Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  “Oh, yes. They’re an impulsive bunch.”

  “But don’t you see the urgency?”

  Don Bonifacio shook his head. “Not as much as you do. But look, young man. Here you have a young woman who either lied to protect her stepfather after she inspired the young man to come, or who is now lying in order to put a rope around the amorous stepfather’s neck. Either way, her motive is not pure. Furthermore, I have not dismissed the possibility that her cousin Carlos might have done for young Vega. So the urgency is not strong to me.”

  “And Ricardo’s family?”

  “If Don Felipe is gone somewhere, they will have a hard time finding him, just as I would. I can go out to the rancho tomorrow, and if Don Felipe is there, we’ll see if the girl holds to her story.”

  “Then nothing can be done right now.”

  The sheriff frowned and shook his head. “That’s not true. There are things you can do.”

  “For example?”

  “Entertain yourself. Distract yourself in the ways you have learned to do in this town. Don’t get worked up about other people’s problems.”

  Devon rose with his hat in his hand. “Thank you for your attention.”

  “To the contrary. Thank you for your information.”

  On his way out, Devon tried to catch a better glimpse of the hallway and jail area. He saw no one, but he had a good hunch that someone had been eavesdropping.

  Devon sat by himself once again in the quiet dining room. He felt the presence of theVirgin of Guadalupe, benevolent as always, radiant from her place on the wall. Beyond the light of the two oil lamps, the pale birdmade its clucking noise and small shifting sounds in its cage in the corner. Federico served the evening meal—a platter of beans, rice, chunks of pork, and green chile, plus a stack of corn tortillas. Seven o’clock was a normal time for Devon to have his evening meal, but knowing as he did that the townspeople took their main meal in the early afternoon and usually had something light in the evening, he felt like the boarder who worked late and had to have supper set aside for him. Nevertheless, even if the food had been sitting in the kitchen for a few hours, it came to the table hot, and it tasted good.

  The lodging itself had been a dependable, constant feature in his stay so far. Now that he thought of it, off to himself, he realized that the church and the rancho had changed in his experience of them. On his last visit, the church had assumed the identity of an old crumbling set ofwalls; at least for the time being, it had lost its aura or inherent character. The rancho, likewise, did not feel like the stately remnant of a once-glorious hacienda but rather a piece of trodden property that Don Felipe and Alfonso rode over and that Ricardo and his family trespassed upon.

  Maybe it was time to leave, he thought. The charm had worn thin; tradition had been brought down to the level of sheep hooves. Yet, when he thought of Doña Emilia and Petra, he felt that all was not lost. The swineherds had not taken over the palace, and grace had not been dragged through the dirt. No, it was more like the old plays in which a bad king had to be gotten rid of.

  He brought his own thoughts back to earth. Too much fanciful thinking, he told himself. Better to focus on what he could do, for the benefit of Petra and Carlos—and Doña Emilia as well, although she was the one who would suffer the most, no matter which way things fell.

  That was it, focus on what he could do, which was next to nothing. He knew what needed to be done—bring things from the dark into the light—but he didn’t feel he had accomplishedmuch with the sheriff so far. For the rest of the evening, about all he could do was to keep his eyes and ears open, at least for a short space of time. He looked at his plate and recalled the sheriff’s recommendation, which in spite of its sarcasm had some validity. The food at Los Ermitaños was good, but it always left himwanting a beer or two.

  Night had just fallen when Devon walked into La Sombra, but a good crowd of patrons had already gathered. Alfonso stood with his group of hangers-on, and as Devon walked past them, he sensed an attitude among them, as if theywere in the know, close to people who ran things, while everyone else was common rabble. A short quip from Alfonso brought out a chorus of laughter attended by knowing smiles.

  Devon found a place farther down the bar, where Lalo served him a glass of beer as he lapsed into his own company. Juanito, another day further from his last shave and bath, was singing his corrido about the young suitor who was killed in the moonlight. His soul, turned into a pigeon, sang from the bell tower of the church.

  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.

  Alfonso did not sing along with this song, so his group of sycophants didn’t either. But the foreman had a smug look on his face as he nodded to the rhythm and built a cornhusk cigarette.

  A couple of songs later, Juanito played a piece that Devon hadn’t heard before. His attention was drawn to it because Alfonso and his group perked up when the song started. It was a corrido also, a stilted ballad about a woman referred to as la malquerida, the wrongly loved one. It had a faster tempo than the song about the dead suitor, and Juanito took flamboyant strokes on his instrument as he grimaced and cried out the words. Apparently he had played the song before, perhaps more than once, for Alfonso and his followers joined inwhen Juanito come to the chorus.

  Oh, he pursued her in the night time,

  He pursued her in the day,

  And this wrongly loved young woman

  Couldn’t keep his love at bay,

  For his passion hot and pointed,

  Like a pair of silver spurs,

  Urged him onward in his conquest

  As he pressed his will to hers.

  Alfonso’s silver tooth flashed as he sang along, and all the men in his group raised their glasses.

  Two slouching figures drifted along the bar and moved into the light of an overhead lantern. Devon recognized the long features of Cayetano and the bearded face of the sheriff’s lackey. From the way that Cayetano averted his eyes and then recovered, Devon guessed that the man knew of Devon’s most recent conversation with Don Bonifacio. In another moment, Cayetano had resumed his usual demeanor and came sidling in his obsequious way.

  “Buenas noches, jefe.”

  “Buenas noches.”

  “It is a good way to pass the evening, after a long day’s work. I assume you worked today, as always. You are very attentive to your duty.”

  “I made some drawings with a pencil, but I do not feel that I did a day’s work.”

  “I know you worked. For that you deserve to relax, to rest.”

  Devon said nothing in response.

  “I know also,” theman resumed, “that it is difficult for me to tell you something you don’t already know. Otherwise, I would offer to share what little I know.”

  Devon shrugged. “It seems as if very little is worth knowing.”

  “There is a saying, that he who knows much is not the wise man, but rather he who knows the important things.”

  “Would that I were either of those two.”

  “On the contrary, I believe you are both.”

  “I try not to fool people, but I may have done so with you, without trying.”

  “Oh, come on, jefe. You are too modest. But it goes well with your generosity.”

  “And my fame.”

  Cayetano gave him a sly look. “I would not impose upon your generosity if I thought you knew where Don Felipe is, or why Ricardo’s father and brothers are out riding.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, and in truth, it hurts me to suggest it.”

  Yes, and in truth, “Suggest what?”

  “The little cooperation. I would not want you to think that it is more important to me than your friendship.”

  Devon gave him a ten-cent piece. “Here. I have a reputation for generosity to uphold.”

  “Thank you. Your reputation
is well deserved.” The coin disappeared. “As for Don Felipe, he went out but he did not go away. This is what I have heard from someone who saw him coming back.”

  “Does the sheriff know this?”

  “He does not value my knowledge, so I do not offer it on my own.”

  “I think he is deeper than he seems.” Devon raised his eyebrows.

  “Like a duck.”

  “Like a duck?”

  “Yes, the little pot for boiling water for tea. It is called a pato.”

  “Another thing for me to learn. I will have a veritable treasure when I leave Tinaja.”

  “Which, we hope, will not happen soon.”

  “Very well.” Devon took a drink of beer. “What else?”

  “I’m sure you already know that they buried Ricardo today.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “A small thing.”

  “In the life of his family, quite large.”

  “Without a doubt. I give it a little importance now so that a person might understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Now that the funeral is over, his father and brothers have saddled their horses.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “I didn’t think it would.” Cayetano smiled in a self-satisfied expression. “You came into town a little while after they left, but I doubted that either they or the sheriff would tell you about the funeral.”

  “None of them did.”

  “And it is useful to know that they don’t have anything holding them back now.”

  Devon hunched his shoulders. “They’re not looking for me.”

  Cayetano resembled a stone figure as he said, “No, but for your own reasons, you care about what happens to Don Felipe.” Then with half a bow of false servitude he said, “Gracias, jefe,” and turned away. He and his bearded friend went to the far end of the bar, near the door, and summoned the bartender.

  Devon turned so that he did not have to see them anymore. For as much as he found his conversation with Cayetano distasteful, he had to admit that one reason for coming to the cantina was to pick up information, and he knew he wasn’t going to get it from Alfonso.

  The foreman and his palswere stillwhooping it up. Juanito was singing the song about the manwhowent from town to town, from cantina to cantina, knew all the night-time ladies and deflowered many girls. Alfonso was singing along and gyrating with his hips, much to the amusement of the others in his group.

  Devon shifted to stare at his glass again. It seemed as if all the loafers and moochers and gossipers had come out tonight, waiting for something to happen. He looked up and down the bar. It was human nature. These men were no different from the ones he had known in Ohio, Pennsylvania, or Illinois. If one man dragged another out into the street and cursed him in the most indiscreet terms, a crowd of men would gather to gawk and listen. The same happened if there was a fire or a drowning. No matter how personal or how unfortunate the event, it always drew an audience.

  The chatter and the laughterwent on, with Juanito’s music blended in. With some songs, no one paid attention as he stood, blank-faced, and hurled his verses out into the air. With other selections, the patrons sang along and brought life to Juanito’s face, and his broad stare resembled that of aman with sight.

  Now he sang again about the malquerida. Oh, she’s the wrongly loved one, and she knows that it’s a sin.

  Alfonso held his drink aloft and did a high-stepping figure-eight.

  He’s the one who loves her wrongly, and he can’t sleep at night.

  Alfonso took another turn, and his boon companions stood by, clapping.

  Juanito went into the chorus, and half the men in the cantina sang along.

  Oh, he pursued her in the night time,

  He pursued her in the day,

  And this wrongly loved young woman

  Couldn’t keep his love at bay,

  For his passion hot and pointed,

  Like a pair of silver spurs,

  Urged him onward in his conquest

  As he pressed his will to hers.

  A few at a time, the men’s voices died away, and Juanito was left singing by himself. Still animated, he went through the chorus again.

  Devon followed the glances of some of the men and saw that the front door of the cantina stood open. In the dark of the doorway, beyond the lamplight, a tall figure in black stood in profile, showing his left side. He wore black trousers and a black jacket, embroidered in his recognizable style, and he held his head at an angle so that the wide-brimmed sombrero shaded his face from view. Then, as if he had practiced it a thousand times, he turned his head upward and around, and the brim of the sombrero lifted to show the hard cheekbones and angry dark eyes of Don Felipe Torres.

  He strode into the cantina, his spurs clinking, as Juanito continued to sing about the malquerida.

  Devon looked around for Alfonso, but the foreman was nowhere to be seen. Devon glanced at the back door, which told no tales.

  Don Felipe walked up to the singer, who still seemed to be gazing out at his audience. With his left hand the master batted the mandolin upward and snatched the man’s shirtfront. With his right hand he slapped the blindman’s face back and forth, and then, as if he finally sawthe emptiness in the man’s eyes, he froze with his hand uplifted. He relaxed his grip and lowered his right hand, reached into his pocket and drew out a coin, and pressed it into the singer’s hand.

  By now, all other noise in the cantina had died to nothing, and the master’s voice carried as he said to the singer, “Make fun of me as you will. But I will yet make her mine.” Then, sweeping the place with a contemptuous glance, he strode to the door. His clinking spurs made the only sound in the cantina even as he tossed a coin to Lalo the bartender. He did not close the door behind him, and a few seconds later the hoofbeats of a fast horse pounded in the street.

  Lalo called across the barroom. “Are you all right, Juanito?”

  Juanito spoke in a clear, steady voice. “Oh, yes. Once he came close enough, I would have known him from the perfumed smell, even if he hadn’t spoken. Thanks to God, he is gone. The master of the rancho is in a hurry to go for his malquerida.”

  The tension in the air broke and fell into a dozen pieces, one man muttering to another. Then, with no mercy, Juanito resumed the song about the malquerida.

  He’s the one who loves her wrongly, and he can’t sleep at night.

  A few men started clapping, a few more joined in, and at least two or three were stomping their feet. Through the noise came the ringing sound of one spurred boot heel.

  Time to go, Devon thought. Leave this saloon, leave this town, leave this antiquated world with its sawdust-filled, strutting lord.

  As he turned to set his glass on the bar, he saw a full one in front of him. Down the bar, Lalo was pouring tequila into a row of glasses held by the outstretched hands of four or five patrons. Devon gave a questioning look to the man standing next to him.

  “Una ronda,” said the man. A round.

  A round on the house, Devon assumed. That was the time-honored method to get the crowd settled. He shrugged and took a drink. No hurry. The storm had passed. The cantina shrank back into its own little world, and someone, mindful of keeping peace with the town, had shut the door.

  Afew minutes later, the front door burst open and two men strode in. As they came into the lamplight, Devon recognized them as Ricardo’s brothers. They were dressed as they had been earlier in the day, in neat, clean riding outfits and round-brimmed hats. Spurs jingled as the two men came to the edge of the open area in the middle of the room, and with thumbs in their cartridge belts they moved their heads back and forth as they searched the place.

  Lalo, who had brought a glass of beer to Juanito, called across to them. “What do you want?”

  “We’re looking for Felipe Torres,” said the one who looked as if he might be the older.

  Juanito, holding the glass of beer at chest level, had h
alf a sneer as he piped up. “He has gone back to the rancho to be with his malquerida. He does not give up, even when the female dog sits on her tail. Who are you?” Like Lalo, he addressed them in the plural.

  “Brothers of Ricardo Vega.”

  For the second time in less than a quarter of an hour, the place went dead quiet. Devon took a drink from his beer and studied the two brothers. From their expression, he figured they had heard the gossip about Petra seeing the murder. They looked harder and more resolute than they had been earlier in the day.

  “Have a drink,” said Juanito. “Lalo is treating everyone to a round.”

  “Not exactly,” said the barkeep. “Don Felipe paid for the round on his way out.”

  A ripple of laughter went around the cantina. Of course, thought Devon. Juanito hadn’t seen it, but he had, and he didn’t register it. A round on Rancho Agua Prieta.

  “No, thanks,” said the brother. “We have to go find our father.” The two men turned and walked out of the saloon, spurs jingling, and again someone closed the door.

  When the hoofbeats died away, Devon made his way out of the cantina. For all he knew, Cayetano would finish the half-glass of beer he had left. He didn’t care.

  Once he was outside in the clear air, he did not feel so fed up with this whole world. Tinaja filled in around him, a decent little town where the gnarled old widow could walk without harm in the main street and where a man with a load of sticks could water his burro in the public trough. As for the coarse humor in La Sombra, he could find that sort of thing, and the swaggering, in other places. If it hadn’t been for his personal acquaintance with Petra and Doña Emilia, very little of it would have gotten under his skin.

  He looked up at the stars. Itwas good to be outside where he could clear his thoughts. The Vega brothers, once they found their father, would not wait until morning as the sheriff had said he would do. They would go to the rancho and call out Don Felipe in front of the family and servants. For as much as Devon thought the master might deserve that kind of showdown, Doña Emilia didn’t. The original inhabitants of Rancho Agua Prieta had not lost their civility because of the man who had come to live there; and as amatter of principle, the process of the lawshould take precedence over the oldways of the Vega family.