at first, but the harmony of the two voices and the cadence of the prayers would calm him. He liked that feeling. In holding this amber rosary , Mano could feel the warmth of that memory. Perhaps, he mused, Dona Maria will pray with him again in this time of need.
One rosary later he scanned the afternoon sky which was beginning to surrender to the darkness of night. Even though the rain had abated for the moment, Mano knew a long hard struggle lay ahead. He could already feel the drop in temperature and cinched his collar a bit tighter.
. Some movement caught his eye, and made him jump. A skinny snake was climbing down the rock face from the overhang. He struggled to pull his pistol before he realized it wouldn't be needed. His gaze froze as he looked at the "snake".
It wasn't a snake, at all.
It was a rope.