Chapter 2 - THE SHEPHERD’S DEBTS
By Tuesday morning, the rumor of Cruz Montoya had spread through Barranca Colorada like grease on a hot skillet.
In a town where every day was identical to the last—punctuated only by the copper mine steam whistles and the church bells—a tall stranger with a scarred face who asked uncomfortable questions about Samuel Reyes’s widow was a dangerous novelty.
Cruz did not hide. He did not skulk through the back alleys or whisper in shadows.
At seven in the morning, he walked up the wide stone steps of the Church of San Miguel Arcángel—a grand, white-plastered structure that dominated the town square, built fifty years prior with money extracted from the deep copper veins below the earth.
Inside, the church was cool, smelling of old frankincense, melted beeswax, and damp stone. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, casting brilliant geometric patches of blue and crimson across the polished flagstone floor.
Near the high altar, Father Baltasar Urrutia was carefully polishing a silver chalice with a silk cloth.
He was a thick, round-bellied man in his late fifties, with thin grey hair combed carefully over a shiny scalp, wearing a fine wool cassock imported from Mexico City. His fingers were plump, soft, and adorned with a heavy silver ring bearing the bishop’s seal.
"The church is open for private prayer, my son," Father Baltasar murmured without looking up, his voice rich, resonant, and practiced in the art of easy authority. "Though if you seek confession, you must wait until Saturday afternoon."
"I'm not here to confess my sins, Father," Cruz said, his heavy leather boots clicking loudly against the flagstones as he walked down the center aisle, stopping right at the communion rail. "I'm here to talk about yours."
Father Baltasar paused his polishing. He set the silver chalice down on the velvet altar cloth with a sharp, precise click, turning his head slowly to measure the intruder.
When his eyes landed on Cruz’s scar and the heavy leather holster slung low on his hip, the priest’s polite smile faltered slightly.
"You speak with a strange tongue in the house of God, stranger," Father Baltasar said, straightening his spine and pulling his heavy silver cross to the front of his chest. "I am Father Baltasar. Who are you to speak to a priest of debts and sins?"
"Cruz Montoya," Cruz said softly. He rested one hand casually on the mahogany rail. "And I spent three hours last night reading through the land registry ledgers in the county clerk's office in San Rosalia."
Father Baltasar’s eyes narrowed into tight, suspicious slits. "The county archives are private administrative records."
"A fifty-peso bribe to an underpaid clerk turns private records into public reading," Cruz replied smoothly, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "It's very interesting reading, Father. Ten years ago, the parish of San Miguel was forty thousand pesos in debt to the Mexican National Mortgage Syndicate following the collapse of the old silver vein. The bishop was four weeks away from defrocking you and turning this church over to the diocese receivers."
Father Baltasar’s plump hands tightened around his silk cloth until his knuckles turned yellow. "That was a difficult financial era for the entire municipality—"
"And then," Cruz interrupted, his voice cutting through the quiet chapel like an axe, "Samuel Reyes died in Shaft Four. And within six weeks of his burial, his widow, Isidora, made a private, undocumented 'charitable loan' of twelve thousand pesos directly to your personal diocesan discretionary fund. A loan that carried a zero percent interest rate... and a verbal clause that guaranteed the church would never interfere in the administration of the Reyes homestead."
The silence inside the church grew so heavy that the flickering of the altar candles sounded like tiny gasps for air.
Father Baltasar stood completely motionless behind the communion rail. The color slowly drained from his fleshy cheeks, leaving his skin looking like wet lard under the morning light.
"That... that money was a pious donation given in good faith to preserve the house of the Lord," Father Baltasar stammered, his rich voice losing its easy melodic resonance, cracking around the edges. "Isidora Reyes is a virtuous, God-fearing woman who carries a heavy burden—"
"Isidora Reyes is a thief who forces a nineteen-year-old girl to eat hog slop out of a wooden trough," Cruz said, leaning over the rail, his dark eyes locking onto the priest’s terrified gaze with relentless force. "And you, Father, are the hypocrite who takes silver from the abuser while telling the victim that her pain is God's divine will."
"You dare insult a servant of the Holy Church?!" Father Baltasar spat, his face suddenly flushing a violent, mottled red, his voice rising into a panicked shout that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "I could have you arrested by the town constable before noon! I could have you driven out of this county!"
"You could try," Cruz murmured, his tone dropping so low it sounded like gravel shifting beneath a heavy boot. "But if the constable comes for me, the first thing I do is hand certified copies of those land ledgers to the Archbishop in Chihuahua. Along with the receipts showing your personal gambling debts at the San Rosalia cockfights."
Father Baltasar froze as if he had been struck by lightning. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His plump hand flew to his throat, clutching his silver cross as if it could shield him from the terrifying truth standing three feet away.
"How... how do you know about San Rosalia?" the priest whispered, his eyes wide with genuine horror.
"I know how men like you operate," Cruz said, stepping back from the rail. "You sell your soul in small pieces because you think nobody is paying attention. Well, Father... someone is paying attention now."
Cruz turned on his heel and began walking slowly toward the double oak doors at the back of the nave.
"What do you want from me?!" Father Baltasar called out, his voice trembling violently, echoing down the long, empty aisle. "Do you want money?! I have no silver left!"
Cruz stopped at the door, holding the heavy brass handle in his hand. He looked back over his shoulder, his pale scar catching a ray of blue light from the stained-glass window above.
"On Sunday morning," Cruz said, "you are going to stand at that pulpit. And for the first time in three years... you are going to preach about the sin of cruel guardians and the duty of a town to protect the innocent."
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"Isidora will destroy me!" Father Baltasar gasped. "She holds the mortgages on half the town!"
"Then you’d better pray hard between now and Sunday, Father," Cruz said softly, opening the heavy door and stepping out into the blinding morning light. "Because if you don't preach that sermon... I’m going to make sure you spend the rest of your life cleaning stables in a penal colony."
