In the sacristy of a Roman priest in Ciudad Juarez, just over the line from El Paso, there is a document which should be of the historic record, but is not. Penned in old goose-quill script on stained vellum paper, it has the title “Narrative of Father Nunez,” and it was found beneath the vestry stones of an ancient chapel ruin in westernmost Chihuahua State, in October 1933.
It is the basis of this book, which will begin, as Father Nunez’s narrative begins, with this singular dedicatoria:
29 de Septembre
Parroquia de la Virgen de Guadalupe,
Casas Grandes
I am Panfilo Alvar Nunez, once cura of the Mission of Saint Francis of Assisi, in Casas Grandes. Accept what I say, or deny it. There is no one else remaining alive to tell what happened.
Had I been a Tejano, I would have died when the Tejanos died in their demented pursuit, casting for the mountain stronghold of the Nednhi Apache chief, Juh.
But I am a Mexican, a mestizo of the monte in simple truth. That is to say, a man one-half of the Spanish and one-half of the Indian blood. So it was the Apaches permitted me to live, remembering my Indian mother.
It is a certainty that they will come back for me, nonetheless.
Apaches do not care for the truth to be known of them any better than do Anglos. But a priest of the people cannot shield evil.
Too many Tejanos perished on that terrible journey of vengeance.
There must be an accounting.
I give it here in this testimony to a man whose name will not be honored in his own land. If you can find it one time in any Anglo history book, I will lie to God about your confessions for all the days of your life. There is no risk to my vows in this: you will keep your sins and go to hell with them; you will never see the name of this man except that you see it here.
You may not see it even so.
Only God can know if these pages will endure. Revolt against Juarez is everywhere in the north. To the south, behind the fortress walls of the city, the old hero himself lies dying. Chihuahua is without defenses. Red barbarian, brown outlaw, white scalp hunter raven the very earth. Troops of the government hide like rabbits. Murderous ruralista bands menace all they happen upon. The poor and the decent pray for their lives.
Perhaps the truth itself shall die.
That it may not, I consign the name of the tall Tejano from San Saba with my own name here beneath these vestry stones, asking of God only the little time to finish before the Apaches return.
It being his will, this narrative is inscribed to brave men of all faiths.
May I find my own courage, when I hear the fall of unshod pony hooves beyond my garden wall and look up to see the still, bronze face of Juh, war chief of all the Nednhis, watching me in that moment of the arrow’s flight.
Fr. P. Alvar Nunez
Order of the Monks
of Saint Francis