The Mission War by Wesley Ellis Page B

body, breasts straining against the fabric of the white blouse she wore, her face lovely and appealing. But Rivera had expected little from the woman. The man was a different story; the Oriental looked like a warrior. The alcalde had expected the man to do the talking, but there was fire in the woman as well, fire and intelligence.
    â€œMono would not be here if not for you,” a second man, one called Contreras, said. “He would have come, drunk his liquor, watered his horses, and ridden on.”
    â€œAfter stealing, raping, killing.”
    â€œA few incidents always occur,” Contreras said, accepting the state of affairs with amazing readiness.
    Another man, Arano, said, “We are at the mercy of these men. What are we to do? We have no army garrison; not more than half a dozen men in the town have weapons. Mono sometimes comes with fifty men. We have learned not to struggle.”
    â€œMaybe it’s time to learn to struggle,” Jessica said. “These bandits come and have their way. Then they leave and you’re all relieved. But they’ll be back, again and again. I saw a man killed last night while trying to protect his wife. Perhaps next time it will be your wife, and it will be you who is killed—if you had enough nerve to walk up to Mono and try stopping things, that is.”
    Arano winced under that stinging remark. “If we do nothing, perhaps we will pay a price,” Rivera said, “but if we do something, we know what will happen. All of us will be ruined; many of us will be dead.”
    â€œWhat do you think’s happening out there right now!” Jessie snapped.
    â€œBecause he wants you,” Rivera responded with a slight smile, “because he wants you and your friend.”
    â€œBecause,” Jessica Starbuck, her voice barely under control, said, “he is a mad dog and a murderer.”
    â€œWhat would you have us do?” the alcalde asked. San Igancio’s mayor spread his hands. “I have no weapons. If I did, how would someone like me fight Mono and his bandits. They would kill me in a moment. You speak of fighting for our homes, businesses and families—what good does it do me to have a home if I am dead? What good am I to do for my family if Mono kills me and they bury me?”
    â€œAt least,” Diego Cardero put in, “you would die like a man instead of hiding like a cowering dog.”
    Rivera didn’t like that a bit. He knew Cardero as well, knew him as a bandit. “Your way of life has been the gun, Cardero. It is easy for you to speak. Besides, what are you after here? What profit is there for you in asking us to fight Mono?”
    â€œNo profit but justice.”
    â€œJustice! You don’t know the meaning of that word. Caballero, you are an outlaw as bad as any of these others. I don’t know what you want here, but it makes a man think to have one such as you come to us.”
    â€œBelieve what you want,” Cardero said. “I’m just telling you this—Mono won’t stop until he is killed.”
    Contreras said, “Or until he has these two back.”
    The friar was glowering. “I have given these two sanctuary, Señor Contreras. Perhaps that means nothing to Mono. It should mean something to you.”
    â€œYes, and the lives of my wife and children mean something as well!” Contreras wagged his head. “I am sorry, but to ask us to fight—it is something I am unwilling to do, unwilling to ask others to do.”
    Maria Sanchez had stood quietly in the shadows of the rectory. Now for the first time she came forward and made her presence known. “These are the men of San Ignacio? These are our respected leaders? Cowards! Fight now or watch the town burn.”
    Rivera’s mouth was set. The eyes were no longer amused. Perhaps American women talked like that, but it was wrong for this daughter of San Ignacio to speak up.
    â€œGo back to your