Don Felipe’s voice came up. “The artist has already stated that he does not wish to do portraits. For his own reasons, he prefers to do rundown buildings and cracked walls.” Don Felipe’s tense eyes accentuated his prominent cheekbones as he drew in on the cigarette and then expelled the smoke.
Petra turned to her mother. “The artist has said he is afraid to try, but I do not believe it. I think that, in truth, he is brave, just as he is handsome. What do you think, Mama?”
Emilia gave Devon a kind smile. “Maybe.”
Don Felipe finished his second cigarette and stood up, reaching for his sombrero. “I am going to work,” he said.
Emilia looked up at him. “With el tordillo? ”
“Yes.” Then to all three at the table he said, “Con permiso,” and left with his spurs clinking.
Devon caught Emilia’s attention. “What was that word you used?”
“¿El tordillo?”
“Yes.”
“It means gray. A gray horse.”
“Oh, I understand. Thank you.” He looked at both ladies. “Well, it has been a great pleasure. Thank you very much for the meal. I believe that I, too, must go back to my work.”
“Do not forget,” said Petra.
Devon pointed to his head. “Always present.” He rose from his chair.
“I’ll go out with you,” said Petra, tossing her napkin on the table and pushing back her chair.
“Thank you for coming.” Emilia rose from her chair and walked to the end of the table, where she gave Devon her hand. “Remember that you are always welcome here.”
“Thank you,” he said, meeting her soft brown eyes. “You are very generous.”
As Devon and Petra walked into the living room, Consuelo appeared with his hat.
“Thank you.”
“Que le vaya bien.” May all go well for you.
Once outside in the portal, Petra had less of her bright and sparkling demeanor. “Have a good afternoon,” she said. “I hope you progress in your work.”
“Thank you. I hope you and your mother have a restful afternoon. It was a very enjoyable dinner.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Devon lingered. “Do you have a routine in the afternoon? Do you read? I think you said the other day that you do.”
“Sometimes. Today I’m going to read in my catechism.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“And my mother plans to go to give consolation to Ricardo’s family.”
“Does she go alone?”
“No, Consuelo goes with her. And Miguel, of course.”
“That’s good. I hope she has a safe trip.”
“Thank you.” She gave him her hand, bare and pretty as he had seen it last. “Until next time, señor artista.”
“Until then, señorita Cantera.”
He walked out into the bright sunlight, where Don Felipe was leading the gray horse to the snubbing post.
El tordillo. La tórtola. El codorniz. His words for the day.
The master did not give him so much as a glance as he untied the horse, let him drink, and walked him out a few paces before tightening the cinch. Then Devon swung aboard, and with the master at his back, he rode out past the dark pool and the cottonwood trees and through the stone gateway of Rancho Agua Prieta, onto the open plain.
Chapter Ten
With a glass of beer in front of him, Devon felt at home in the dim interior of La Sombra. The items on the wall—the thick spurs, the coiled bullwhip, the stretched rattlesnake skin—were now as familiar as the decor of any place he frequented back home. Lalo the bartender ignored him as usual and stood at the end of the bar with a cluster of regular patrons. The large, round-shouldered man held forth in his accustomed manner, patting the others on the shoulder and telling stories to make them laugh. His full head of hair, shot with gray, was combed back neatly all the way around, and it held in place when he threw back his head and laughed.
The music had not begun yet, and Lalo was talking loud enough that Devon could follow the joke he was telling. It was about a man who was told by a genie that he would die when his burro broke wind for the third time. After the burro whoofed twice, the man whittled a wooden plug and poked it in. Halfway up the mountain with a load of sticks, he went around back to check the plug. When he lifted the tail, the plug came out like a bullet and hit him in the forehead, fulfilling the prophecy. Lalo simulated the action by hitting the top of his fist against his own head. All the men broke into laughter.
At that moment the door opened, and Alfonso made his appearance in his trademark cream-colored hat and brown leather vest. He stood for a moment with his thumbs in his belt and his shoulders thrown back, his silver tooth shining as he surveyed the place and smiled. Then he stepped forward. After he and Lalo clapped each other on the shoulder, he came to stand at the bar between Devon and the small crowd of men. Lalo set a glass and a bottle of tequila in front of him. The foreman leaned his left elbow on the bar and turned his back partway to Devon.
The door opened again and Juanito walked in, his eyelids dark in the shadow of his brow. The stubble showed on his unshaven face, and his coarse hair hung straight and uncombed. He carried his mandolin by the neck as his feet found his customary place where he could either sit on his stool or stand to play his songs.
After a few minutes of tuning, he sang a song about a girl with a wooden heart. He followed it with one about a man fated to die in prison for killing his sweetheart and his rival. Then he sang a lively song about a man who went from town to town, from cantina to cantina, knew all the nighttime ladies and deflowered many girls. This number seemed to be a favorite of Alfonso, who stood away from the bar and faced Juanito, glass in hand, and sang along.
The smell of cooked meat and fat drew Devon’s attention to the end of the bar, where he recognized the man who had been selling ribs in the street next to the plaza on Sunday. Alarge platter of ribs nowsat on the bar. Lalo dropped some coins in the vendor’s hand, and the man nodded and went out the door.
Lalo divided the stack of meat onto two other plates, three in all. Two he left at the end of the bar, and the third he set in front of Alfonso. He went back to the platter, shaved off a small pile of meat, and with his thumb and first two fingers he tucked the meat into two folded corn tortillas. At his direction, one of the men took the tacos to Juanito, who set down his instrument and accepted the food as if it were his due.
The bartender came back to stand opposite to Alfonso. Raising his head and turning his good eye to Devon, he said, ¿Gustas?” Do you care for some?
Devon had caught a good whiff by now, and the smell of lamb and roasted fat was appealing, but he had had mutton at the inn. “No, thanks,” he said. “I just finished supper.”
“Very well.” Lalo gave the plate half a turn, and he and Alfonso picked the ribs. It looked like greasy work, as the bartender wiped his hands several times on his apron, and Alfonso did the same on his trousers.
In a little while, the bones were all stacked on the platter, and the singing and joking resumed. Alfonso seemed to have more of a swagger than usual, and Devon wondered if it had anything to do with the foreman’s wanting to impress him.
Now Juanito was singing a song about a man who rode to Rancho Peñasco, a brave man with a rifle and pistol and horse. He had been gone for many a year, and he longed to see his dear mother. At the mouth of the canyon they challenged his entry, and when he answered with pride that he came to see the señora, they shot him six times. And ever since then, at Rancho Peñasco, his ghost haunts the canyon and rides the high cliffs.
Alfonso turned his back on this song and, with both elbows on the bar, rolled a cigarette with tobacco and a cornhusk. He lit it with a long-flamed match and then drank from his glass. With the next song, a sprightly tune about a man who met a dark-haired girl and danced every dance with her, he stood again, facing Juanito and singing the verses.
The door opened, and Carlos Hernández came in. He carr
ied himself in his jaunty way, stopping to shake hands and exchange witticisms with the men along the bar. He gave a perfunctory handshake to Alfonso and took a place at the bar on the other side of Devon.
“Good evening,” he said, offering his hand.
Devon returned the greeting and shook hands. Then he said, “I’m glad to see that you came out.”
“Oh, come what may.” Carlos signaled to Lalo, who put a bottle and shot glass in front of him.
“And how are things going for you today?” Devon had to raise his voice, as Alfonso was singing louder as he hoisted his glass and rocked from one foot to the other.
“How’s that?”
“I said, how are things going for you?”
“Oh, all right, I guess.” Carlos rolled his eyes toward Alfonso. “Let’s sit over here at a table.”
The two of them carried their drinks to a table about twelve feet away, where Carlos sat with his back to the main part of the cantina. He positioned his glass in front of him, poured the tequila, then set the bottle back a few inches and rotated it half a turn. After what Devon interpreted to be a civilized pause, Carlos reached for his drink.
“Salud,” he said, lifting the glass.
“Salud.” Devon clicked his glass against the smaller one.
For all of Carlos’s repose and good cheer, his face had a worried cast to it. “And for you, things went well today?”
“I suppose so.”
“You went to the rancho?”
“Yes, I did, and this time I had dinner with the whole family.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it was a little strange to see your cousin at the table with her stepfather, and on top of that, she was all cheerful.”
Carlos held his eyes wide open. “And Don Felipe?”
“Serious, somewhat gruff.”
“And my aunt?”
“She seemed to be happy that everyone was at the table together. As always, a very gracious lady.”
“Oh, yes.” Carlos touched his glass and then drew his hand back and let it rest on the table. “And what is your impression?”
“Of what?”
“Well, of the whole thing but of Don Felipe in particular.”
“To tell the truth, I think your cousin was being so light and gay in order to make him uncomfortable.”
“Jealous?”
“Maybe that, and maybe something else, I’m not sure. But I don’t think she wanted him to enjoy the meal, and I think she realized her objective.”
Carlos laughed. “She has a lot of spark.”
“Yes, she does.”
The concerned expression came back to Carlos’s face, a cloud on his rough complexion. “But tell me of your impression of him.”
“About the same as before. Actually, maybe a little different. I didn’t feel as intimidated, which might be owing to his not having absolute authority. Oh, he had his mannerisms and pronouncements, but I didn’t think he had all the control he wanted. Most definitely, I don’t think he has the control to make her lie for him.”
Now Carlos took a sip and ran his tongue across his lips. “Do you think he did it, then?”
“Like others, I think he is capable. But I don’t see any traces of guilt, no remorse. If he did it, he must be very cold.”
“It could well be. He has it in him to be a cruel man. I can tell it from the menacing things he has said to me.”
“I believe it. Although I can’t say whether I think he did it, I can’t say that I think he didn’t. Does that make sense?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, so much for that. And yourself, how did it go for you?”
Carlos had a pained expression as he shook his head. “Not good. First, I had to answer all the same questions with the sheriff.”
“Does he really suspect you?”
“I don’t know, but he seems reluctant to try to get more evidence against Don Felipe.”
“That’s too bad. But he doesn’t have that much on you, does he?”
“Only that I was out that night, which he seems to cherish.”
“Well, if you didn’t do it, you can conduct yourself with a clean conscience.”
“Oh, sure.”
“And besides, you come from a good family. It’s not as if you were a Comanchero and this other man a saint. Even if your aunt and your cousin did not approve of you as a suitor, they could speak in your favor.”
Carlos held his expressive brown eyes on Devon. “Señor, I spoke with my aunt today.”
“Really? How did that happen?”
“I saw her in church. I went there on my own, to pray for all of this, and I saw her there, alone, in the empty church.”
“Was Consuelo with her?”
“Well, yes, but otherwise she was alone.”
“Were you able to speak with her?”
“Yes, thanks to God. At first she seemed not to want to, but when she saw how sad I was, she relented. She herself was sad.”
“I understood that she was going to give her condolences to Ricardo’s family.”
“She said she went to their rancho, and they closed the door on her. Imagine, old friends.”
“Did they think her husband did it?”
“They wouldn’t say. They refused to talk to her. She felt very hurt.”
“I imagine.”
“For that reason, she came to the church in town, and that’s how we happened to meet.”
“Did she give any indication of what she thought about the death of Ricardo?”
“Only that it was very sad, for the young man and for his family.”
“She didn’t seem to think you did it?”
Carlos shook his head.“No, and I told her, I pledged in church, that I could never, never do such a thing.”
“And what did that leave her to think?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t tell her, then, of her husband’s threats to you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Nor of his obsession with his stepdaughter?”
“Even less.”
Devon frowned. “Have you told anyone else about his threats to you?”
Carlos shook his head. “Just you. I didn’t think you would repeat it.”
“I haven’t, but it might help someone else to see how strongly obsessed he is.”
“Maybe.” Carlos produced a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it.
Devon let out a low breath of exasperation. “Then you didn’t mention it to the sheriff?”
“Well, no.”
“Look. You told me, a few days ago, that he told you to stay away from her, to forget her, to have no illusions. I believe that’s what you said.”
“Something like that.”
“And that whoever came near her would risk his life.”
“That, too.”
“And you haven’t told anyone, not your aunt and not the sheriff?”
Carlos shrugged. “That’s right.”
“Well, look. If you tell the sheriff, he’ll see that Don Felipe has made his threats to more than one person, and thus he might have had a very strong motivation to go out and find Ricardo—assuming Ricardo didn’t come to the rancho in the first place.”
Carlos winced and looked at his cigarette.
“You’ve got to tell someone.”
“How can I? He told me not to.”
“Wait a minute. He threatened you, and then he told you not to tell anyone? I suppose he backed that up with a threat on your life, too.”
Carlos lowered his head in a defeated expression. “More or less.”
“He did.”
“Well, yes, he did.”
“Listen, my friend. You can’t let these kinds of threats keep the truth from being known.”
“But my life is at risk.”
“It is the other way, too, if by your silence you let people think you’re guilty.”
Carlos shook his head. “Oh, I don’t like this.”
Devon felt himself getting impatient. “You can’t let this stepfather control everything. And besides, I don’t even think he’s able to.”
Carlos took a long pull on his cigarette and held his head back as he let the smoke out through his nostrils, as if he were trying to build himself up.
Devon decided to give him another nudge. “The cure for this kind of thing is to get the truth out into the open.”
Carlos wavered, and then his repose crumbled. “What good am I?” he said. “Who would believe me?” He dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. His face was an expression of pure misery. “And they are right. I don’t deserve her.”
Devon stared at him. The man was powerless. He was so unstrung by his hopeless love for his cousin and so afraid of the master of the rancho that he could not bring himself to give anything like pubic testimony. “I don’t know,” said Devon, “but I don’t think it’s right to let someone ride over the top of everyone.”
Devon stood at the bar by himself again. Carlos had taken his sorrow homeward, and the night had worn on a couple of hours since Devon first came in. Alfonso was still on his feet, but he had a slur to his voice and was talking loudly. Two of the other regular patrons were standing near him, also wobbling. The music had stopped for a moment, and Devon could pick out words.
“I give the orders at the rancho,” Alfonso said, and the other two nodded. “The master is too busy with his horses and the other things he is trying to tame.”
A laugh rippled through the two men. One of them said something that Devon didn’t catch.
“She’s a fine little pullet,” said Alfonso, “but not worth all the trouble.” He smiled, and his silver tooth glinted. “Aman has to stay out of trouble. That’s how he manages to be the boss.” He tipped up his glass.
“And that’s how you’re going to be able to give us good jobs at the rancho, eh?” said the man who had spoken before.
Alfonso leered. “With what I know, I might be the master of the rancho myself before long.”
The other two men laughed, and a motion just beyond them caught Devon’s attention. Cayetano the moocher had finally shown up. He stuck out his chin and stretched his neck, as if he were swallowing what he just heard. Behind him stood an older, bearded man who had all the demeanor of being another hanger-on.
Death at Dark Water Page 13
