Don Vicente fell short, however. Not being born to wealth but to the attitudes of those who had had it, he had so much to recover that he was unable to rebuild the church. Devon thought it must have loomed as too big a project, for there was not a visible point in which anyone had done anything. Perhaps Don Vicente had seen it as an all-or-nothing project and had not been able to summon up the resources and the energy to assay it. Nevertheless, he had done his part to preserve quality and class at Rancho Agua Prieta, and that was no small achievement in itself.
His successor, the current master of the rancho, apparently had his own sense of prestige. With land ownership, plus a household and graceful wife at his command, he could affect a kind of elite, equestrian-class status at the same time that he asserted his physical prowess as a tamer of horses and a performer of feats in the charreada. But even if he acted superior to his neighbors, and even if he could ride like Genghis Khan and wrap a steer’s tail around his saddle horn, in the end he was a man who wore his sombrero and spurs and pistol in the house and smoked at the table. Petra had made that much clear, and Devon had a glimmering of what she did not mention: Don Felipe’s ideas of manhood resembled those of a primal era if he thought that by taking over a dead man’s estate and wife he had a right to take over the daughter as well.
Devon let out a long breath as he looked over the façade of the church again. None of this was his, and none of it was any of his business, but he was glad of one thing. Even if he never had a nickel to his name or never found a vision for his work, at least he would not give people like Petra a reason to call him presumptuous. He laughed. No, not even if he met a rich widow some day. He would have a sense of what was his and not his.
Devon sat in the dark cantina, savoring his glass of beer and keeping an eye out for Carlos. On the previous two nights, Petra’s cousin had come in by now, but this evening he had not made an appearance. Three other men stood at the end of the bar nearest the door, and Lalo the bartender stood opposite them. Juanito had come in and was running through a few melodies but had not yet begun to sing any songs.
Devon looked around at the now-familiar decor on the walls and took another sip of beer. A voice at his right elbow caused him to turn. There stood the narrow-faced man he had seen the night before, the one called Cayetano.
“Buenas noches, jefe,” said the man. Good evening, boss.
“Buenas noches.”
“Could you giveme a little something, to help out?”
“I don’t have any change.” Devon observed the man’s dull features and dusty complexion, and he wondered what thoughts went on behind the stone-like exterior.
“There is no hurry.” After a pause the man added, “You are new in town. I can be your friend. If you need to know something, I can tell you.”
Devon tried to think of something contrary, something to make the man not want to talk to him, but the best he could come up with was, “Where do you work?”
“I work wherever they want me. In the fields, with the livestock, making blocks of adobe.” He tapped his chest. “I am very good for working.”
“And right now?”
“The maestro I work for had to go to Artesia, so right now there is no work for me.”
“I thought there was a lot of work right now.”
“For the people who have work, but they are jealous. They don’t want to give me a chance. Maybe the boss will fire them and keep me, so they tell the boss lies. And anyway, I have work, when the maestro comes back.”
“I see.”
“And you are the artist, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I have heard of you. They say you are received at Rancho Agua Prieta.”
“I have been there. They gave me permission to study the old church and make pictures of it.”
“The rancho has much history.”
“So I understand.”
Cayetano was silent for a moment as his gaze fell on Devon’s beer glass. Then he said, “I could tell you something.”
“That’s all right. I don’t need to know anything more right now.”
The man’s closed mouth moved up and down, as if he was preparing to produce something. Then he said, “You like the pretty girl?”
“Which one?”
“The one at the rancho.”
“She is very nice.”
“You do not like her very much?” Now the man twisted his mouth to one side and opened his eyes wide, showing the yellow whites.
“I have barely met her. I don’t have a reason to like her more than would be customary. She is very gracious.” As an afterthought he added, “Like her mother.”
“Oh, yes. They are a good family.” The man shifted on his feet and moved half a step closer. “You are not in love with her?”
Devon tried to show his irritation with a frown. “No, not at all.”
“That is good, because it is said that she is engaged to another.”
“That doesn’t interest me very much.”
“A young man whose family has a big rancho. His name is Ricardo Vega. He can take her away.”
Devon shook his head. “That’s his affair, if he can. And hers.”
Cayetano’s face took on a leering expression now. “Perhaps you have heard that he said he would go for her. He told his workers. Everyone knows it, everyone is waiting for it.”
Devon shrugged.
“This, in spite of what Don Felipe said, that if he set foot on Rancho Agua Prieta he would risk his life. Still, he says he will take her away, at night.”
“Very well.”
“At night, mind you.”
“It’s all the same to me.” Devon tried to ignore the man by looking around at the other patrons. Alfonso had come in, as had a couple of other men, but Carlos had not.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Your friend Carlos?”
“I don’t see him.”
Cayetano came another half-step closer. “He may not come tonight.”
“That’s his choice.”
“They have all been to the rooster fight. He lost his money there, and his mother gives him only so much.”
Devon stared at his glass, still trying to ignore the man.
“You could ask Alfonso. He was there, and he won most of the money betting on the rooster called El Moro. That’s why he is happy.”
Devon fished into his pocket and brought out a dime, hoping it would get rid of the man. “Here,” he said. “I found this.”
“Thank you very much, sir. I know Carlos is your friend, and I am sorry Alfonso made him angry.”
Devon waved his hand. “I didn’t know he did. But it’s just money anyway. Next week another rooster will win.”
“Oh, it was not for the money that Carlos became angry.”
“How, then?” As soon as Devon asked the question, he knew he had played in.
Cayetano smiled as he moved his long head from one side to another. “After he took his money, Alfonso made fun of him. He asked what kind of a man he was, to let Ricardo push himself in and be the pretendiente. Poor Carlos. Maybe it was the tequila, and maybe it was just Alfonso laughing at him, but he threw the bottle down on a rock and broke it. Then he shouted that Ricardo was a fanfarrón, that the girl didn’t care a pea for him, and that he, Carlos, could assure them that Ricardo would not have a grain of success.”
“And you were there?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone was.”
“And Carlos?”
“He went away by himself. He will probably not show his face for a day or two.”
Devon drank the last of his beer and pushed away from the bar. “It’s too bad,” he said.
“Are you going now, so soon?”
“I don’t feel like having any more right now.”
“Very well. Have a good evening, and thank you for your generosity.”
“You’re welcome.”
“At your service, sir
.”
Chapter Six
Devon sat on a cement bench that looked inward upon the town square. The church bells at the other end of the plaza had just tolled two o’clock, and the townsfolk were beginning to stir. Mass was long over, and the people had had a chance to eat and take a siesta. As Federico the waiter had explained it, Sunday afternoon was the time of paseo, when everyone went out for a stroll. Some went to visit family members, while others walked around the park. It was the day to relax, and the only people who worked were those who, like Federico, had to.
When Devon had come out to sit for a while, during the second mass, he had seen only one person on the street, a dark, thin woman dressed all in black and twisted with age, walking from the center of town to some street several blocks south, where she disappeared. Now people were showing up. A short, round woman with a hand cart was setting up to sell flowers. A man with two burros laden with clay water jugs was unfolding a table. A couple of gray-haired, wrinkled men sat in silence on benches facing one another, and a heavy, middle-aged man sat on a low stone wall and smoked a cigarette.
The first girls had arrived and stood in a group of half a dozen at the far end of the park, and a young man in a white shirt and red bandana turned his horse down the street in their direction, passing on Devon’s right.
A few minutes later, a young couple with a toddling little boy and a baby in the father’s arms walked by. The boy ran ahead with his arms open, and two pigeons started up from the pathway.
Now came Juanito, with his hair clean and his face shaven. With his right hand he carried his instrument upright by the neck, and with his left he snapped his fingers every couple of steps. He was wearing clean clothes, and a straw hat hung at his back from a string around his neck. After he took a seat on a bench about ten yards from Devon, he pulled the hat free and set it on the ground in front of his feet. Then he began to pluck the strings and tune the mandolin.
A man with a short-brimmed straw hat and a clipped mustache came along with a pair of crossed sticks in each hand. A wooden marionette monkey dangled on each side of him. Smiling, the man turned to Devon and had the monkeys do a jig; then he went on his way, pausing every ten or twelve steps to let the monkeys bob and clatter.
Past the lady with the flowers and the man with the liquid refreshments, a woman with brown hair and a light complexion set out a small table and stacked it with creamy tan bars of candy, the kind called jamoncillo.
A couple of young men rode along together, again in white shirts and red bandanas. One of them had jingle-bobs on his bridle chains as well as on his spurs. The other had a pair of rich brown leather gloves tucked into the back waistband of his trousers. Both of them had gleaming, clean faces and the soft, dark beginnings of mustaches.
A vendor walked by with a mound of peanuts on a tray suspended by straps that crossed between his shoulder blades. Two boys aged eleven or twelve stopped him long enough to wheedle a handful of peanuts, and then they sat on the curb.
Another knot of girls had formed at the far end—young girls, from the looks of them, anywhere from thirteen to eighteen, all of them with full-length dresses and long, dark hair.
A wizened old man with a cane turned a milky eye toward Devon and then shuffled by. He sat at the other end of the bench from a man who had dozed off.
Now a couple of women appeared, older women who looked as if they might cook or clean. They wore shawls and ample dresses, and they took heavy steps in flat-soled shoes. They stopped at the table where the woman sold jamoncillos.
Juanito strummed the mandolin sharp and loud as he began to sing a song. It was a sprightly air about the swallows in springtime, building their nests in the eaves of the barn. Like young-hearted lovers with no thoughts of danger, each year they returned and went through it again. For the old men with sticks and the young boys with stones could not change the nature of birds wild and free. So come, my little pretty one, so dark-winged and lovely, oh come, my little pretty one, and fly, fly with me. Oh, come, my little pretty one, and fly, fly with me.
A few more couples with small children had shown up, appearing as if out of nowhere. The man with the marionette monkeys now had an audience of half a dozen children who let out little squeals and laughs. Voices floated on the air, as did the call of the man with the peanuts. In the background of these sounds came the slow clop of horse hooves when a rider passed. The park was beginning to hum, with Juanito’s music a sharper and clearer element in the blend of sounds.
Suspended in the warm afternoon, as Devon relaxed his gaze and did not focus on any particular object, the park swam in a slow, flowing motion, like a theater audience as viewed from the wings before the curtain went up.
The smell of cooked meatwafted on the air, causing Devon to turn in his seat. Aman and a woman stood behind a cart that had wisps of smoke rising from a grill. A large side of ribs—lamb or mutton from the looks of them—lay raw-side-up on the grate.
A group of three girls, walking abreast with their arms joined, came into view on his right. They were young and pleasant-looking, and they kept their gaze straight ahead. A few minutes later, they came into view again as they walked back the other way. Not long after that, another group came by. They did not turn around and go back but rather disappeared behind him and came into view again on his left as they continued all the way around the plaza. With the appearance of another pair of girls on his right, again coming from the other end of the park, he realized the promenade was under way.
In groups of two or three the girls strolled along, sometimes coming down one side of the plaza and sometimes down the other, sometimes turning around and going back and sometimes walking all the way around. Always, however, they stayed on the pathway along the edge, not far from the street. The young men rode up and down the street in similar patterns and variations, while their rivals on foot loitered here and there, leaning against a tree or perched on the back of a park bench. All of the young women were clean and neat, dressed for the paseo, and they all let on as if they were unaware it was going on. The girls chattered and laughed in their little groups, with only furtive, flickering glances to the side. The young men acted likewise, as if they had come by obligation to exercise their horses or to lend their presence to the shade.
Meanwhile the man with the peanuts and the woman with the jamoncillos called out their wares, the man with the marionettes made the children giggle, pigeons fluttered, Juanito sang songs of love and treachery, and the smell of roasting lamb fat carried on the air. From appearances, no one took notice of the paseo—not the woman with the flowers, not the couples with little children, not the old and slow and heavy people who wove in and out of the path of the señoritas on promenade. Later, Devon supposed, when the shadows lengthened and dusk drew in, some of the young women would break off from their groups and some of the young men would come within speaking distance, but in the height of the afternoon it was all a free-flowing paseo for everybody.
He awoke and blinked his eyes, trying to clear his head after having dozed off. The sun had not moved and the sounds had not changed, but he sensed something different. It was the tone of some of the voices.
A man holding a burro with a rope halter stood in the street and spoke in an energetic voice to the man roasting the ribs. Two other men, clean in their casual Sunday clothes, stood at the edge of the street and listened. Devon thought he heard the words for night, pasture, and dead, but he could not be sure. When the conversation came to a rest, there was a slow shaking of heads and a muttering of “Ay. Dios ¡Qué cosa!” Oh. My God. What a thing.
For the next little while the news rippled from one party to another, two or three people at a time. Meanwhile the promenade went on, with the young men and women passing in random patterns and keeping a lookout for glances. Devon still could not catch the drift of the gossip, so finally he went to the liquid refreshment stand and ordered a glass of lemonade.
“Excuse me,” he said as he paid the man. “It seems as if somethin
g has happened.”
The man, who was about Devon’s age and had the look of a responsible townsman, said, “Oh, yes. Something very grievous has occurred.”
Devon nodded as an invitation to go on.
“You are the artist who visits Rancho Agua Prieta, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Perhaps you know the young lady of the rancho, then.”
Devon narrowed his gaze as he felt his upper body tighten. “Yes, I know her.”
“Well, she has recently attracted the attention of another landholder’s son, one Ricardo Vega. Perhaps you have heard.”
“Only a little.”
“It is said that he went to the rancho to ask for her hand, but Don Felipe turned him away with a threat against his life. You may have heard that also.”
“Again, just a little, nothing more.”
“The story is told that he planned to take her away at night, in spite of the stepfather’s threats. Last night he left his own house, not telling anyone precisely where he was going. But it was supposed that he went to Rancho Agua Prieta.”
Devon tipped his head in half a nod.
“At dawn this morning he had still not come home, but his horse did, with blood on the saddle, so they went to look for him. They found him dead on the pastureland out on his father’s ranch.”
Devon felt a stronger tenseness in his midsection.
“Dead?”
“Yes. With bullet holes.”
“That is indeed very grievous.”
The man shook his head in a slow motion. “It is a terrible thing for his family.”
“I’m sure.”
“A young man, strong and brave and full of life.”
Though he had never met the young man, Devon could picture him—dark-haired in a clean hat and jacket, headstrong and impetuous. “It is a pity,” he said. “A very sad loss.”
“His family wants a complete investigation.”
“With reason.” Devon tried to pick his next words with care. “But are there different thoughts about who might have done it?”
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