Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  “And how may I help you, sir?”

  “As I mentioned to the other man, I would like to speak with the master of the rancho.”

  “The master is a very busy man. Might I ask what it is about?”

  “Certainly. I am a visitor, as you can see. I am an artist, one who draws and paints. I have been told there is an old church on this ranch, and I would like to ask permission to study it and do pictures of it.”

  The man moved the toothpick around in the corner of his mouth as he looked over the stranger. “Do you not have a letter of introduction?”

  “No, unfortunately I do not. But I assure you I am a man to be trusted.” Devon held his hands away from his body, as a way of expressing that he went unarmed. “A simple artist.”

  The other man flicked his eyebrows. “Come along.”

  Devon, leading the horse, followed the man into the headquarters of the rancho. Straight ahead, on the other side of a hard-packed bare area, stood a row of structures with one continuous roof. On the left end, an open wagon shed adjoined what looked like the main living quarters. To the right of that, a large set of double wooden doors suggested a portal, or covered entryway. After that came a storeroom of sorts, a carriage room with its doors open, and a corner area that, from the stovepipe sticking out of the wall, Devon took to be servants’ quarters.

  Along the right side of the compound, again under one long roof, lay a row of stables. At a glance, Devon took in horses that ranged in color—white, gray, tan, brown, black—about a dozen in all. He heard hooves thump against planks, and a couple of horses looked out to neigh at the newcomer. Up ahead on his left, a man in a black outfit stood holding a rope and pivoting to his left, while on the other end of the line, a white horse with a flowing tail trotted in a circle. The horse’s steps made a light tock-tock-tock that stood out against the irregular sounds of the horses in their stalls and of someone, in a shop against the left wall of the enclosure, beating metal upon metal.

  As Devon and his usher approached, the man in black drew the white horse in close and led it to a heavy snubbing post, where he tied it short. The foreman walked up and exchanged a few words with him, then stood aside as the patrón took measured strides toward his visitor.

  “Buenos días,” he said as he took off a pair of brown leather gloves.

  Devon returned the greeting as he gathered his first impression of the master of the rancho. Although the man had been working in the sun and dust, he seemed dressed for a role he had set for himself. He wore a broad, ornate sombrero, deep black, to match his embroidered jacket and trousers and his polished boots. His pearl-gray shirt was in tone with the rest of his wardrobe, all of which was set off by a black gunbelt and holster, plus a riding quirt draped by its thong on the hammer of his pistol. He was a full-chested man, still in good shape in his mid-forties or so, with dark hair and mustache. He showed a set of full, even teeth when he spoke.

  “Alfonso tells me you would like to see some parts of the ranch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man had prominent cheekbones, and now his dark eyes hardened as he fixed them on Devon. “And what part calls for your attention?”

  “An old church I have heard speak of. I am an artist, you see, and I am attracted to things of antiquity, the picturesque.”

  The patrón tipped back his head. He was taller than average, perhaps an inch or so taller than his foreman, and with his sombrero he looked even more so. He had apparently learned to use his height as a way of dominating other men. “So you like the old things?”

  “Yes, sir. To observe them, to study them.”

  “Just to look, nothing more?”

  “No, to draw them. That is how I study. One way, at least.”

  The eyes narrowed again. “Perhaps I should ask your name. How are you called?”

  “Devon Frost.”

  “And where is your family from?”

  “My parents, may they rest in peace, are no longer living. I have one sister, who lives in Ohio.”

  “O-hi-o,” he said in three syllables. “And your own family? Children?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You are alone.”

  “Yes, I am single.”

  “And you come on this trip by yourself?”

  “That, too.”

  The patrón tipped his head to one side and then back. “I suppose so. Alfonso will show you where the church can be found.”

  “Thank you, sir. Yours is a generous gift to the arts.”

  “It is my pleasure.” He gave a tight smile. “And your name again?”

  “Frost. Devon Frost.”

  The man gave a blank nod, as if it still meant nothing, but he put out his hand. “Felipe Torres Real. At your service.” Then with his spurs clinking he turned and walked back toward the white horse, pulling his gloves on as he went.

  He spoke a few words to Alfonso as he walked past. The foreman nodded and started off across the bare earth toward a building adjacent to the black smith shop. Devon imagined it to be a bunkhouse, and his guess was confirmed when Alfonso came out buckling on a gunbelt. He crossed the ground within a yard of Devon without saying a word, then angled to the second-to-last stable on his right. There he took a rope halter from the wall, went into the stall, and came out leading a dark brown horse. He led the animal along the front of the stables and then, just past a stone water tank that stood out in the open, he headed across to what Devon had guessed to be a storeroom between the portal and the carriage shed. He tied the horse to a hitching rail, went into the room, and came out carrying a saddle and blanket.

  Devon turned around so as not to be watching either the foreman or the patrón. He saw now that in the small grove of cottonwoods near the front wall, patches of sunlight glinted on a pool of water. In no hurry, he wandered over in that direction with his horse trailing along. When he reached the trees he could see that the edge of the pool had been lined with rocks in some earlier period of time. Now they were grown into the earth and were covered with dark moss where they touched the water. The pool itself, some twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, lay still and dark. He supposed it was an artesian pool and probably the basis for the name of the ranch. Agua Prieta. Dark Water.

  He turned from the pool and looked again at the layout of the buildings, which seemed bright and glaring now. Someone had taken a lot of trouble, at one time, to haul in all the beams for uprights, cross members, and roof poles. The stable had been built in stages, first with milled uprights and crossbeams and then with round logs. All of the roofpoles in the compound were round, from six to ten inches thick, and with each segment that was built, it must have taken wagon loads of lumber to lay down a base for the dirt roof. Not much grass grew out of the top, which looked like packed white clay. That, too, must have taken innumerable man hours, not to mention draft animals and creaking carts. Devon doubted that the current master thought very much about how the buildings had been spliced and seamed together to give him the parade ground where he commanded his horses.

  Alfonso had his mount saddled now. He walked it out a few steps, checked the girth, and swung aboard. With what felt like more effort, Devon pulled himself up onto his own saddle and then fell in behind the foreman.

  The man who had first appeared at the gate now opened it, and the two horsemen passed through. Devon heard what he thought was the call of a peacock, but when he listened closer, all he heard was the metal clanging in the shop. Then he heard only the hoofbeats of the two horses. As the animals picked up a fastwalk, dust rose from their tracks. Devon looked up and around at the open plains. Maybe Don Felipe thought his quest was trivial, but he hadn’t come here to find outwhat othersmight think of him. The thought cheered him, and it saved him from having to think about anyone else in return.

  Alfonso stayed long enough at the church ruins to roll a cigarette in a corn husk and light it. As he did so, Devon caught a glimpse of a peculiar feature on the man’s saddle horn. The pommel, which was made of wood, ros
e up straight and round, and it seemed to have been etched and daubed into an effigy of a human head. Before Devon could get a better look, however, Alfonso kicked his horse into a lope and headed back in the direction of the rancho. Devon was left alone to ponder the roofless adobe walls of the old ruins.

  It was a large church, he thought, for a location such as this. The high front wall, or façade, with its modest tower and windowed arch that once held a bell, would have risen above the original roof. There had been a narthex or anteroom, then a nave and a raised choir area. Along each side of the rear half of the building, lower walls showed where the roof had sloped down over small utility rooms. In back of the church but connected to the main building lay a set of three rooms, presumably the priest’s chambers and a sacristy. The middle of these three rooms had a stone fireplace with dirt and debris collected in it.

  All of the lumber except the door and window frames embedded in adobe had been taken away. The front entryway would have had large double doors, and the other entrances as well as many of the interior passages would likewise have had wooden doors. The outer walls had framed window openings, some of them large enough to have had shutters the size of doors. All of this woodwork, plus the pews and any cabinets or shelves, had been stripped. Perhaps some of the better doors had found new homes, but Devon suspected that much of the lumber had been re-fitted for chicken houses and sheep pens, while a great deal of it would also have gone up in the smoke from cookstoves. As for the roofbeams and slats, he imagined they had gone on to various uses as well.

  Faded grandeur, he thought. At one time, it would have been a point of pride for the hacendado, or landowner, to have been the main patron of this church. With his sense of noblesse oblige, he would have kept it plastered, painted, and varnished; at over a mile from the hacienda buildings, it would have been accessible to the peasants who worked for him and to any indigenous people the priests had been able to convert. The humble people would have come through these doors for their weddings, baptisms, first communions, and funerals.

  Now the doorways were closed off with piles of rock, the better to keep out wandering animals. Preferring not to dislodge anything, Devon crawled in through a window opening.

  After a short walk around the inside, where he saw nothing significant that he hadn’t already seen as he peeked in through the doors and windows, he stood at the back door of the priest’s quarters and looked out upon the empty plain. It must have been an impressive experience, back when this was New Spain and no one had even heard of the United States and the American dollar, to come to a place like this to do God’s work. Most of those men, no doubt, met the challenge with grace and courage, but he imagined that every once in a while, one of them had looked out a doorway such as this one and had failed to see anything meaningful.

  Thinking that he would make his first series of studies from the outside, Devon walked back through the church to the window opening he had crawled through to get in. When he reached that place, he was surprised to see a four-wheeled buggy with a dark canopy sitting about ten yards away. The driver, who looked like he could be an uncle or father to the gatekeeper of the rancho, sat relaxed on his seat with the reins drooping in his hands. Behind him, but not fully in view, sat a woman.

  Uncertain as to what kind of greeting to call out, Devon reached into his pocket for his penknife. Holding it sideways between thumb and forefinger, he rapped the end of it against the hard, dry wood of the window frame. The sound resonated, and the driver looked up. Devon waved. The driver turned and spoke to the woman beneath the canopy.

  The driver got down from the carriage and waited to assist the woman. She leaned forward, but before Devon could catch a look at her face, she opened her parasol and held it out in front of her. Devon saw a black shoe, the long skirt of a blue dress, a ruffled sleeve, and then the upper body of a young, shapely woman.

  What struck him at first was her light complexion in contrast with her dark hair, which was pulled straight back, wrapped in something like a bun, and held by a dark red clasp. A pair of hard, shiny earrings matched the color of the clasp, as did her lipstick.

  “Buenos días,” she said, taking a couple of steps toward him.

  He returned the greeting through the window space.

  “Are you the artist?” she asked, using the formal pronoun usted, just as Alfonso and Don Felipe had done.

  “Yes, I am.” He took off his hat.

  “How nice. It is good to have an artist come to Rancho Agua Prieta.” A small silver cross glinted where it lay against her chest, above her bosom.

  “Is this your rancho, then?”

  She stood within four feet of him now. “It is the rancho of my father.”

  “Oh, yes. I met him earlier. He gave me permission to come here.”

  Her face hardened, as if it had turned to stone. “That was not my father. He is my stepfather.”

  “My father, may he rest in peace, is Vicente Cantera. This is his rancho, as it was his father’s, and the father of my grandfather before that.”

  “It is a grand place.”

  “My father loved it very much. A blessing from God, which he never forgot.”

  “That is very good. And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking at present?”

  Her face softened. “My name is Petra Cantera Reynosa.”

  He nodded in a half-bow. “My name is Devon Frost. At your service.”

  She took another step forward and held out her gloved hand. Devon reached across thewindowledge and pressed his hand against hers, with his thumb on the back of her fingers. Then she stepped back.

  “If my father was alive, it would give him pleasure to know that an artist had come to render this church. He had hoped in his lifetime to restore it.”

  Devon glanced at the high wall, where the plaster had cracked and fallen off in large patches. “It would be a great deal of work.”

  She said nothing for a moment as she stood with the parasol on her shoulder. Then she said, “Is this your first day?”

  “Yes, I’m staying in Tinaja, at the inn. I hope to come out here each day and gather impressions.”

  “Will you make drawings first?”

  “Oh, yes. I will make many drawings. Then, if I progress that far, I will decide which views to paint.”

  “Oh, how interesting.”

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Let me cross over.” He boosted himself up onto the window ledge, swung his legs across, and landed on his feet on the ground outside.

  “You seem doubtful about your work.”

  “Not so much. But at the beginning of a study, I do not like to take for granted what I hope to achieve.”

  She made a light arch with her plucked eyebrows. “Do you have much experience with your art?”

  He shrugged. “Some years. But it is difficult to measure in time alone.”

  She seemed to reflect on that for amoment. “Is that why you came here, then—formore experience?”

  “That, I suppose.” He looked at her, wondering if the conversation was sincere enough for him to go further. The expression on her face told him it might be, so he went ahead. “I wanted more experience, but something bigger than that as well.”

  She tipped her head beneath the sunshade. “Something bigger?”

  He glanced toward the carriage driver, who seemed to be paying no attention “Yes. In spite of several years of practice, my work seems to be missing the big thing. I think of it as my vision, and I came here with the idea that if I absorbed enough of all of this”—he waved around with his right hand—“I will be fortified.”

  “So that iswhat youwant, to findwhat ismissing.”

  “Yes. I want to find what I think is missing in my life as well as in my work. A view of things. A center. When I find it, it will give me the power to do things in a more definite way.” Then, feeling as if he had said too much, he added, “Not a very grand adventure, I suppose.”

  “It seems somewhat daring to me, to come here whe
re people are different, almost like a foreign country, so isolated.”

  “It was what I wanted. Something—elemental. And I felt equipped, as I speak the language.”

  “You speak well.”

  “Thank you. I know it is not perfect, but I can take care of myself.” After a short silence he said, “But we have spoken enough about me. Tell me about yourself, your family, what you do.”

  She looked down, knitted her brows, and raised her eyes to meet his. “There is not much to tell. I have no brothers and sisters, although two of them died as infants. We were just my father, my mother, and I. Then my father passed away when I was a little girl, and my mother was left alone with the rancho. It needed the hand of a man, she said, and so she married Don Felipe. He has been here for about ten years, and he is the master. He gives the orders. It is much different from the days of my father.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That is the way things are. My mother gave it all up to him, and there isn’t much to do about it.”

  “And yourself—do you study? Practice music?”

  “I go with my mother. To church, to visit. Sometimes I read, but I don’t care for it very much.”

  “Do you go to the fiestas, to the dances?”

  Her eyes fell as a twitch crossed her face. “Hardly at all. My stepfather says that all the young men from here are very low.”

  “Is that true?”

  “There are families who do not think so, and as far as that goes, my father would have had more right to say it.”

  “By being your father.”

  “That,” she said. Then with a droll look she added, “And by not being low himself.”

  Devon almost lost his breath. To vary the subject, he said, “Don Felipe seems to be a great aficionado of horses.”