An old man entered the chapel and shut the door behind him, fumbling with the latch. Slowly, he staggered toward the altar, a serape over his left shoulder. In the candlelight, where vigil cups burned, Gabriel took in his bristling beard and tousled hair. Miguel Calvo, the sheepherder, Gabriel told himself. Miguel knelt laboriously, his lips moving soundlessly. He motioned to Gabriel, and then fell. "What's wrong, Miguel?" said Gabriel, going to him. "Someone..." Miguel's face wrinkled with pain; his jaw clamped. "Are you sick, Miguel?" Gabriel tried to make the man comfortable by pushing his serape under him. His hand found the bullet wound. Blood sopped Miguel's neck and shoulder. "You've been shot," said Gabriel. "Sí," said Miguel. "Don't leave ... the chapel...." "I want to get Dr. Velasco." "No." "Here--I'll stop the blood with my undershirt." In a few seconds he had yanked off his undershirt. With a jerk, he tore it and began to bind Miguel's head. "You'll be all right. God will help you." "Can you stop the blood?" "Yes. Hold that piece of cloth. How did it happen?" "As I walked past ... the chapel." Gabriel worked swiftly. "Lie still, Miguel. Hold it. I'll tie this around your head." "All right." "I want it tight." "It's tight." "Now, I'll get Dr. Velasco." "No," groaned Miguel. Gabriel struggled into his robe and stood. "I'll open the side window, by the altar; I can climb out." "No," said the old peasant, wanting to protect his priest. Gabriel had no fear. He hated fear. Opening the window, he climbed out and crossed the cobbled courtyard, trying to minimize his limp. Another man was crossing the court, crates of chickens on his tump line. A dog began to bark near the chapel, his yaps becoming more and more frantic. As Gabriel mounted the veranda steps, a shot rang out; he felt something gnaw his leg and put out his arms to break his fall, wondering why the dog had bitten him. Sprawled on the steps, he yanked up his robe and examined his leg--a bullet, right above the ankle ... what a shame! Servants helped him into the house where he asked for Manuel or Raul. Then, gathering his wits, he told the servants about Miguel Calvo, and his head wound. "... it may be serious. Get Dr. Velasco." He gripped his leg, where the pain dug sharply, widening. "Get somebody to find that sharpshooter," he said. He sat on a sofa and began to dress his own wound, Chavela whimpering over a bowl of water, soap and rag. On the mantel, the Swiss clock chimed and he glanced at it, feeling hungry. "Don't be a ninny, Chavela. And get me some tortillas." "I will, Padre, I will," said Chavela, glad to escape to the kitchen. "Bring some beans, too," said Gabriel, sighing. His glasses had become smudged and he wiped the old lenses on his robe, blew on them, wiped them again.