“Do not scream, sister, oh, God will punish you for all eternity.”
The Father’s voice echoed in the sacristy, while his unholy hands slid down the young nun’s habit. She trembled like a poplar leaf, tears running silently down her cheeks, knowing that no one would hear her. But that night a frightened-eyed child watched from the shadows, and soon the justice that the heavens seemed to have forgotten would arrive, riding seven leagues away.
The sun beat down on the Chihuahua desert like a slow-burning fire. It was the year 1916 and in a lost corner of the world stood a convent with white adobe walls, where long-veiled nuns spent their days in silence, praying and taking care of the altar, but the peace of that place was just a facade. They say that on nights of a full moon, a priest would arrive on horseback, his cassock waving in the hot desert wind. He came to celebrate masses, hear confessions, and give spiritual advice. The local people thought he was a saint, a man of God, sent from the capital to bless the humble. But what no one knew was that when the convent doors closed and the candles went out, that priest had hands that did not pray, hands that committed lust in the shadows.
The nuns, women of unwavering faith, suffered silently like lambs marked for sacrifice. Some wept in the corners of the cloister, others prayed until they lost their voices, but none dared to speak.
“If you tell anyone, shame will fall on you and on Holy Mother Church,” the Father threatened them.
And in the desert of those times, who was going to believe a nun against a priest sent from Guadalajara? But the eyes of God see everything, even the darkest corners of the human soul. And in the midst of that darkness, a little boy, an altar boy with clean hands and a pure heart, saw what he shouldn’t have seen. He watched from behind a door as the father did what should not be done to one of the younger sisters in the convent.
Miguelito was trembling with fear like a poplar leaf in a gale, but he knew he couldn’t stay silent. And so it was that on a sweltering afternoon, when even the lizards were seeking shade, he took a piece of paper and wrote a letter that would change everyone’s destiny. He didn’t sign it, he didn’t tell anyone, he just let the truth out of that house of horrors, unaware that it would ignite the fury of the most feared man in all of northern Mexico. Miguelito, a skinny boy no more than 12 years old, spent three nights without sleeping a wink after what he had seen. His eyes, once filled with the innocence of childhood, now carried the weight of a secret greater than his small body could bear. On hot desert nights, while the coyotes howled outside, he would roll around on his palm mat, reliving the horrible scene he had witnessed by chance when he went to get holy water for the evening mass.
In the early hours of the fourth day, when the sun was just peeking over the Sierra Madre mountains, the boy crawled to the darkest corner of the sacristy. His trembling fingers opened the old Bible that the Father had left forgotten on the altar. Among the sacred pages he found what he was looking for, a yellowed piece of paper left over from some abandoned sermon. With his hand sweating cold as an iceberg, he began to write, letter by letter, as the parish school teacher had taught him. The pen scratched the paper as the boy described in simple childlike words what his eyes had seen that cursed night. He told of the muffled moans he had heard behind the confessional door, of Sister Soledad’s silent tears, of how the priest held her tightly when she tried to get away.
Every word he wrote burned his fingers like coals from hell, but he knew he couldn’t stop. When he finished, he carefully folded the paper, sealing inside it all the evil he had witnessed. But now a problem bigger than the devil himself was emerging. How can we get that truth to someone who can do something about it? Father Valdemiro had influence with the mayor, with the political chief, with all the important men in the region. Who would dare to confront him? It was then that fate placed in his path one of the explorers from Villa who was passing through the town. It wasn’t Pancho Villa himself, but it was a trusted man of the general who had come to buy supplies for the troops. Miguelito saw his opportunity when the revolutionary stopped to drink water at the fountain in front of the church, moving silently like a wildcat.
The boy approached, his hands were sweating so much that he almost dropped the paper.
“Sir,” he whispered in a voice so low it could barely be heard. “Give this to your general, it’s very important.”
Rodolfo Fierro, a tall man with a cowboy hat worn by the desert sun, looked at the boy with curiosity.
“What role does that kid play? What is this about?”
“It’s about a very big sin,” replied Miguelito, his eyes filled with tears like dry wells in the rainy season. “A sin that even God wouldn’t want to see.”
The man remained silent for a moment, studying the child’s frightened face. Then, with a swift movement, he put the letter inside the pocket of his cotton shirt.
“I’ll take it, but if it’s just a kid’s prank, you’ll see what a fright is like.”
Miguelito could only move his head, relieved and terrified at the same time. Little did he know that he had just set in motion a series of events that would forever change the history of that small town in the Chihuahuan desert. Meanwhile, three days’ ride away, Pancho Villa and his people were resting in a hideout among the rocks of the Sierra Madre. The general was sitting on a fallen log sharpening his knife when Rodolfo Fierro arrived with the letter.
“My general, a kid from the village gave me this. He said it was important.”
Villa raised his eyebrows, intrigued. He couldn’t read well, but Maria, who was more educated, took the paper and began to read in a low voice. As the words were revealed, Villa’s face transformed like a stormy sky. His eyes, normally full of malice and mischief, turned as dark as a moonless night. His fingers tightened around the knife until his knuckles turned white as dry bone. When Maria finished reading, there was a heavy silence in the camp that not even the wind dared to break. All the revolutionaries waited, knowing that something serious was about to happen.
“That father,” Villa finally said, his voice a low roar that made even the horses stir. “Do you think you can do whatever you want with the servants of God and get away with it?”
He jumped up, his hat slapping against his back, for now he was going to experience the justice of the desert, the justice of real men. The whole troop knew what that meant. When Villa spoke with that voice, blood would flow like a river in the rainy season. At dawn the next morning, before the sun rose, the revolutionaries were ready to leave. Villa mounted Siete Leguas, his chestnut horse, who could run leagues without tiring.
“We’re going for a ride to that convent,” he announced with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We have unfinished business with a certain priest.”
The sun hadn’t yet risen when the first hooves of the horses began to strike the dry desert earth. Villa led the group, his cowboy hat swinging on his back, as Siete Leguas advanced through the prickly pear cacti and mesquite trees. With each step the animal took, the red earth rose up, forming a cloud that marked the path of the departure. Maria, mounted on her bay mare, observed her man’s profile in the weak dawn light. She noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the reins tightly enough to turn them white.
“My general,” she shouted, urging her horse to quicken to his side. “Let’s think this through before we say—”
“You’re afraid, Maria.” Villa cut her off without even turning to look at her. “That priest is doing things not even the devil himself would dare to do. He’s using God’s name to satisfy carnal desires, and on top of that, with nuns, women dedicated to the sacred.”
The entire troop felt the general’s fury. Even the horses seemed more nervous than usual, whinnying softly and shaking their heads. Tomás Urbina, one of the oldest men, spat on the ground before speaking.
“My general, we know you’re right, but invading a convent is going to cause serious problems with the Church, with the government.”
Finally, he stopped his horse and turned to look at his people. His eyes burned like coals from hell.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said, pointing his finger at each of them. “I’m not asking for opinions. Whoever wants to stay, let them stay, but whoever comes with me needs to know that today we are going to do justice like no one else has the guts to do in this country of cowards.”
Meanwhile, three days’ journey away, Father Valdemiro was preparing for another day of pastoral work at the convent. He was in his private room carefully putting on his cassock, adjusting the white collar in front of the dusty mirror. His reflection showed a middle-aged man, with grayish hair cut short, a face marked not by the desert sun, but by sleepless nights and the excesses of a life rotten inside.
“Father Valdemiro,” a soft voice called from the door.
It was Sister Soledad, the youngest of the nuns, who had barely turned 20 when she entered the convent.
“The sisters are already in the chapel for morning prayer.”
The father smiled, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes like a viper showing its fangs.
“Thank you, daughter. I’m coming.”
When she turned her back on him, his eyes scanned the young nun’s body with an intensity that had nothing spiritual about it. He knew that today would be another day in which he would exercise his right over the servants of God. Back in the desert, the village party faced the first obstacles of the journey. The sun was now high, burning like fire above their heads. The water was running out and some of the horses were beginning to show signs of fatigue.
“Let’s stop over there in that shade,” Villa ordered, pointing towards a group of mesquite trees in the distance.
While the men rested, sharing the little water that remained, the general moved away from the group. He needed to think. Sitting on a flat stone, Villa took the crumpled letter out of his pocket. Although he couldn’t read well, he knew what was written there. Miguelito had described in detail how the priest abused the nuns, how he threatened them with divine punishment if they told anyone. Even worse, he mentioned that some older sisters had already mysteriously disappeared after trying to resist. A cold sweat trickled down Villa’s back, but it wasn’t because of the heat. He, who had so often killed, stolen and done things that weighed on his conscience, felt disgust at what he read.
“A man like that wearing a cassock,” he muttered to himself. “It’s worse than a rabid animal.”
As the sun began to descend on the horizon, staining the sky blood red, the party resumed its march. This time the silence between the men was heavy, charged with electricity. They all knew they were heading towards something that would change their lives forever. Not even the most experienced, like Rodolfo Fierro or Tomás Urbina, had participated in anything like this. As night fell, the sounds of the desert took over. The song of the coyotes, the whispering of small animals among the bushes, the hot wind swaying the dry branches of the trees. It was as if nature itself knew that something important was about to happen. Villa rode ahead, his eyes fixed on the road illuminated barely by the faint light of the stars. He knew there were still two days of travel ahead, but each step of the horse brought him closer to his goal. At that moment, he swore to himself that he would make the Father suffer like no man had ever suffered, that he would teach a lesson that would be remembered for generations.
Meanwhile, in the dark cells of the convent, Mother Teresa, the oldest among them, spent hours kneeling on the hard floor of the chapel, her gnarled fingers running feverishly over the beads of the rosary. Her parched lips moved incessantly in prayer, but her eyes, alas, her eyes carried an expression that none of the younger sisters could decipher. It wasn’t relief, it wasn’t sadness, it was something deeper, more complex, something that only women who had carried secrets too heavy for too long could understand.
The full moon hung like a silver lantern over the convent when the first sounds of hooves echoed in the silence of the night. It was almost 11 o’clock and the nuns had already retired for the great silence, that sacred period between Compline and Matins, where no words should be spoken. But that night the silence would be broken in a way that none of them could have imagined. Father Valdemiro, defying all the rules of the convent, remained awake in his private room. The light of a single candle illuminated his sweaty face as he ran his hands over a prayer book. But his eyes were not on the sacred words. They stared at the wall that divided their room from the novices’ dormitory, where Sister Soledad had been sleeping alone since Sister Luz María, her cellmate, had disappeared three moons before the fateful event.
The sound of the horses first reached the ears of the old caretaker of the convent, Don Silvestre, who was dozing in his small room near the stables. He got up with a groan, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“Who the hell comes to visit the convent at this hour?” he grumbled as he picked up his lamp.
When he opened the back door, his blood ran cold like water in the mountains. In front of him, illuminated by the flickering light of the lamp, stretched a line of men armed to the teeth, their cowboy hats casting diabolical shadows on their faces.
“Good evening, Don Silvestre,” Villa said, getting off his horse with a grace that contrasted with the fury burning in his eyes. “We’ve come to pay a visit to the priest. Is he home?”
The caretaker swallowed hard, his knees trembling like green sticks.
“My General Villa, you know that the convent is a sacred place, it cannot be done.”
Before he could finish the sentence, Rodolfo Fierro placed a knife under his chin.
“The general didn’t ask what can or cannot be done, Don Silvestre. He asked if his father was home.”
Meanwhile, on the second floor, Father Valdemiro had finally heard the strange noises with a grunt of irritation. He got out of bed and went to the window. What he saw made him recoil as if he had been slapped. Villa and his party, at least 15 men, all armed, surrounding the convent. His instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, but where to? The convent had no secret exits. With trembling hands he hurriedly put on his cassock, as if the sacred garments could protect him from what was to come.
“My God, my God,” he repeated as he heard the heavy footsteps climbing the wooden stairs that creaked under the weight of the revolutionaries.
From outside the father’s room, Villa gestured to his men.
“Spread out, I want him alive. Maria, you and the other women, take care of the nuns. Don’t let them see what’s going to happen.”
Maria felt the serious face. She knew what her man was going to do was terrible, but she also knew it was right. When the door to the room was kicked open, Father Valdemiro was on his knees holding a crucifix as if it were a shield.
“In the name of God, Villa, this is a sacred place. You can’t.”
“Yes, I can,” Villa cut, entering the room with slow steps. His knife gleamed in the candlelight. “God is watching everything, Father, and today He sent me to do the dirty work that no one else had the guts to do.”
The father began to stutter, sweating profusely.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who told you lies about me? It was that lying altar boy kid.”
A dry punch to the stomach, cutting off his words. Villa grabbed the Father by the neck and lifted him up like a sack of flour.
“You’re going to keep quiet now, false prophet, because today we’re going to teach you what happens to a man who uses God’s name to do evil.”
Meanwhile, in the nuns’ dormitory, Maria and the other women in the group tried to calm the frightened sisters.
“Stay calm, sisters,” Maria said, her voice firm but compassionate. “Nobody is going to hurt them. We only came for the father.”
Mother Teresa, the oldest, looked at Maria with eyes that had seen too much.
“He’s going to pay, right?” her voice asked, a thread of hope.
Maria simply nodded as sounds began to arrive from downstairs that would make even the bravest of men tremble. The muffled cries of Father Valdemiro, the creaking of ropes being tightened, the muffled sound of bodies being dragged. Villa appeared at the bedroom door. His face was impenetrable.
“It’s done,” he said simply.
Justice in the desert was done. And then, turning towards the nuns, he did something no one expected. He took off his hat and bowed.
“Excuse the inconvenience, sisters, but you are now free.”
When the group left the convent, taking with them what remained of Father Valdemiro, the first light of dawn was beginning to clear the horizon. The nuns, still in shock, crowded around the windows, watching the red dust cloud rising behind the riders. None of them wept for the Father, none prayed for his soul. And as the sun rose over the desert, illuminating the trail of blood that led into the depths of Chihuahua, Mother Teresa closed her eyes and murmured the only words she could find:
“Thank you.”
The morning sun was beginning to warm the arid desert land when Villa and his party reached the most desolate stretch of the north, where the prickly pear cacti stood like silent sentinels and the sharp stones cut like razors. Father Valdemiro, now unrecognizable under the marks of the initial punishment, moaned softly, tied to Tomás Urbina’s horse, its bloodied body swaying like a sack of flour with every step the animal took.
“Stop here,” Villa ordered, raising his gloved hand.
His dark eyes scanned the arid terrain, choosing the perfect spot for what was to come next.
“This place is good. Dry land, thorns everywhere, and no sign of settlement for miles around.”
Alberto Iglesias got off his horse and went up to the priest, pulling him by what was left of his cassock.
“Just look at the state of Father,” he mocked, turning the clergyman’s swollen face towards the sun. “Where is that beautiful voice from the masses?”
Father Valdemiro tried to speak, but only a hoarse groan came out of his sore throat. His eyes, once so arrogant, were now swollen from crying, red as the setting sun. He tried to kneel, but his legs wouldn’t obey him anymore. The knees had been broken with surgical precision by the revolutionaries still in the convent. Villa approached slowly, sharpening a long knife in the palm of his hand. The metallic sound echoed in the stillness of the desert, making even the birds fall silent.
“You spent your whole life talking about hell, sin, and divine punishment,” Father Valdemiro began in a voice that was almost a whisper.
“Today you will experience true hell, the hell you created on earth.”
With a quick gesture, he tossed a sturdy rope over a thick mesquite branch. The revolutionaries grabbed the father by the arms while Esteban Salazar tied the rope around his already shattered ankles. The father began to struggle like a fish out of water, an animalistic panic taking hold of his exhausted body.
“Please,” he managed to stammer, blood trickling down his chin. “I repent, I confess.”
Villa spat on the ground.
“Too late, you hypocrite, your confession has already been heard by the altar boy, by the nuns, by God. And the sentence has already been handed down.”
With a sudden jerk, the father was lifted upside down, his skeletal body swinging like a macabre pendulum over the dry earth. His screams echoed through the empty desert, startling a flock of vultures that took flight in a commotion. Maria, who had stayed a little apart from the other women in the group, covered her ears. Although she knew of the Father’s wickedness, what was about to happen was difficult to bear.
“Let’s go,” she told the others, leading them away from the scene.
Villa mounted Siete Leguas, firmly tying the other end of the rope to the saddle.
“Let’s go for a walk, father,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We are going to teach him the true meaning of the Stations of the Cross.”
The first pull was gentle, almost experimental. The father’s body dragged itself for a few meters, raising a cloud of red dust. His screams intensified as the first thorns began to tear at what remained of his clothes and flesh.
“Slow down, my general!” shouted Alberto Iglesias, mounting his horse next to Villa.
“We want you to feel every inch of this blessed land.”
And so began the most macabre procession the desert had ever seen. Villa drove Siete Leguas at a time in slow and calculated steps, while the Father’s body bounced and rolled over the sharp stones, the cactus thorns, the dry branches that buried themselves in his flesh like needles from the devil himself. At every meter, a new piece of skin was left behind, stuck to the arid ground. The father’s moans began to subside after the first half hour. But Villa was in no hurry. They stopped to wet the father’s face with salt water, not to quench his thirst, but to ensure that he remained conscious.
“Are you enjoying the trip, Father?” Esteban Salazar asked at one point, taking a puff of his leaf cigar before throwing the ember onto the clergyman’s exposed chest.
When the sun was at its highest point, the father’s body was nothing more than a shapeless mass of bloody flesh. His eyes, miraculously still open, could no longer see. They had been consumed by dust and the relentless sun. Its toothless mouth opened and closed like that of a dying fish, but no sound came out. It was then that Villa stopped his horse in a clearing especially full of sharp stones.
“I think we’ve reached the end of the road, Father,” he announced, dismounting.
With a gesture, he ordered them to cut the rope. The body fell heavily to the ground, raising more dust. Father Valdemiro was still breathing. Small, gasping sighs that made bubbles of blood on his destroyed lips. Villa knelt beside him, removing his hat in an almost respectful gesture.
“His sentence has been served.”
With a swift movement, he plunged his knife into the Father’s heart, a final act of mercy. The body gave one last tremor before becoming motionless, his blind eyes still fixed on the inclement sky. The silence that followed was broken only by the hot wind blowing through the prickly pear cacti. Not even the revolutionaries, men hardened by countless acts of violence, spoke. What they had done was terrible, but fair. Each of them had a mother, a sister, a wife, and they all knew that on that day they had cleansed the desert of a stain worse than any bandit.
