Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  The man of the law showed a stirring of dignity himself. “It is well that you have such a high opinion of yourself, but I did not come to chide you for your threat.”

  With his free right hand, Don Felipe waved toward the other men. “Then why do you all take the trouble to come here?”

  “Because,” said the sheriff, “the young man Ricardo Vega is no longer alive.”

  Devon, who had been waiting for this moment of disclosure, took a close glance at the people to his left. Petra made no expression at all, while Don Felipe raised his cigarette, flicked his ash, and took a drag. In back of him, Doña Emilia’s look of worry had transformed into one of shock.

  The sheriff put back his shoulders and said, “He was found, shot, on his father’s land.”

  Don Felipe sniffed. “Better there than here. Perhaps that explains why he didn’t come back.”

  “You don’t seem very concerned.”

  The master of the rancho gave a quick frown, shadowed by the brim of his large sombrero. “It’s not for me to look after him. I told him to stay away, and he did. Beyond that, I can’t let myself worry very much.”

  “You seem to be certain of the sequence.”

  “How is that?”

  “That he died before he ever came back here.”

  Don Felipe held out both hands, palm up, with smoke curling into view on the left. “What else can I assume?”

  “Others have their own ideas.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Those of Ricardo’s family, his father and his brothers, want an investigation.”

  “As well they should.” Don Felipe lifted his cigarette.

  “They say Ricardo left their rancho on Saturday night, and although he did not declare it directly to them, it was understood among them and the hired men that he was coming here, for the señorita Petra.” Then, turning to her, the sheriff said, “With my respect.”

  “Proper,” said Petra.

  “Bah!” Don Felipe blew out a puff of smoke. “I don’t believe he had the pantalones for it.”

  “With my respect to you, sir, this was his under stood destination, and he was found dead. His father and his brothers want to find out why.”

  “Well enough. And is this the only possibility? Is there no one else who could have done it? Why hang all of your ropes on a single peg?”

  “There is a history of hostility here.”

  “As there may well be elsewhere. Have you not considered anyone else?”

  The sheriff gave an open look. “In truth, we have. One Carlos Hernández, cousin and hopeful suitor of the señorita—with your permission—is known to have been jealous.”

  “Well, perhaps it would be fitting that you go and subject him to an interrogation—in front of his family, as you have done here. I, for one, do not take it lightly. There is very little that a man can take with him to his grave, but one thing is his honor.”

  “And on yours, you did not cause the death of Ricardo Vega?”

  “If he did not come here, I did not have a reason to lift a finger.”

  “Very well,” said the sheriff, but he did not move. After a few seconds he continued. “It is not impossible that he came, that something happened to him, and that he was carried back to his father’s ranch.”

  “More likely that someone got to him there. These young men are very impetuous.”

  “Nevertheless, if there is no objection, I would like to ask the señorita a question or two.”

  Don Felipe gave a backhand wave. “She is old enough.”

  The sheriff turned to Petra. “Very well, señorita. I am sorry to ask indiscreet questions, but as you understand, the family of the young man wishes to learn the truth.”

  “All very proper.” Petra lifted her eyebrows in an open expression.

  “Well, then. First, do you think Ricardo Vega had an intention of coming here?”

  “I did think that, yes.”

  “On the basis of—?”

  “He said he would come.”

  The sheriff nodded. “That’s what we’ve heard. And when did you expect him to come?”

  “Saturday. The night before last.”

  Devon stole a glance at Don Felipe, who was running the tip of his tongue along his lip beneath his mustache.

  “Did you wait up for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  Don Felipe had his head up and the last inch of his cigarette raised to his lips. For that instant Devon saw the practiced poise of a man facing the firing squad.

  After a couple of seconds of silence, Petra’s voice came out clear and steady. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing happened? How long did you stay up?”

  “Until long after midnight. I stayed up and listened. He was going to whistle.” She turned her head less than an inch, a motion made noticeable as her bright red earring caught the sun.

  “And you heard nothing? No one coming or going?”

  Petra’s face was unwavering, and it seemed to Devon that she was looking past the sheriff in the direction of the dark pool and the cottonwood trees. “Nothing,” she said. “Ricardo never came.”

  Chapter Eight

  Back at his study at the old church, Devon pondered the texture of adobe in the afternoon shade. It was a good, small thing to focus on as he tried to make sense of what he had seen of Petra today. If she had not heard of Ricardo’s death before the sheriff announced it, she had very little emotion to show. If she had known already, either she had done a good job of concealing her knowledge in her two conversations with Devon, or the death had had little effect on her. In any case, it did not seem as if she had much sympathy, much less romantic ardor, for Ricardo. It was hard to know, then, what to make of her admitted willingness to run away with him. It may have been more talk than real intention, to spite her stepfather and her mother as well. She showed no discomfort at admitting to it, but there was no telling what she would have done if the moment had come for action.

  Her admission itself, in retrospect, seemed almost too matter-of-fact, as if she had not expected Ricardo to begin with and had not waited up for him. Perhaps she had, even if she was not that enthralled with him, and then when he failed to show, she shrugged it off. Then again, she might have received a message that he would come, then gone to bed early and had her sweet head resting in slumber on a soft pillow, as Carlos would have liked to imagine it, and heard nothing whether Ricardo came or not. But it was difficult to think she would lie about expecting him to come, and it was at least as improbable that she would have heard or seen something and then lied to protect Don Felipe.

  Something was missing, he was sure of that. If it wasn’t in Petra’s account of things, which held together almost toowell, in view of her lack of enthusiasm or feeling for Ricardo, it was in the actual sequence of events. If Ricardo did not come to the rancho, howdid he meet his death? Dev on could not envision Carlos going out to challenge him, or even winning if he ventured that far, and he could not picture Don Felipe coming and going without being heard. That left the possibility of a third suspect. One would think of Alfonso, but he had been at the rooster fight and then in the cantina. Beyond that, Devon had no idea what other suspects might be out there.

  Even if someone else had waylaid Ricardo when he was on his way to the rancho, there was still something missing on this end of things. No matter how he kept mulling things over, Devon kept coming back to Petra. With all of her sense of propriety, would she really have run off with Ricardo? Would she have exposed herself to condescension from her stepfather, someone she considered to be lower in dignity than herself? Even if she wanted to spite him with her admission, wouldn’t it give him something to hold over her? One would think so, yet she was as undaunted as a stone.

  All the time that Devon sketched the exposed adobe blocks and worked on the puzzle, he listened for the sound of the buggy. He doubted she would come. Only a couple of hours had passed since he had left in the wake o
f the sheriff’s visit, and though he and Petra had agreed to continue the visit again before long, he expected she would wait at least until the next day before she sallied out again in full repose.

  Presently he had the sense that he had been hearing a sound and was just now becoming aware of it. It was a low, uneven, muffled sound of movement, with an occasional tinkling. He went to the side of the church opposite from where Petra arrived, and as he looked through a window opening, he saw a herd of sheep about three hundred yards away. Now he could hear their hooves crunching on the dry grass and scuffing on the earth. The animals were moving to his left, with a man on foot in back and a dog circling around this side. The man was leading a pack burro and carrying a shepherd’s staff. Devon stood at the window, and when the sheepherder came opposite and waved, he waved back.

  The air was dry and hazy already, and now the dust of a thousand hooves hung like a thin cloud. The combination of dust and sheep smell reached Devon where he stood and looked out. The sheepherder walked to the far side of the bunch, then came back in Devon’s direction. He waved again, turned and walked along the flank of the herd for about forty yards, and then left the herd and came toward the church with his staff in his hand. The burro trailed behind on a lead rope.

  When he was within thirty yards, the man called out, “Buenas tardes.”

  Devon returned the greeting and observed the man as he came closer. He was of average height and slender, wearing a straw hat, drab peasant clothes, and leather sandals.

  Smiling, he called out, “How are you?”

  Devon noted the use of the formal usted form and used the same form in his answer. “Fine, and yourself?”

  “Well enough.” After a pause, the man asked, “Are you the artist?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s what I thought. They said there was an American artist here, doing pictures of the tapias.”

  Devon smiled and squinted into the sun as he nodded.

  “Say,” said the man. “Do you have the makings of a cigarette?”

  “No, I don’t. Sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. It’s good to come and say hello anyway.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The man lingered, as if he was trying to think of something to say. “Are you here for very long?”

  “This is my third day out here. I’m staying in town. Maybe a week longer.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And yourself, you take care of sheep?”

  “Yes.”

  “For the rancho?”

  “Yes, Rancho Agua Prieta.”

  “Good work, I hope.”

  “Good enough.”

  “I’ve met Alfonso. I suppose you deal mostly with him.”

  “Alfonso, yes.”

  Devon wondered how much more conversation he could make. He recalled Carlos’s comment that a common peon wouldn’t be allowed a horse. “Is that your burro?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a good one? What’s its name?”

  “Perla.” Pearl.

  “That’s a nice name.” Devon saw that the dog, a medium-sized black-and-white animal, had come up and was standing in the burro’s shadow. “Good dog.”

  “Yes, he’s a good one.”

  “A good dog is a treasure for a sheepherder, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you always have just one?”

  “No, sometimes I have two, or three. I had another one, but it got killed.”

  “Some bad luck.”

  “I suppose. The patrón killed him.”

  Devon made a face. “That’s too bad.”

  “The dog came too close to the patrón’s horse, so he took out his pistol and gave it to him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, there’s not much to be done about it. We do our work and try to be happy.”

  “Alfonso understands better.”

  “Maybe.” The man didn’t say anything for a moment as he glanced around at the walls of the church. “Are you going to do a big painting?”

  “Probably a few small or medium ones.”

  “That’s good.” He turned and looked at his burro, and the dog perked up.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have any tobacco.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. It was worth asking. And I’m glad to meet you.”

  “The same.”

  The man stepped forward as Devon leaned out, and they shook hands. Then with a flick of the lead rope, the sheepherder turned and headed back to his flock. The dog, light-footed, went at his side.

  Nice enough fellow. Probably didn’t have many choices in life, though. And he probably didn’t get much tobacco from Alfonso.

  Devon went back to his sketch and tried to concentrate, but his thoughts returned to Petra. Try as he might to make sense of her attitude toward Ricardo, she remained inscrutable. On a smaller scale, he didn’t know what to make of her interest in him—whether she saw him as a curiosity, as something potentially more affectionate, or just a convenient burr to put under Don Felipe’s saddle.

  With the various interruptions that had come his way, he felt he hadn’t made much progress, so he decided to call it quits for the day. He packed up his pencils and sketch pad and got the horse ready to go. Rather than cut straight across the plain to strike the road that led from the headquarters back to town, he meandered in the direction of the rancho. He admitted to himself that he had no clear objective—he was hoping he might cross paths with Petra, but he didn’t think he would go through the stone gateway and ask for her. Rather, if he bumped into someone, either Alfonso or a lesser hand, he might ask if he could go in and water his horse. If he saw no one, he could wander back to the road and return to town.

  He loafed along, then, with his feet light in the stirrups and his upper body rocking with the movement of his horse. Now and then he cast his glance at the plains around him. It would be a while until the rancho came into view. He studied the ground for a while, wondering from what direction the sheep had come. The grass here was short and dry, but it hadn’t been grazed close or trampled.

  When he looked up again, he felt a small jolt in the pit of his stomach and then made the identification. Ahead of him on the plain, half a mile away, appeared a white horse with a rider in black. The horse came straight at him, then turned almost ninety degrees and gave a partial profile of the right side. The horse seemed to sidestep for a few paces until it straightened out again. A hundred yards closer, it turned again and stepped as before. Then it turned and gave a left-side view and came prancing from that angle. After several minutes of display, the horse fell into a normal path again and came forward at a brisk walk, lifting its feet in sharp strokes and causing the black sombrero to move up and down.

  Devon kept his own mount on its casual forward course. He felt silly, not because of his own plodding progress but because of the contrast between his plain presence and the elaborate self-presentation of the master of the rancho.

  When Don Felipe drew up alongside, Devon noticed not only the customary clothing but also a pair of dark gray riding gloves. From there he took in the braided reins, horsehair noseband, and laced leather headstall with silver conchos.

  “Buenas tardes,” he said.

  “Buenas.” The master drew rein so that his right hand was poised about a foot above and forward from his pistol grip. The riding quirt dangled from his wrist. He had his chin lifted so that the wide sombrero brim made a dark circle against the sky. “Do you look for something?” he asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “If it’s not much trouble, could you tell me where you’re headed?”

  Devon shrugged. “To town, I assume. I’ve done my study for the day.”

  “That’s fine. Perhaps you are aware that the town is more in that direction.” He showed his teeth as he motioned with his head.

  “Yes, but when I go this way, I am sure I can find the road.”

  Don Felipe looked him up and down
. “It’s easy to get lost farther out on the llano, but here, the road can be found from anywhere.”

  “Yes, and I know there are even paths I can follow to get there, just as when I come from town. But a herd of sheep came through, and the ground doesn’t look the same.”

  “Sheep.”

  “Yes, a herd of them. Yours, I believe.”

  “No doubt.” Don Felipe squinted as he looked out upon the plain. Then his nostrils flared, and his gaze came back to Devon. “Look,” he said, using the formal mode of address as always, “it’s all right for you to come and draw your pictures. But do not go seeking other things.”

  “Very well. I—”

  “Understood?”

  “Yes, understood.”

  “Good enough.” The master seemed to settle down an inch. “Have a safe trip to town. And may you continue to find inspiration in our humble church.”

  “Thank you.”

  “De nada,” he said in a curt tone, with his mouth open and his lower teeth showing. He turned his horse toward the rancho, put it into a trot for twenty yards, and then spurred it to a gallop.

  Devon watched the black-and-white figure recede. He didn’t think the master had lost much self-assurance through the visit from the sheriff, but he wondered if this most recent gesture came from a need to reassert his authority. It could be. Petra’s statement that she had planned to run off with Ricardo may have stirred the stepfather’s pot enough to compel him to take it out on the nearest possible suitor.

  Still, he was the landowner, and he had made clear what the artist was welcome to do. Devon turned his horse to the left and headed north, telling himself he needed to respect the bounds of hospitality and at the same time admitting he had let the other man play out his role as the dominant male. It was like one dog covering another’s mark, or a horse laying back his ears and getting ready to take a gouge out of an animal lower in the pecking order. Devon didn’t like the feeling, and he knew he was going to have to learn to summon up resistance.

  In town, he let the horse drink at the stone water tank as he lifted his hat and dragged his shirtsleeve across his forehead. He felt as if he had put in a full day’s work, but in the view of a blacksmith or even a sheepherder, it was trivial play. So be it. At least he knew what he was working on, or he thought he did.