Death Comes for the Archbishop

In the early 1700s, about 50 years after the first great Indian uprising, a tyrannical priest named Fray Baltazar Montoya was living and working in Ácoma. He insisted that the indigenous residents labor in tribute to him, and he took their water and crops and animal skins for himself. He also traveled all over the Southwest, sourcing the best peach seeds and grape cuttings in the hopes of building an elaborate garden in the cloisters.   

Over time, Montoya grew fat on these crops, and his youthful energy dissipated. So he hired three indigenous boys, employing one as a cook, one to clean, and one to run all over the countryside doing errands for him. Though he never slept with any of his parishioners—likely because he feared they would revolt if he did—it was clear to everyone that Montoya valued food and drink more than anything else (that he “lived more after the flesh than the spirit”).

For 15 years, Montoya continued in this way. But though the people of Ácoma were tempted to revolt, they never did—after all, Montoya had brought them the picture of St. Joseph, which seemed to bring rain even when the surrounding pueblos were completely dry. There was no way to know how powerful this priest really was.

One year, wanting to show off his impressive garden, Montoya hosted a dinner party for the priests from the nearby villages. To show off the cooking skills he had learned in Seville, Montoya decided to cook the meal himself. He made soups and salads, then a hare in brown gravy, and finally a roast turkey. But when the serving boy brought out the hare, he accidentally spilled some of the gravy on one of the visiting priests. Livid, Montoya threw a pewter mug at the serving boy.

The boy staggered and fell to the floor; within moments, one of the other priests pronounced him dead. The visitors then hurried away, leaving Montoya alone. At first Montoya thought about escaping, but he was too proud of his garden, which was only now coming into its full glory. Instead, Montoya just read his holy books; after all, he had been so involved with the gravy that he had not done any religious work for days.

Soon enough, Montoya noticed an eerie silence among the people of Ácoma. As the sun went down, Montoya heard many of the indigenous men discussing something with great urgency. Montoya knew the stories of missionaries being tortured—and accordingly, that night, a large group of Ácoma men appeared in his doorway, ready to take him away.

Montoya did not struggle, but rather let himself be carried to the edge of the cliff. Several people gathered to lift Montoya and swing him in the air, then dropped Montoya over the side of the cliff. No one took pleasure in this death; after all, many of the Ácoma had liked Montoya a good deal. But they let Montoya’s garden die out, and some of the women would gather to laugh at the wilting crops. Years later, when a new priest arrived, the Ácoma were warm to him—and though the new priest never worked on the garden, “the old peach stumps kept sending up pale sprouts for many years.”