1

Bandera, Spring 1878

“Father Nowicki? That rancher, Jack Taylor, is here again. Shall I tell him you’re busy?”

“No, Regina,” the pastor told his gray-haired housekeeper. “You may send him in. I must say, he is persistent.”

“He’s a pain in the dupa,” Regina Grosecki mumbled under her breath. Aloud she answered, “Very well, Father.”

She bustled out of the pastor’s office.

“Mister Taylor, Father will see you. Although why he allows you to keep pestering him is beyond my understanding. Perhaps he hopes to save your immortal soul. I’ll say a rosary for you myself. You need all the prayers you can get.”

Father Nowicki frowned, but couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the feisty, widowed housekeeper’s scolding of the most influential rancher in the county. He rose from his chair when Jack Taylor entered the office.

“Hello, Father. I hope you don’t mind my stopping by so early.”

“Not at all, Mister Taylor. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

Taylor settled into a straight-backed chair, which seemed barely able to hold his weight. He was a big man, close to six feet tall and almost two hundred pounds, broad-shouldered and lean-waisted, tanned from years of exposure to sun and wind. Dark brown eyes peered from under his broad-brimmed hat. He removed the Stetson to uncover a shock of brown hair.

Father Nowicki settled behind his desk once the rancher was seated.

“May I have Regina bring you some coffee?” he asked.

“No thank you, Father,” Taylor replied. “My time is limited. I just came by to ask if you have reconsidered my offer.”

“There is nothing to reconsider. I thought I made that clear the last time we met.”

“You did, but I want to be absolutely certain you’re aware how much your land means to me.”

“Not my land. The parish’s,” Nowicki clarified.

“Of course. The parish’s,” Taylor repeated. “Father, your parish controls a considerable amount of water

rights, along with some good grazing land. So do several of your parishioners. I need that water and land for my ranch. Certainly you can understand that. My herds are growing, and Bandera has become a central point for organizing trail drives from Texas to Kansas and Montana. I am willing to raise my offer for your buildings and land. But I do want them.”

“And as we have discussed numerous times, Saint Stanislaus Parish is willing to negotiate an agreement to share those water rights, which will be mutually beneficial to both the parish and yourself. There is more than enough water for all of us. In addition, some of the land might be available for lease.”

“Father, that isn’t good enough,” Taylor insisted. “I must have complete control of that land and water. Just having access to some of the water won’t do. You can build another church nearly anyplace, but I can’t find water everywhere. If you talk sense to your parishioners they’ll go along. Once you give up the church’s property they’ll be willing to sell theirs.”

The normally even-tempered pastor struggled to maintain his composure. His clipped words came out softly, but edged.

“Mister Taylor, our community has been here since 1855. We came to a strange land and fought both man and nature to survive. The men worked long hours in the shingle mill to support their families. We celebrated

Mass in parishioners’ homes for the first three years, until we were able to erect a log structure for a temporary place of worship. We made many sacrifices, and struggled to raise funds to build a proper church. Our sanctuary was completed only two years ago. The Sisters of the Immaculate Conception arrived a few years back to staff our school. Their convent was built two years before the church. Many of our deceased members are buried in the old cemetery on church grounds. My parishioners’ lands are their homes, homes they could never have hoped to own in their native land. You cannot expect them to start over.”

“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.