Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  Devon glanced at the bullwhip on the wall as he phrased his question before saying it. “Do you think he could be a little—mean, or disagreeable?”

  Carlos raised his eyebrows, turned down the corners of his mouth, and looked at his glass. “Oh, I think it might be so.”

  “I thought he gave that impression, but I didn’t know how much he might have been putting on.”

  “He puts on an air, all right, but I think his cruelty is sincere.”

  “Are they afraid of him, then—your aunt and your cousin?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so. He is not that way with them.”

  “He is certainly the boss.”

  “Yes, indeed. But he doesn’t practice his—how shall I say it—physical threats with them. In fact, my cousin ignores him, almost snubs him.”

  “I thought I noticed that.” Devon reflected for a couple of seconds and then added, “Is it something I should look out for?”

  “For yourself? I don’t know. If all you do is make pictures of the church, he will treat you as if you were a priest. But in other things, he is very jealous, and quick to anger.”

  “Jealous? Your aunt is a very charming lady, but I don’t think she invites ill-advised attention.”

  Carlos gave him a fixed look. “That is true. But it is not for my aunt that he is so jealous.”

  “Really? Then—”

  After a glance to each side, Carlos lowered his voice. “For my cousin.”

  The gender of the noun made it clear that the cousin was female, and Devon sensed that it would be very ungallant to mention her by name in a place like this. “Oh, like the jealous father who hates all the suitors?”

  “Something like that, but not entirely like a father.”

  “Ah-hah.” The scene on the patio presented itself more clearly now—Petra’s insolence, Don Felipe’s insouciance, Emilia’s suppressed agony. Then came a fleeting image of the master’s furtive visit to the church. “Not a good kind of jealousy, then.”

  “No. It is actually dangerous.” Carlos took a sip of tequila and then added, “In more than one way.”

  “It is certainly not beneficial to those in that house—but has he shown this jealousy to any young men, any suitors?”

  Carlos’s face had taken on a troubled look, and now his eyes watered. “Oh, it is terrible,” he said.

  “Has he done something?”

  As Carlos looked around again and then began to speak in a low, earnest voice, he seemed on the verge of breaking down. “Señor, I have been very much in love with my beautiful cousin. I love her, I adore her, I would die for her. From the time that we were children, I always hoped that some day she would consent to be mine. It is all that I wish.”

  Devon drew back after such a gush. Then, recovering his sense of courtesy, he said, “And does she return your interest, or does she have eyes for someone else?”

  “It would be tolerable if the only difficulty were that she did not return my love. That, I could stand. I could try to convince her, I could hope that with time she would see my case.”

  “Is it such, then, that she rejects you?”

  Carlos winced. “That is a strong word. But she takes me lightly, yes. And that much I could withstand. But this man—her stepfather—has made things a hundred times worse.”

  “He intervenes?”

  The young man hesitated, took a deep breath, and went on in a quavering voice. “He told me, in pointed words, to stay away from her. To forget about her, to harbor no illusions.”

  “That’s quite a bit for a man in his position.”

  “That is not all.” Carlos made a visible effort to still the shaking in his voice. “He told me that if I valued my life, I must stay away from the girl, for anyone who presumed to love her, or to try to court her, was in risk of losing his life.”

  Devon raised his eyebrows. “And you think he is capable of following through with that threat?”

  “Señor, I am sure of it. He is obsessed with her, and with the idea of making her his.”

  Devon felt a chill in his blood. “That’s extreme. And the girl? What does she think?”

  “I believe she hates him, but she acts as if he doesn’t matter one way or the other. She pays him no mind. And then, she goes out of her way to make him jealous.”

  “How?”

  “With another young man.”

  “Really? So she actually does have interest in someone else? I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

  Carlos shook his head. “I don’t think she really cares for him. I believe she lets on, so that Don Fe-lipe will be kept in a state of turmoil.”

  “Whew! And the young man?”

  “Completely in love, of course, and certain that he’s going to win out.”

  “Has Don Felipe spoken to him, then, in the way he spoke to you?”

  “Oh, yes. The story is well told in these last several days, so I will not be breaking a confidence in telling it to you.”

  Devon shrugged. “Let things be as they should.”

  Carlos’s voice was steadier now. “Very well. The young man is named Ricardo Vega. He is the son of another landholder, Don Francisco Vega, an old friend of my uncle Vicente, my aunt Emilia, and so on, from many years past. A short while after Don Felipe made his threat to me, Ricardo derived the idea that he had some hopes with my cousin.”

  “Do you think she gave him those hopes?”

  “It may well be.”

  “At any rate, he saw himself as her suitor.”

  “Exactly. And then one day, about a week ago, he and his father made a visit to Rancho Agua Prieta.”

  “Indeed? And how were they received?”

  “As they are old friends, my aunt received them well. Shewas surprised at their suit, but she calledmy cousin into the living room and asked her what she thought. As the story goes, my cousin said that she didn’t oppose the idea, as she could no longer live in peace beneath the roof of the house of her father.”

  “Suggesting something?”

  “To Ricardo and Don Francisco, I think it suggested that she resented her stepfather for having taken over what once was her father’s.”

  “I see. And how did this story get around?”

  “When Ricardo and his father returned to their own rancho, Ricardo told the story to his brothers, and there were working men present, so in very little time the story was well circulated.”

  “I imagine. Returning to the story, what was Doña Emilia’s response to the case?”

  Carlos let out a heavy breath. “She said that Don Felipe would be the one to decide.”

  Devon felt his own heart sink. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “Yes, it is. Regardless of anybody’s motives, that was the worst way to deal with it.” Carlos raised his glass for another sip. “Anyway, Don Felipe came in at about that time, and the case being put to him, he went into a fury. He declared absolutely not, that his daughter was worthy of much better, that these cowherds presumed a great deal, and that they should leave at once. Don Francisco became indignant, and he stated, with pride, that his family had had their land for generations before Felipe Torres came from who knows where, and that there was no such thing as a step down for the daughter of Doña Emilia if she chose to accept his son. Ricardo then declared that all his father had said was true and just, that the lovely Petra had already accepted him, and that he would not rest until she was his.”

  “And Don Felipe, all this time in his spurs and sombrero, standing in the living room?”

  “I imagine so. He ordered them out of the house, then followed them through the portal. Once outside, he told them, in definite words, that if either of them so much as set foot on his land, the man would do so at the risk of his own life.”

  “The same threat of death, then?”

  “Yes, the same.”

  “And that was the end?”

  “Not quite. My cousin appeared at the door of the portal and said to Ricardo, ‘This is not my father. He c
annot order me. I have already given you my decision.’ ”

  “And Ricardo?”

  “He told her, in front of Don Felipe, that he would come for her.”

  Devon gave a low whistle. “And all of this happened a few days before I walked in? No wonder I felt some tension. And how about this young man Ricardo? Has he retreated at all?”

  Carlos pursed his lips and shook his head. “He is of that type who believes he can have his way. Stubborn. Proud. A little conceited.”

  “Does she love him?”

  “Pah! No more than she loves me. But her saying so is enough. He has proclaimed to his brothers and to the working men that she has accepted him and that he will keep his word.”

  “Do you think Don Felipe is capable of keeping his?”

  Carlos gave him a full gaze. “I believe he is capable. Whether he would actually do it, I don’t know.”

  “At the very least, I wouldn’t think it would make the girl like him any more. Do you think that he really thinks he can have her, or does he just not want anyone else to?”

  “Señor, he is a very hard man. And up until now, he has gotten everything else he has wanted.”

  “But do you not think that your cousin, with my respect, is also a very hard person?”

  Carlos smiled. “That’s very good. If it weren’t for the presence of her stepfather, I would not think it such a virtue in her.”

  At that moment, the door of the cantina opened, and Devon turned to see a familiar figure walk in. Devon registered the brown leather vest and woven-palm hat, then the large brown eyes and broad smile of the foreman of Rancho Agua Prieta.

  Lalo came out from behind the bar, and the two of them exchanged a hearty handshake and clapping on the shoulder. Alfonso said something, and Lalo tossed back his full head of hair, shot with gray, and laughed. Then with his left eye squinting he said something in return that made Alfonso’s silver tooth shine.

  “El caporal,” said Devon.

  Carlos tossed a glance that way. “Oh, yes.”

  With the conversation now at a lull, Devon looked around and noticed that a few other men had come into the cantina as well. One of them, a man in grayish-white peasant clothes, seemed to be hovering a few feet away from Carlos’s elbow. Devon took a drink of beer, and when he set the glass down he realized the man had moved in closer.

  “¿Una pequeña cooperación?” said the man, holding up his right palm. A small cooperation?

  Devon looked him over. He was of average height, slender, and dark-haired. He had a long head and a narrow face; his dull features and dusty complexion reminded Devon of a primitive stone figure.

  “¿Una pequeña cooperación?” he asked again. As he spoke, he showed stubby teeth. The brown eyes with their yellow whites roved over Devon, and the bristles on his chin moved up and down.

  Devon gave him a dime, thinking it was the best way to get rid of him.

  “Thank you, sir. May God bless you.” The man bowed his head, then tipped it to Carlos as he backed away.

  “Who is that?”

  “His name is Cayetano. He’s just a conchudo.”

  “¿Conchudo? What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means a person who always lets someone else pay or do the work.”

  “He wears the clothes of a working man.”

  “He talks about work, but he does very little.

  Mostly, he asks for money or drinks. He always has a lot of gossip, which he shares, and then he expects something in return.”

  “He didn’t offer me anything.”

  “That’s because you’re new. Next time, you won’t be able to get rid of him.”

  Devon looked around and did not see the man. “Did he leave?”

  “He’ll be back. There’s no other place for him to go.”

  Devon shrugged it off and went back to his beer. Juanito was singing a song about a man who went down to the river where the girls washed their clothes in the sunlight. He sang it in two voices—one with the young man trying to get the girl to go away with him, and the other with the young girl protesting, “Oh, no, señor,” at the beginning of each reason she could not go.

  “Tell me, Carlos, do the women ever come to this place?”

  “To this cantina?” Carlos frowned and shook his head. “Women don’t come in here.”

  “Just men?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Where are the women, then?”

  “The young girls? They go out on a stroll on Sundays.” He gave a closer look. “Or do you mean the other kind?”

  Devon flicked his eyebrows. “Just curious. I didn’t see any women, and in some places you do.”

  “Do you want to meet them?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It might be interesting to see them. In other places, there is a part of town where you can pass by, on foot or in a carriage, and see where the women stand in doorways or sit on the steps. Perhaps this town is too small.”

  Carlos laughed. “It would have to be a town much smaller than this one. I know of a place, a salón, where the women do not stand in a doorway, but if you knock on the door and they know you, they will let you go in.”

  Devon tipped his head back and forth.

  “Do you wish to see it?”

  “It would be interesting, at the least, to know where it is.”

  “Of course. To know.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Oh, no. A few blocks. Do you want to go now?”

  “No hurry. Let’s have another drink first.”

  Devon kept track of the turns they made along the unlit streets until they stopped in front of a building that had a solid door and no windows facing the street. Carlos led the way up onto the step and tapped on the door frame. Devon could hear voices inside, but no one came to the door. Carlos tapped again and the door opened, casting a slant of light into the darkness. Then the gap widened a couple of inches more as a woman’s voice exclaimed, “Ah, Carlos, ¿a qué vienes?” What do you come here for?

  “I have with me a friend, a fine gentleman, who would like to know where the lovely ladies hide.”

  “He is your friend? Bring him in.”

  Devon followed his guide into the lamplit room. The woman who opened and then closed the door stood off to one side, where her high bosom seemed in danger of pushing out of the top of her low-cut dress. She had reddish hair and a wide face with thick features, nothing that aroused Devon’s interest. She introduced herself as MariElena and then called out to the other girls, who Devon imagined had withdrawn at the knock on the door.

  Two women younger than the hostess came into the room and sat down, one on each of two divans that faced one another across the room. Carlos, waiting, gestured to Devon with a sweep of the hand. “Have a seat wherever you wish,” he said.

  Of the two young women, one had caught Devon’s eye when she first walked in. She had shoulder-length dark hair, hanging loose, and though her dress was not tight, he could tell she had a snug figure. He sat by her.

  She had soft eyes and a bronze complexion, red lipstick and a hint of rouge.

  “You are not from here,” she said.

  “No, I’m not. I am from farther north and east.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Devon. And yours?”

  “Ramona.”

  “So nice to meet you.” He took her hand in greeting, and it felt warm.

  “And you are on vacation?” she said as she took her hand back.

  “I came to see a few things. Landscapes and vistas. I am an artist. I draw and paint.”

  “Oh, how nice.”

  “I like to see many things. Carlos told me that there were good things to see in this place, and he was right.”

  “Carlos knows well.”

  “I believe it.”

  “And do you come just to look? To know the place, to meet the people?”

  “Here?” he asked, pointing to the cushion of the sofa.

  “Yes, here.”

>   “Oh, I came to be acquainted. And if what I see is very interesting, I might wish to see more.”

  She had one leg hooked over another, and with the free foot she tapped his leg. “And what do you think?”

  “Everything looks fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  He lowered his voice, although he could hear Carlos engaging the other girl in light chatter. “How is it done here?”

  “Regular. Like anywhere.”

  “One pays in advance? How much?”

  “You have American money? One dollar.”

  “And what do we do?”

  “We go to the room.”

  “Yes, I understand. But once we are there?”

  “The normal thing.”

  “Do you take your clothes off? May I take them off for you?”

  She gave him a glance of appraisal. “Yes, that would be all right.”

  Everything went well. He felt competent. He did not fumble, and her clothes were not tight and stubborn. Her loose hair and soft touch blended with the flowing movement. Just for a moment as he closed his eyes he had a memory of hard red surfaces and stone walls, and then he lost himself in the soft motion. He did not lose all sense of identity, though. The long dark hair that lay on the pillow and that he touched with his fingers belonged to a woman called Ramona.

  Chapter Five

  At the church ruins the next day, beneath a broad and sunny sky, Devon had plenty to think about. Though his memories of the time spent with Ramona were very pleasant, they kept giving way to the more serious considerations raised by his conversation with Carlos. On the simplest level, he had to wonder if he had anything to fear for himself, and beyond that, he felt he had to be on the lookout for anything he might find himself at the edge of. And he wasn’t sure how much real danger there might be.

  In the clear light of day, Don Felipe’s threats of death seemed bombastic. Making the declaration out loud, to a family member and then to old friends of the family, would almost guarantee that the man could not follow through. If the threatened suitor turned up dead, everyone would know right away who had done the deed, and the perpetrator would have to answer for it. Gone would be his status as master of the rancho, along with all of his outer emblems of the sombrero, pistol, spurs, and fine horses. Furthermore, if he did have designs on the stepdaughter, he would be ruining his own chances. If the man thought it through at all, he would have to know that making good on his threats would be self-defeating.