Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  When the horse pulled his dripping muzzle up from the tank, Devon led him back to the stable and turned him in. From there he carried his duffel bag to the inn and mounted the stairs to his room, where he took off his boots and stretched out on the bed to rest.

  He had put his boots on and was cleaning up for the evening meal when he heard a knock on the door. Crossing the room, he opened the door and met the dark features of the innkeeper, who had given him the room key a short while before. The man handed him a folded piece of paper, made a half-bow, and turned away. Devon unfolded the sheet of paper and read, in a clear hand, an invitation from Carlos Hernández to come and take the evening meal at his house.

  Devon finished getting cleaned up and read the note again to be sure. Then he went downstairs, turned in his key, and told the landlord he had an invitation to dine elsewhere.

  The long shadows of evening lay on the town as Devon made his way to the Hernández residence. He tapped on the front gate with his penknife, and in less than a minute his friend came stepping out of the house to invite him in. The man was dressed in his brown corduroy, and he seemed to have regained his composure. He was clear-eyed and clean-shaven, and his grip was firm as he shook Devon’s hand and thanked him for coming.

  With the preliminary greeting taken care of, Carlos led him around the side of the house to sit at the table where they had sat the evening before. Awine bottle and two glasses stood ready.

  “Let’s sit down,” said the host.

  “Thank you.”

  When they were seated, Carlos lifted the bottle and pointed it at Devon’s glass. “Do you care for some?”

  “Certainly.”

  Carlos poured dark red wine into Devon’s glass and then his own, filling each one halfway. “Salud,” he said, raising his glass to touch his guest’s.

  “Salud.”

  After a respectful pause to sip the wine, Carlos spoke. “And how are things for you today? Were you able to continue your artistic study?”

  Devon pressed his tongue against his palate, rubbing at the dry, almost bitter taste of the wine. “Yes, I was. There is always something new to see.”

  “Such a good thing, to have a purpose and to dedicate oneself.”

  “It probably does not seem important to some people, but it holds my interest at the present.”

  “It is your work.”

  “You make it sound so big, and it is my work, at least in part. All the same, to me this study seems like such a small thing, and I must confess it is not a major project in a full profession. I have really not arrived at that stage yet.”

  “Oh, but you are young, and it’s not good to worry too much about the future.”

  “Yes, but I feel that I have to do something, at some time, and meanwhile the years pass by.”

  Carlos made a face, half frown and half smile. “Does it proceed from your national character, this obsession to acquire and achieve?”

  Devon laughed. “I suppose it has some effect. I feel that I should do something, and furthermore I would not be satisfied if it were something common, though I fear that’s how I might end up.”

  “Such fears.” Carlos reached into his coat pocket, took out a cigarette case, and offered Devon a tailor-made cigarette.

  “No, thanks.”

  Carlos struck a match and lit a cigarette for himself.

  “I’ll tell you,” Devon continued. “I saw a man today who left me with something to think about. He was a sheepherder, working for Rancho Agua Prieta. He was moving sheep past the old church, and he stopped to say hello. Now, he’s a man with work to do, always busy from the looks of it, and I imagine he has found a way to be happy with what he does. At least he said so to me. I know that his life is important to him, as much as mine is to me, and I respect how he spends his time. Yet I would not be satisfied if I worked at that level all my life.”

  Carlos blew out a breath of smoke. “But you won’t.”

  “I don’t know that. If I cannot distinguish myself in some small way at least, I may settle to a level of common work and be just another face on the street, someone who will not be missed.”

  After another sip of wine, Carlos gave a toss of the head. “Don’t be so pessimistic. Maybe you’ll marry a rich woman, and she’ll be happy to have an artist beneath her roof.”

  Devon laughed. “I met a man like that today, too.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Actually, I met him before, but I met up with him today. Don Felipe.”

  “Oh, him. You have him as an artist?”

  “Somewhat by his own declaration. I understand that he sees his horsemanship as his art.”

  “Perhaps so.” Carlos lapsed into a pensive mode. “So you saw him today? And the others?”

  “Yes, I had the good fortune to see your cousin. She invited me, on behalf of her mother, to come to the rancho to eat at midday, but things did not turn out perfect. Doña Emilia was obliged to eat inside with her husband.”

  Carlos smiled. “Ah, yes. My cousin does not take meals with him.”

  Devon assumed Carlos had invited him in order to learn whatever Devon had picked up today, so he went ahead. “And then the dinner was cut short, as was the visit, by the arrival of the sheriff.”

  “Bonifacio?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And what did he say?” Carlos affected a tolerant look as he blew out another stream of smoke.

  “Oh, the expected. That Ricardo had been found dead, and that he was thought to be going to the rancho.”

  “And what did Don Felipe say?”

  “He took the high-handed approach, saying that yes, he had warned Ricardo but the young man didn’t have the pantalones to come back, and he, as a man of honor and practitioner of his art, did not like to have it suggested that he did anything other than to stand ready to keep his own word.”

  “In other words, he denied doing it.”

  “He denied all possibilities, except that someone else must have done it.”

  “Meaning me.”

  “That seemed to be the second option.”

  Carlos shook his head, and any humor he had summoned up was now gone. “Oh, my God. And what did my cousin say?”

  Devon grimaced. “It displeases me to tell you that part, but I feel I must.”

  Carlos waved his hand as he drank from his glass. “Oh, yes, yes. This is all in confidence. Drink some more of your wine.”

  “Good enough.” Devon took a drink and went on. “She says, and I repeat that she says this, however sincerely she may mean it, that she was planning to leave with Ricardo, that she waited up for him, and that he never came.”

  Carlos gave a curious look. “Really? She said that? In front of him, her stepfather?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if she said it to sting him, but the result was that it allowed him to continue to insist that he had done nothing and that the sheriff should look somewhere else.”

  Now Carlos stared wide-eyed. “Me.”

  Devon shrugged. “So it seems.”

  “Oh, this is no good. Not at all.” Carlos shook his head and stared at the table. Then he looked up. “And what did my cousin seem to think of me when they said this?”

  “She didn’t give any indication.”

  “She didn’t care, did she?”

  “I don’t know. Curiously, she didn’t seem to care about any of it. Not about Ricardo, whether he came, or that he was dead.”

  “She thinks I did it.”

  “I doubt it, but I don’t know.”

  “And the sheriff?”

  “I don’t know that, either, but I thought he gave up too easily at the end. When Don Felipe talked down to him, he got proud in return, but when Petra said Ricardo never came, it seemed to take the wind out of his sails, at least for the time being.”

  Carlos still shook his head. “He thinks I did it.”

  “I think he was forced to fall back on that option. Has he come to talk with you?”

  “Thi
s morning.”

  “Did he seem to suspect you then?”

  Carlos shrugged. “Not so much. He asked his questions, and he explained that he had to do this for Ricardo’s family, that they insisted. He said that certain things did not look good for me, but he had yet to follow up with another party.”

  “Don Felipe.”

  “One assumed, though he didn’t say the name. I felt, however, that he was not anxious to go there.”

  “Did he come here by himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh. He had a group of five others with him when he went to the rancho. It must have taken him a while to get them together.”

  “Probably.” Carlos’s tone was dejected. “And then they got turned away.”

  “One could say that.”

  Carlos let out a heavy sigh and crushed his cigarette, still half-smoked, in a clay dish that served as an ashtray. Then he took a drink of wine. “Oh, he’ll be back, then. It’s just a matter of time until I am formally accused, convicted, and punished—by death or by prison. There’s no hope.”

  “Oh, don’t give up so easily.”

  “What should I care, especially if she thinks I did it?”

  “She hasn’t said that, and I don’t believe she does.”

  “They all do. Probably even my aunt. And the sheriff, if he believes it, he will find the proof. Easier than taking on Don Felipe. I haven’t got a chance.”

  “Don’t be such a fatalist.”

  “When the others have power and money, they don’t lose.”

  “Look. You need to take more initiative, not roll over and take a beating like a dog.”

  “That’s an easy thing for you to say, but it is difficult to take action when a person knows everything is turned against him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Not yet, but I know some things. My uncle Vicente, for example, in his life, he never lost a case. The judges were his friends, and the lawyers, and this same sheriff Bonifacio.”

  “Did he ever commit a crime and put the blame on someone else?”

  Carlos gave a surprised look. “Not that I know. But he went to court many times, and he always won. The ones who lost, they had no recourse. They had to find other land, other work, other places to live. Meanwhile my uncle accumulated property and had the law on his side.”

  “But Don Felipe is not the same. I doubt that he has the same friends.”

  “No, but he is still Rancho Agua Prieta, and that counts for a great deal. And besides, he has no reason to go easy on me. Quite to the contrary. If one way of maintaining his innocence is by heaping the blame on me, he will do it with pleasure.”

  “He will certainly try, but you have to do something to defend yourself, not just accept it.”

  “Like what?”

  Devon paused. “I don’t know.”

  “You see?” Carlos tossed off his remaining half-glass of wine and reached for the bottle. “What’s the use?”

  “It’s worth trying. I still think something is not right at the rancho. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “At least you can go there. I can’t even go to talk to my aunt.”

  Devon raised his eyebrows. “Don Felipe does not leave all the gates open for me, either. But if Petra drops by when I am at my work, as she has done, I may learn something that will help.”

  Devon stood at the bar in La Sombra. The beer tasted good after the salty meal of beans and fried pork chops at Carlos’s house. He had drunk only his first half-glass of wine and had left the rest to his host, so he was ready for a couple of glasses of beer to knock the edges off.

  The cantina had its regular small crowd of patrons. Devon had barely enjoyed his second sip of beer when Cayetano’s long face appeared on his left.

  “Buenas noches, jefe.”

  “Buenas noches.”

  “Do you look for your friend Carlos? I think he is at home.”

  “I believe he is. I just saw him there.”

  “Very good. I did not expect to know more than you do.”

  “It would not be difficult.”

  “Oh, no. You are a man who goes into the world and knows people, while I ambut a common laborer.”

  Devon gave a tiny shrug.

  “For example, you go every day to Rancho Agua Prieta, do you not? There ismuch to be learned there, as well as with the good families here in town.”

  “You flatter me. I know nothing, I assure you.”

  Cayetano made a smile that verged on a leer. “I am sure everyone at the rancho is talking about Ricardo, who went out and got himself killed like a dog in the henhouse.”

  “They may speak of it, but not to me. Today I spoke with the graceful señorita, a passing sheepherder, and Don Felipe himself, and no one mentioned it to me.”

  Cayetano drew his mouth downward, then relaxed it. “For a small cooperation, I could tell you what everyone at the rancho seems to keep from you.” He turned his head and gave a sidelong glance. “Or do you know everything, and you do not want to say?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Well, if you did, you could share it with your friend Carlos. He does not come out of the house for two days, and Doña Flora does not let anyone in.”

  Devon felt disgusted with himself as he did it, but all the same he drew out a ten-cent piece and dropped it into Cayetano’s palm.

  “Muchas gracias, jefe. Que Dios le bendiga.” May God bless you. With that benediction, Cayetano made good on his offer. “Here is what they say at the rancho. The señorita Petra was waiting for Ricardo. He was supposed to come on Saturday night, at midnight, like I told you. He was going to whistle to let her know he was there. She waited up, but he did not come. Don Felipe was also waiting, smoking a cigarette and drinking a copita of tequila as he put oil on the cylinder of his pistol, but Ricardo was a great poltroon. He did not come, but rather got himself killed before he left his own rancho.”

  “So who is the guilty one?”

  “Suspicion falls on your friend Carlos, and although he is not very probable, he makes it worse for himself by hiding in his house.”

  Devon smiled. “People are very unkind to Carlos. He does not come out of his house because he has a large boil on the end of his nose.”

  “I did not see it when I took you there yesterday.”

  “Yes, and I did not hear Don Felipe tell about oiling his pistol when he and the gracious señorita were answering the sheriff’s questions.”

  Cayetano’s face broke into a smile. “So you do know everything.”

  “No, I don’t. Who is the guilty one?”

  Cayetano shrugged. “Who can say?”

  “Some people are saying something. What is it?”

  The long-faced man looked to either side before he shrugged and spoke again, this time in a lower voice. “Everyone knows Don Felipe is capable, but there is no proof. As to why, you already know, if you were there when the sheriff arrived.” Cayetano gave him a shrewd look. “Were you, or did you repeat what someone told you?”

  “Ask any of the five men who rode with the sheriff.”

  Cayetano laughed. “Very well, jefe. And thank you for your generosity. If I hear something else, I will tell you.”

  For a small price, of course. Devon took a drink of beer as the man moved away.

  The rest of the sounds of the cantina came to him again. Lalo the bartender was telling a joke about a cross-eyed burro, and Juanito was singing a song. It was a corrido, a tragic ballad, about a young man who got drilled with bullet holes as he went in the moonlight to carry away his young lady. No one knew the name of the killer, but the young man’s soul turned into a pigeon and flew to the bell tower in the church of the town. And on some future Sunday, when the people least expected, a pigeon would sing out the murderer’s name.

  Cu-ru-cu, cu-ru-cu-cu, so sings the sad lover,

  Who died in the moonlight surprised and alone.

  Cu-ru-cu, cu-ru-cu-cu, so sings the lone pigeon
,

  Who waits for the day when the truth will be known.

  Devon looked around at the other men in the cantina. Most of them were listening to Lalo’s jokes, but a couple of them, including Alfonso, were listening to Juanito’s corrido. The foreman was dressed as usual, with his cream-colored hat and brown leather vest, and he held a cornhusk cigarette in his hand at chest height. He was nodding his head to the rhythm, and his silver tooth showed in his smile.

  Chapter Nine

  Alone again at the church ruins, Devon studied the landscape as it was framed by a window arch. Far to the southwest, across a broad stretch of plain, a range of grayish-purple mountains stood out in the morning sun. He had no idea how far away they were—a two- or three-day ride, he supposed. On the llano that lay between, there were no doubt fences, watercourses, huts, ranch buildings, and even trees, all obscured by gentle undulations in the land, but from this distance he could see nothing but flat, empty country. It looked flatter than it was. He knew that much from his movements between the town, the church, and the rancho. A person thought he could see a great deal more than he could.

  Relaxing his gaze, he glanced around the immediate interior of the church. He paused, noticing a dead snake he had seen earlier. It looked as if its head had been crushed by a rock and then some good-humored passerby, like Alfonso, had tossed the body through the window for his benefit. The snake was over a yard long, not huge and thick, but big enough to give a person a start the first time he saw it. Devon didn’t care to touch snakes, but he knew he was going to have to get rid of this one before it developed a dead smell and became a haven for maggots.

  After climbing through the window and landing outside, he wandered around on the grassland until he found a clump of brush, probably greasewood. With his foot he broke off a dead forking branch at the base. Then he stripped and snapped away pieces until one side of the fork was a handle and the other was a V-hook. With his primitive tool he went back to the church, climbed in, lifted the dead snake, and let it fall on the ground outside. Climbing out again, he hooked the snake and, holding it away from him so he wouldn’t hit it with his leg, he carried it a couple of hundred yards out in the pastureland and gave it a fling. It landed in the trampled earth where the sheep had passed the day before. Well enough. Now the scavengers could have at it as they wished.