We are very pleased to have the permission from the author, Gordon Kerr, to include the short story Sisters of the Wild West. It seems to me to be an excellent text for philosophical inquiry as well as a fine short story in its own right.

Sisters of the Wild West

Sister Catherine of the Sisters of Mercy knew who the murderer was, but she was not about to say. The US Marshall had steely blue eyes, which reminded her of her beloved Patrick just for a second. The same flashing glint of male beauty she had trained herself to turn away from at the first hint of attraction. He was a handsome man, there was no doubt, strong and upright, and dependable too, a rare thing in this wild state of Wyoming. He had a pleasant laconic voice and she felt the vibration of his deep tones drawing her and the emptiness in her womanhood begin to stir. "I need you to tell me, what you know sister. Please."

She leaned back stiffly, pulling her habit firmly around her legs and murmured her own secret prayer, calling to mind the tragic face of our crucified Lord upon the cross, an image she knew better than her own reflection. Catherine sensed the anguish of suffering of mothers and wives, of wailing, fatherless children coursing through her veins. She knew the spiritual costs of death and separation.

She quickly felt her strength return and looked squarely at Marshall James. This time she saw the cold glaze of detachment in his eyes. She had seen this look many times before. It came from death and bitter experience. It was the armour of survival, men used to carry out ungodly deeds in a violent world. It was a badge that soldiers and men of law sometimes wore, but she had seen the same look in the eyes of outlaws and homesteaders too. Her mind was made up. She knew that there would be no justice for the man, no court to weigh the evidence, no time for sorrow or explanation - only violent retribution -one more brutal killing.

"I am afraid I cannot tell you, Mr James." she said firmly. The Marshall stood up towering above her. "You mean you won't tell me!" He sputtered angrily. She moved swiftly and silently from under his shadow to the door. She knew there would be price to pay for her decision. Maybe the townspeople would keep their children from attending school, for a while at least. They would talk; make it difficult for her to collect the money she needed for her work. Donations and the lumber she needed for Our Lady's Hospice would be more difficult to come by for sure. Catherine turned and looked up at the Marshall. "I am sorry, Sir" she said softly and respectfully "I cannot help you in this matter"

Catherine was not afraid as she stepped out into the dusty street. She held her head firm and walked towards the schoolhouse at the edge of town. She felt unseen eyes upon her and the half -mile walk felt much longer than usual. She was diminutive in stature and had a slight limp but she was strong in her convictions and faithful to the last in the promises she made to herself and to the town's people. She kept her steps firm and purposeful.

Civilisation was what she had promised them. Not the “New Jerusalem” hailed by the travelling preachers, but a schoolhouse, a hospital and a caring community. The three sisters who came at first had enjoyed a tremendous welcome and the women especially had surrounded them with gifts and put pressure on their men folks to assist them with whatever they needed. The school house had been built in six weeks and land for the hospice was cleared and made ready by teams of volunteers including the children, who carried buckets of earth and planted flower beds. Such a demonstration of unity was a powerful force indeed. This was the work of the Lord and she was determined to continue it.

Catherine climbed the steps to her small room above the schoolhouse and kneeled down to pray at her bedside. The other two sisters had been gone for over a year now and yes, Catherine did admit it to herself - from time to time, she was lonely. Father McMullan came less frequently now, especially since the other sisters had gone. She was glad of it in one sense, she was left to get on with things her own way and she was also a little afraid him. He was a loud and cheerful priest, but like so many Irish men he did have a battle with the bottle. Once the devil had got him with his guard down and he had made a grab for her but he was so drunk she evaded him easily. He had been so remorseful the next morning that she forgave him and he had promised to send two trained nurses once the hospice was built. It was something, so maybe his indiscretion was a blessing in disguise. Her resolve strengthened through prayer, she turned her thoughts to the events of yesterday morning.

It was just after dawn, when she heard the shot and the loud yelp almost simultaneously. She had rushed outside to see Ned, a local hired hand, astride his horse and waving his gun wildly at Johnny Clearwater, a native guide. Johnny crouched motionless on the ground. A short distance away, lay a thin tan-coloured dog. The poor creature was still alive with its head slightly raised, its eyes firmly on its master. Ned was drunk and in a dangerous mood, circling his horse between Johnny and his dog. It was still only around six in the morning so Ned must have been working on his liquor all night. Why he shot the poor animal no one knows, maybe it was because Johnny loved his dog. She had seen it before, running silently within a pace of its master, always there; extra eyes, ears and nose for Johnny, but now it lay wounded, with a pool of blood coming from its hindquarters.

Catherine was about to cry out when it happened. In one brief moment it was over. Johnny leapt towards the dying animal, Ned went for him, the two men grappled and fell to the ground, followed by a muffled shot – a second bullet. Ned did not get up and lay facedown motionless beside the dog.

As with all deaths – the ebb of time seemed suddenly to lose its power. The stillness of Ned’s body drew down the dust. Eternity beckoned for one, maybe two of God’s creatures and Catherine looked on silently, as through a glass, at the strange scene which now unfolded.

First, the dog began to lick the neck of his fallen attacker as in a last act of forgiveness, but with no response. The creature then turned his affections to his master, his tail thumping desperately. Johnny sat on the ground cradling his dog in a manner of extreme kindness. He then reached forward and gently laid his hand on Ned’s shoulders. His touch seemed priest-like, almost a blessing. Then raising his face to the morning light, Clearwater Johnny began to chant. His soft, mournful tones built circles of harmonies which crept towards Catherine, who stood erect and motionless, sucking in the sound.

His voice had a profound effect on her. She suddenly felt faint and grabbed the porch for support and knocked over a small statue of St Francis which balanced on the rail. Looking up, Johnny’s eyes flashed, first in fear, before meeting hers. Then, their spirits seemed to touch, for an instant. It was one of those rare moments of union when, in a heartbeat, oceans of hope and worlds of consequences reveal themselves. Catherine descended the steps and walked directly towards him, flicking her hand "Go" she said, "Go quickly" "You must go now".

He stood up slowly, staring open mouthed for a moment before dipping his head in silent acknowledgement of her command. Then draping his wounded friend around his neck, he sloped off into the woods behind the trail. Catherine watched, holding her breath until he was out of sight. She took a big gulp of air. Her heart swelled and she felt it would burst her chest as she began to realise the enormity of what she had done. Trembling, she fell to her knees in the dust, next to the body, which already seemed cold. Clasping her hands in prayer she shook her head in genuine sorrow. Grieving for this senseless waste of life, Catherine was angry at the stupidity and callousness of men, she was also afraid, scared of the solid silence of death.

Minutes passed, she was alone, but felt her spirits rise with the sun, which now began to warm her face. She felt tears hot to her cheek. Somehow a great joy was beginning to grow in her soul. Yes, she was going to conceal a killer, hide the truth, and keep a dark secret even, although she promised herself that she would tell no lies! No, no lies. She had never really met a native, never spoken to one before today, but she knew that what she had witnessed was to be her test, her cross to bear in the battle of good and evil. Some, if not most of the townsfolk called them savages, and worse, beyond redemption, but then, she thought of Patrick once more.

The painting of his handsome face, brought from Ireland, hung in the schoolhouse and was etched on her soul. Was it not the blessed Saint Patrick, a murderer himself, who had saved civilisation from the barbarians? Blessed Saint Patrick, a one-time slave who had seen past the veil of so-called Roman civilisation and into the hearts of the natives of Ireland. Her own ancestors were once tribal peoples, described as savages too, but who, thanks be to God, were raised up to become champions of Christendom. Her beloved St Patrick, spiritual mentor to millions, had looked deep into the psyche of her poor countrymen and seen the true nobility of their souls. He had, all alone, befriended the stranger, could she do any less? Catherine couldn’t have explained if anyone had asked what she felt, but somehow instinctively she knew deep down that the natives of America too would one day be recognised as spiritual brothers, if not examples for the rest of us. They were a gentle and peace loving people and here in the West Catherine knew the white men were the real savages.

Now she must be a torchbearer here in the new wilderness, where man lived by fear and by the gun. She was a Sister of Mercy and today was her chance to prove it. Her chance to help shape the future. Catherine felt the excitement of her calling and her conviction grow. “I may be only a wee woman” she said to herself “but I know what I must do” Building the kingdom of heaven may take time but someone needed to make a start. Catherine walked across the schoolhouse yard and began to pull the bell.

***********

Note. Nuns played an important role in the civilisation of the Americas. There were approximately three nuns for every priest but few are mentioned in accounts of how the “West was won”.

Short story by Gordon Kerr

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