The Faith and the Rangers

by James J. Griffin

  “A church built by a bunch of foreigners,” Taylor snapped.

  Nowicki’s blue eyes grew frosty.

  “Mister Taylor, most of our parishioners, or their parents, emigrated here from Poland over twenty years ago. They became citizens and worked hard to rebuild their lives. Many of them fought, and some died, for the Confederacy. They are every bit as much Texans as you

  are. Now, we have nothing further to discuss. Good day, sir.”

  “You’re making a mistake, priest,” Taylor answered. “I want that land and water, and I’ll do whatever’s required to get them. Is that clear?”

  Taylor rose from his chair, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  “Is that a threat?” Nowicki asked.

  “Just a statement of fact.” Taylor’s tone was flat and deadly. He lifted the gun half out of its holster, then slid it back.

  “Then perhaps you had better leave. Regina will see you out.”

  “Fine.”

  Taylor stalked out of the office. He slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.

  A moment later Father Jankowski entered. He had just finished offering the morning Mass.

  “What did Jack Taylor want?” he asked. “As if I didn’t know?”

  “That’s right,” Nowicki answered. “The same thing he’s been after for months. He refused to even discuss anything less than taking everything the parish owns.”

  “Well, you sure put a burr under his saddle, Robert,” Jankowski grinned. The younger priest had picked up many of the cowboys’ expressions during his tenure in Bandera.

  “I’m afraid I did, Stefan,” Nowicki sighed. “He made a not-so-veiled threat about what might happen if we didn’t give in to him. In fact, for a moment I thought he was going to shoot me.”

  Jankowski sobered.

  “That explains why he nearly knocked me over rushing out of here. What should we do about him?”

  “Nothing. I’m certain he won’t do anything rash. He had his chance just now.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Jankowski disagreed. “Taylor is ambitious. I’d bet my hat he’s ruthless enough to trample anyone who gets in his way. We should notify the sheriff.”

  “That would be pointless,” Nowicki answered. “Taylor would merely deny our accusations.”

  “Then all we can do is wait and hope,” Jankowski answered.

  “And pray,” Nowicki added.

  2

  Father Nowicki looked up from his breviary at the sound of the church bell urgently pealing. The rectory door slammed open, and Stanley Mazurek burst into his office

  “Father, there’s a brush fire along the river!” Mazurek shouted. “The wind’s pushing it this way. If we can’t stop those flames before they jump the Medina, the church will be set ablaze!”

  The pastor tossed aside his prayer book and started for the door. Father Jankowski had also heard the bell, and hurried downstairs.

  “What’s the commotion?” he asked.

  “Fire!” Mazurek replied.

  “Let’s go!” Jankowski urged.

  Regina emerged from the kitchen.

  “I heard Stanley. I’ll make coffee and sandwiches.”

  “They’ll be appreciated,” Mazurek said.

  He and the priests rushed outside.

  The acrid odor of burning brush assailed their nostrils. Thin tendrils of smoke, pushed up the riverbank by a gusty wind, swirled around the church and rectory. Answering the summons of the bell, men and women hurried toward Saint Stanislaus. Several nuns had already assembled in the church yard.

  “Some of you get on the church roof with water buckets in case any embers land up there. The rest grab all the buckets and burlap sacks you can find and head for the river,” Mazurek ordered. He jumped onto his plow horse and sent the animal lumbering toward the river, less than two city blocks distant.

  Father Jankowski and several men gathered the fire buckets from the church. They passed several to the others, then ran for the riverbank.

  The fire was spreading rapidly, flames leaping fifty feet into the air. Sheriff Ben Musgrave led about thirty townspeople who were battling to contain the blaze to the south bank of the Medina.

  “Don’t bother to cross the river!” Musgrave ordered. “We can’t save anything on that side. You men in the river start filling buckets. The rest of you keep any embers that blow across from catching. If we lose here the whole town will burn to the ground.”

  The firefighters filled pails and soaked burlap sacks. When an ember landed in the dray grass and brush, it was doused with water or smothered under wet burlap.

  “There’s a wagon tryin’ to get across!” Mazurek yelled. The firefighters saw a hard-driven team pulling a buckboard holding a husband, wife, and six children galloping along the riverbank.

  “That’s the Markewicz’s!” Anton Bach shouted.

  Jerzy Markewicz found a gap in the flames and urged the terrified horses through. Barely slowing, they plunged into the Medina. The buckboard tipped on two wheels, hung for a moment, then settled back and lurched up the opposite bank. Markewicz sawed the reins to pull the panicky horses to a halt.

  Several firefighters and nuns surrounded the wagon.

  “Is everyone all right?” Father Jankowski asked.

  “Yeah. But we lost everything,” Markewicz answered. His wife was trying to comfort their sobbing children.

  “We’ll take the children,” Sister Anastasia ordered. The youngsters were handed to the nuns. Once certain they were cared for, Markewicz and his wife Anna joined the firefighting efforts.

  Stan Mazurek attached a log to his horse’s harness, then tied sacks to that. The horse balked in fear of the flames and smoke when the farmer attempted to drive him into the Medina. With firm hand and soothing voice, Mazurek calmed the animal and urged the bay into the water. Once the sacks were drenched, he led the horse from the river and jumped on its back. Mazurek

  pushed the horse into a trot along the riverbank, the wet log and sacks dragging behind flattening brush and grass, clearing a rough firebreak.

  Nonetheless, the blaze threatened to overwhelm their efforts. The shifting wind sent burning debris in all directions. The heat and humidity added to the firefighters’ misery.

  “Don’t give up! We’ve almost got it licked!” Mazurek urged. He sent his horse plunging back into the river to soak the burlaps once again.

  For hours the crew fought the conflagration, rushing to douse any new flames which flared up. Regina and several of the sisters kept everyone provided with sandwiches, coffee, and cold water. Other nuns helped battle the blaze.

  Mother Mary Claire worked until the sack she was wielding disintegrated. Undaunted, she pulled the veil from her head, revealing her flowing blonde hair. She dipped the veil in the river and used it to beat back the flames.

  Sister Luke, one of the novices, stared in shock at her superior. For just a few seconds so did Mazurek, before shaking his head in admiration and turning his horse again.

  “Mother, I was taught we were always to wear our full habit in public,” Sister Luke exclaimed.

  “This is no time to stand on propriety, child,” the Mother Superior scolded. A burning ember landed three feet from her. She slapped out the flames with her wet veil.

  By sunset, the wind slowed to a gentle zephyr. The fire, having consumed most of the fuel on the south side of the Medina, burned itself out. With the threat to the church and town over, the firefighters settled to extinguishing some remaining hot spots and smoldering brush.

  An hour later, the worn-out group stumbled back to the church. Despite the sparks and embers which had landed on its roof, the sturdily built structure of native stone stood unharmed.

  Joe Urban and the men who’d defended the church descended, gratefully accepting coffee and the remaining sandwiches.


  “Is that fire completely out?” he questioned.

  “It appears to be,” Mazurek answered. He was still taking an occasional glance at the good-looking blonde Mother Mary Claire.

  “Joe, Stash, Karol, you did a fine job on the roof,” Father Nowicki praised.

  “It was touch and go for awhile,” Urban explained. “A big ember landed on the steeple. We were fortunate

  to get to it before it could do more than scorch a few shingles.”

  “I’d like to thank everyone,” Nowicki announced, “Including those who aren’t parishioners of Saint Stanislaus. Tomorrow evening at seven o’clock we will celebrate a Novena of Thanksgiving to our Lord for sparing our church, our community, and ourselves from that fire. However, the Markewicz’z have lost everything. They’ll be staying at Maria Bish’s temporarily. Saturday we’ll have a house raising for them. But for tonight, we’ll say a prayer of gratitude, then get a good night’s rest.

  The exhausted firefighters bowed their heads while Fathers Nowicki and Jankowski led them in the Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be. Nowicki concluded by blessing the assemblage with the Sign of the Cross, then dismissed them.

  “Father, wait a minute,” Stan Mazurek requested. He called to the sheriff and Markewicz.

  “Ben, I’d like to speak with you. You too, Jerzy.”

  They joined the priests as they headed for the rectory.

  “What’s on your mind, Stan?” Musgrave asked.

  “It’s bothering me how that fire started,” Mazurek responded. “There’ve been no lightning strikes, and no other way I can imagine for a fire to start down by the

  river. The wheat isn’t ready for harvest, so no one’s been working in the fields. Jerzy, did you see anything?”

  “No. Anna spotted smoke, then the flames came over the ridge behind our place so quickly we barely had time to harness the team and flee for our lives. Our house was afire before we could save anything.”

  “Perhaps a passing cowboy tossed away a cigarette he hadn’t extinguished,” Nowicki speculated.

  “Possibly. But that fire spread awful fast, even with the wind,” Mazurek demurred. “I can’t help but think of Jack Taylor.”

  “I don’t think he’d stoop that low,” Nowicki protested. “That fire could have destroyed the entire town. Would Taylor chance that?”

  “I might be wrong. Lord knows I hope I am. But Taylor is hungry for control of the entire county,” Mazurek answered.

  “And don’t forget some of the other incidents recently,” Jankowski added. “Cattle rustling, never a problem before. Vandalism at the cypress mill. The crops which have been trampled. Sheriff, what’s your opinion?”

  “I’d hate to think someone would deliberately endanger so many lives,” Musgrave replied. “It’s hard to believe anyone could be that callous. However, there

  does seem to be a pattern. Unfortunately, what we need is proof, and we have none.”

  “We’re all too tired to think straight tonight,” Nowicki said. “Let’s get some sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

  “The best advice I’ve heard today,” Musgrave agreed. “I’ll stop by about ten. Good night, Fathers. ‘Night, Stan, Jerzy.”

  “Dobranoc, everyone,” Nowicki answered.

  3

  The next day’s meeting provided no tangible results, except Musgrave’s promise to keep investigating. Two days after the fire, Regina entered Father Nowicki’s office, a disgusted expression on her face.

  “Father, Jack Taylor is here again,” she announced.

  “Tell him to come in,” the pastor replied.

  “Certainly. But I’d rather tell him to go to Pieklo!”

  “I heard that,” Nowicki called after her. “Confession on Saturday, Regina.”

  “It’s no sin to speak the truth,” the housekeeper retorted.

  A moment later, Taylor was standing in front of the pastor’s desk.

  “Please have a seat, Mister Taylor,” Nowicki invited. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

  “No thank you,” Taylor answered. “I just spoke with Jerzy Markewicz. I made him an offer for his land. A fair offer, considering the fire destroyed his property.

  However, he refused it. He tells me your parishioners will be rebuilding his home on Saturday.”

  “That is correct, along with some of the townspeople,” Nowicki confirmed. “Are you offering your assistance?”

  “Hardly,” Taylor snorted. “I came to stop that fool idea. Markewicz’s property is worthless. It will be next spring before he can replant crops. He can’t survive that long. Either he accepts my offer or I’ll have his land for the taxes after the county takes it.”

  “Jerzy’s friends will provide the assistance he needs to survive the winter,” Nowicki replied. “Perhaps you have forgotten about the virtue of charity, Mister Taylor.”

  “Charity my …” Taylor caught himself. “Father, I’ll have Markewicz’s land, and all the properties I’m after. Mark my words.”

  Nowicki fixed the rancher with a firm gaze. He responded, “Even if it means destroying property, setting fires, and endangering lives?”

  “You can’t prove that!” Taylor snapped.

  “You are correct, of course,” the pastor agreed. “And I hope I am wrong. But even a priest can only be pushed so far. Unless you have something further to discuss, I must bid you good day.”

  “Just consider what I said,” Taylor insisted. “I’ve warned you once what would happen if I didn’t get what I wanted. I don’t intend to warn you again.”

  “I already have. And I’m tired of your threats. Please don’t slam the door on your way out.”

  Taylor opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. He stalked out of the rectory, climbed into his saddle, and dug his spurs deep into his horse’s flanks, sending the animal into a dead run.

  4

  “Regina, you certainly have a green thumb,” Father Nowicki praised, looking over the rectory’s flower garden. “The roses are lovely.”

  “Dziekuje, Father,” Regina replied. She carried a basket filled with cut flowers.

  Both looked up at the sound of hoofbeats of a galloping horse approaching. Deputy Jed Morrison slid his gelding to a halt in the churchyard.

  “Father, rustlers hit the Z Cross last night,” he said. “They shot young Tadeusz Zielinski and Jose Montoya. They’re at Doc Franklin’s. You need to come now.”

  “Of course. Regina, please get my sick room kit while I saddle Rosie.”

  “Certainly, Father.”

  The pastor hurried to the stable, accompanied by the deputy.

  “Is anyone searching for those rustlers, Jed?” he asked while saddling his mare.

  “Sheriff Musgrave’s got a posse lookin’ for ‘em.”

  “Let’s hope they find them.”

  Nowicki led his horse outside and climbed into the saddle. Regina met him in front of the rectory. She handed him the small leather case holding the sacred oils, candle, and stole.

  “I’ll return as soon as possible,” he said. “Tell Father Jankowski what’s happened.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  The pastor and deputy put their horses into a lope. Ten minutes later they reined up in front of Doctor Willard Franklin’s office.

  “I’ll take care of your horse, Father,” Jed offered.

  “Thanks, Jed.” Nowicki dismounted, handed Rosie’s reins to the deputy, then rushed into the office.

  “Father. I’m glad you’re here,” Doctor Franklin greeted him. “Tad and Jose are in back.”

  “How are they?”

  “Badly wounded. They were both shot in the back. I was able to remove the bullets, but their survival is doubtful at best.”

  Franklin led the pastor into the back room. The two cowboys were unconscious, cov
ered with blankets. Hank and Betty Zielinski, owners of the Z Cross, sat by their son’s side. They looked up when Father Nowicki entered.

  “Hello, Father,” Betty said.

  “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “We know, and appreciate you being here,” Hank assured him. “I’m not sure what you can do, though.”

  “I can pray for Tad and Jose. So can you.”

  “Father is right, Hank,” Betty agreed. “If it’s the Lord’s will, they’ll be fine. We can’t lose faith.”

  “I’m going to administer Extreme Unction,” Nowicki said. He opened his case containing the sacramentals, removed the stole, kissed it, and draped it over his shoulders.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirtus Sancti,” he began. The pastor murmured the ancient words of the sacrament for the gravely ill over the wounded men, anointing them with holy oil and water. Once he had finished the sacrament, he knelt in silent prayer for a few moments.

  Afterward, Nowicki remained with the Zielinskis, consoling and reassuring them. He was preparing to leave when Father Jankowski and Stanley Mazurek arrived.

  “How are the boys?” Jankowski questioned.

  “In God’s hands,” Nowicki replied.

  “And Doc Franklin’s,” Mazurek added. “If anyone can pull those boys through, he can.”

  Mazurek paused before continuing.

  “Father Nowicki, as you requested, we’ve all been patient. But now, things have gone too far. It’s sheer luck Tad and Jose weren’t killed. My father worked too hard for the land we own. My mother’s buried on it. I’m not about to give it up to anyone. We have to call in the Texas Rangers. Frank Czajkowski is stationed with Company D in Laredo. He could be here in a few days.”

  “You’re right, Stanley,” the pastor conceded. “It’s apparent Jack Taylor will do anything to get what he wants, and Sheriff Musgrave is powerless to stop him. But I want to make sure the rest of the parishioners agree with us. Could you ask as many as possible to meet at the church tonight, say eight o’clock?”