“Bless me father, for I have sinned, it has been …”

Billy paused. He counted the remaining bullets in his revolver –one, two… --silence. The cold metal turned with his fingers. “Five,” was the total of them, for he’d fired once today to scare off those Indians down by the Rio Pecos.

“Five years,” said he after a slight hesitation.

“Five years?” the priest repeated. “ah – hem, oh – how the Lord delights in his prodigal son’s return. Tell me what is on your heart, young man.”

Is this some kind of game, Billy wondered. Being away, the Church paid little to no attention to you. Ms. Brown always told him that the Good Book called believers to go into the world, but the priest was always saying to come back. He thought it good to go out, be fruitful, to soar on eagles’ wings. . . .

“How come?” He asked, “how come the Lord always wants us to come back --even if we’ve not been good?”

“Because He loves to forgive you,” the priest said. “Now what is it you wish to bring to Him?”

“Even when we are failing on our mission?”

“And how would that be?”

“well –I’s not bin doing good in ‘is eyes, y’see – I mean – at times I cannae sort out in my mind what is good and what is not.”

“Just say what is on your heart, Bil-- young man.” The priest, sitting behind the confessional screen, closed his eyes, breathing deeply and with gusto, trying to calm his nerves. He was not supposed to know who he was talking to (or so was he to pretend), but he had been watching Billy as he hiked along the river-valley toward the church, praying as he did. He shook with some excitement, for he felt that this could be a turning point for his parish. He would never admit to it, but the influence of outlaws put fear back into the hearts of the people. And people who were chronically afraid needed the healing touch of his Lord.

“Is Ms. Brown,” said he, fingering the cool revolver of his sixshooter. The priest was rapt, his eyes closed as he spiritually braced himself for what was to come next.

“I done good by her, Father –honest –at least, thet’s what her eyes was a’tellin’ me –but she jus’ kept’on callin’ me bad.”

“were you –fornicating with your teacher?!” Now he pressed his eyes closed, they way children do when they eat a sour candy.

“forn-ey… --NO father! –cross my heart –I swear, tho Indians dance on the grave of my grandmother.”

“You have no need to hide from the Lord --Bil –uh, I mean—” the priest began to fumble his words as Billy slipped out of the confessional.

He walked toward the altar and gazed upon the image of the crucifixion. The church had been decorated modestly. White painted walls, supported by wood-beams, extended high up into vaunted ceilings, mimicking the heavens. There was little to marvel at in that church except for a single idol picturing the Madonna, painted in the fashion of the Holy Roman Byzantine era, flanked with gold around the border. Billy gazed upon the image and was moved by what beauty there was in the closeness of the mother to her newborn.

There were many things on Billy’s heart on that day, many things he wished he could put into words, but not a single soul on God’s earth would forgive him should they be uttered. He felt desperately alone.