Several small ranches fanned out along this road, parcels of hilly cattle graze that had once been part of Don Esteban's vast holdings. Herds of white-faced cattle speckled the landscape; there were occasional flocks of sheep as well. He came on ranch wagons, buggies, cowhands on horseback—considerably more traffic, it seemed, than there had been on the stage road. It was well past noon when he topped a rise and saw, finally, a mile or so in the distance, the wooded hill on which the buildings of the Velasquez hacienda stood outlined against the dull gray sky. From here he could also see, at an angle to his right and perhaps a quarter mile this side of the hill, the ruins of the old pueblo and Padre Urbano's church, San Anselmo de las Lomas.
Quincannon rode toward the hacienda. But instead of proceeding there directly, he veered off on a grass-choked wagon track, obviously little used these days, that took him to the pueblo. It was much larger than he had expected. Once it had contained at least two dozen buildings—the church; a convento adjacent to it, where the padre had lived; dwellings for vaqueros and for laborers and their families; a garrison for the rancho's private militia; stables, workshops, and storehouses. Here and there was evidence of tanning vats, racks for drying cowhides, a blacksmith's forge, big adobe kilns for the baking of bread and the making of pottery. Beyond the church was an overgrown graveyard. And beyond the workshops an orchard of apple and pear trees stretched in thick profusion alongside a stream swollen from the winter rains.
But it was a ghost pueblo now, allowed to remain in ruin as a bitter monument to the siege of 1846 in which Don Esteban and so many others had lost their lives. A few of the buildings were still intact, but most showed the scars of battle and the ravages of time: fire-blackened beams, cannon-shattered walls, piles of crumbled adobe-brick and masonry. High grass and wind-tangles of brush and wild patches of prickly-pear cactus obscured and half concealed much of the ruins, so that the details of the pueblo's configuration were blurred and Quincannon was unable to visualize exactly how it had looked half a century ago.
It was a desolate spot—all the more so on a gray day like this one, with the wind blowing cold and making odd little murmuring noises among the decaying remains. Anyone who knew its history and who possessed a superstitious nature would shy clear of it, he thought. It was the kind of place that would have a local reputation as being haunted by the souls of those who had died here. The vague supernatural aura troubled him not at all. He had long ago decided that if he ever came face-to-face with a ghost, he would no doubt turn tail and run; but until that happened he was not going to worry about the existence of spooks and apparitions and things that went bump in the night.
He dismounted near the church, leaving the claybank to feed in a clump of sweet grass. This was where Padre Urbano had died, according to Velasquez—and little wonder. Cannonballs had smashed two of its walls to rubble, and fire had gutted much of the interior; no one who had been caught inside could have survived. The iron cross atop the roof still stood, but it was canted sharply now, as if from the weight of years, and it was only a matter of time before what remained of the roof gave way and the cross and the other walls came tumbling down.
Curiosity took him into the shell of the church. Rubble littered the floor: crumbled and shattered brick, burned wood, twigs and other things brought by a thousand winds. In a jumble of collapsed timbers that might once have been the bell tower, he saw the cracked and rusted remains of the bell—forever mute because its clapper was gone. Grass grew up through cracks in the floor; moss carpeted some of the bricks. He moved through what was left of rows of simple wooden pews, toward an all-but-obliterated altar. In front and to the left of the foremost pew, the toe of his boot stubbed against a chunk of adobe; when he glanced down he thought he saw words etched into a large stone slab. He sat on his heels, scraped away grass and moss and rubble until he could read what was written there.
FRAY JULIO DEL PRADO
1751–1826
HOMBRE DE DIOS
Hombre de Dios. Man of God. The mendicant who had preceded Urbano as the padre of San Anselmo de las Lomas, no doubt; men of the cloth, Quincannon remembered, were sometimes interred in the floors of their churches. He wondered if Fray Del Prado had died here, too—more peaceably than Padre Urbano. But it was a vaguely depressing thought, and he didn't dwell on it.
Neither did he linger at the tombstone or inside the ravaged church. It was a different grave that interested him, one containing the mortal remains of someone named Maria. Más aliá del sepulcro. Beyond the grave. Donde Maria. Where Maria. Beyond the grave where Maria someone lies? That was the logical interpretation of the sentence fragments on the torn scrap.
He went out into the graveyard at the rear. This was the only part of the pueblo that showed signs of care and attention. Encroaching vegetation had been cleared away from the score of graves, and each one was marked by an engraved tombstone. He prowled among them, looking at the inscriptions. The largest stone towered above the final resting place of Don Esteban, and he found where Padre Urbano had been buried. He also found one inscribed with the name Maria Alcazar and the dates 1799–1827. Was this the Maria referred to in Tomás Cordova's document—this the grave beyond which the artifacts had been hidden? But if so … how far beyond it? In what direction? There was no way of knowing without the rest of the document.
Well, there were consolations. The person who had killed to get that document might not be able to decipher it without those two key phrases, más aliá del sepulcro and donde Maria. And that person hadn't been here yet in any case: the graves and the surrounding terrain showed no signs of recent trespass. No one had been here, it seemed, in weeks.
Quincannon returned to where he had left his horse, mounted, and rode back to the main road. He was chilled, tired, and ravenously hungry. He wanted nothing so much now as a warm fire, a cup of decent coffee, and any sort of hot food that did not contain meat from the carcass of a goat. Everything else could wait, including what he hoped would be an illuminating discussion with Felipe Antonio Abregon y Velasquez.
The road was deserted and remained that way for the last quarter mile of his journey: he saw no human being anywhere, not even as he climbed the oak-laden hill toward the open gates of the hacienda. The house and its immediate outbuildings were in good repair, freshly whitewashed and with new-tiled roofs; but there was an air of emptiness about them, at least from a distance, as if they, too, had been abandoned long ago. Quincannon found himself wondering if Velasquez and O'Hare had even arrived yet, or if for some reason they had been delayed and he was reaching the hacienda ahead of them.
Through the open gates he could see most of the courtyard, and it appeared to be deserted. But then, when he was almost to the entrance, two young men appeared suddenly from inside, one from behind each of the gate halves—so suddenly that they startled him, made him draw sharp rein. Both men were Mexican, or perhaps mestizo, and roughly dressed. They came in quick, agile movements, like trained soldiers, one to each side of him.
“That is far enough, señor,” the bigger of the two said. “Remain where you are. Do not move.”
Quincannon sat still, staring down at them in amazement. He had expected a cool welcome and a certain lack of hospitality at the Velasquez hacienda, but he had not expected to be greeted by a pair of grimly leveled rifles—to find himself facing what had the ominous look of a two-man firing squad.
TWO
THE BIGGER MAN gestured with his rifle, a Henry that was at least as old as he was. He said, “Who are you, señor? What is your business here?”
“My name is John Quincannon. I've come to see Felipe Velasquez.”
“You are known to him?”
“Yes.”
“He expects you?”
“Yes. Is he here?”
The question went unanswered. Instead the two riflemen exchanged a few words of rapid, slurred Spanish that Quincannon couldn't follow. The bigger one said to him, “You will wait with Pablo,” and turned on his heel and disappea
red inside the courtyard.
Quincannon waited under the watchful eye of the one named Pablo. The eye was full of dark and malignant glints, as if Pablo would like nothing better than to shoot several holes in him. Pablo, it seemed, liked gringos even less than his employer did. That being the case, Quincannon sat very still and maintained a neutral expression that revealed none of his irritation.
The wait was a short one. The other rifleman returned in less than five minutes, with Velasquez beside him. The lord of the manor wore a charro outfit, less elegant and ornate than the one two nights ago in Santa Barbara, and an irascible expression. In Spanish he said to Pablo, “Lower your weapon,” and Pablo obediently complied, though not without an air of disappointment. Then in English he said to Quincannon, “I did not expect you for at least another day.”
“Obviously not. Don't I warrant an apology?”
“Apology?”
“For the rough greeting by your two sentries, if that's what they are. Why the rifles?”
“There has been trouble in the valley,” Velasquez said. “Rustlers. And the wife of one of the other ranchers was attacked in her home by a stranger, a gringo. Precautions must be taken against such animals.”
“Apology accepted,” Quincannon said dryly.
Velasquez grunted. “There is a reason you have come so soon?”
“A very good reason.”
“We will discuss it in private. Dismount and come with me. Pablo and Emilio will see to your horse.”
Quincannon swung down, handed the reins to Emilio, and followed Velasquez into the courtyard. The ranch house enclosed it on two sides, but one of the wings seemed foreshortened; Quincannon had the impression that the house had been much larger when Don Esteban ruled the hacienda. Much of it had been damaged during the siege, no doubt, and never rebuilt. The other two courtyard walls were ten-feet-high, made of thick adobe brick, and covered with layers of vines and climbing roses. Another arched gateway, the gates on this one locked in place, bisected the rearmost wall. From beyond that wall, distantly, Quincannon could now hear the faint lowing of cattle, the sporadic shouts of cowhands at work.
Velasquez wanted to talk immediately in his study, but Quincannon was having none of that. After his reception at the gate, he was not inclined to be deferential. He insisted on hot coffee and hot food first, preferably in front of a hot fire. Grumbling, Velasquez led him past a pair of outdoor baking ovens and into an open arcade that connected the main house with one of its smaller adjuncts. This turned out to be the kitchen, where a fat Mexican woman worked industriously over a nickel-plated stove. The stove was the only modern convenience in the big, too-warm room; everything else—tables, cupboards, wall oven, larder—seemed to be leftovers from Don Esteban's day.
“You will eat here,” Velasquez said. “There is no fire, but as you can tell, the room is quite warm.”
Quincannon said wryly, “Is this where all your guests take their meals? Or only the Americanos?”
“Your levity is ill-timed, señor.” Velasquez issued instructions to the cook, said to Quincannon, “I will return when you have eaten,” and took his leave.
Nettled, Quincannon warmed himself before one of the brick-heated ovens while the fat woman prepared coffee and a plate of meat and beans—simple fare, as befitted servants and lower-caste gringo detectives. He ate at a bulky trestle table. By the time he had finished, the heat in the kitchen had raised his body temperature by several degrees and started him sweating. He was in no mood to be trifled with when Velasquez returned.
Fortunately the rancher made no remarks. He said only “Now we will talk” and presented his back for Quincannon to follow out of the kitchen, along the arcade, and up an outside staircase to the house's upper level.
From the gallery Quincannon could see beyond the courtyard walls to where a series of barns, bunkhouses, stables, corrals, and cattle pens stretched away along the flattish crown of the hill and down its gently sloping backside. Rancho Rinconada de los Robles may have been a shadow of what it was in the days of los ranchos grandes, but it was still a large and impressive spread. At least a dozen men were visible in the vicinity of the corrals and stock pens. From the size and number of the buildings, Quincannon estimated the total work force at thirty or more.
They entered the house through a thick oaken door. A large, cheerful parlor opened to the left, windowed on two sides, with a log fire blazing on its hearth. Two people occupied it—a slender, dark woman in her late twenties, dressed in an old-fashioned, lace-trimmed black dress and a black mantilla, and a little girl perhaps two years of age. Quincannon stopped to look in at them. Velasquez, who had started toward a room on the opposite side, reversed himself with a look of annoyance.
Quincannon said, “Aren't you going to introduce me?”
The woman heard and looked up, which left Velasquez with a choice between further rudeness and at least a show of good manners. He chose good manners, evidently for the woman's sake. She was his wife, Doña Olivia, he said; and the child was Sofia, his daughter. He spoke their names in a protective way and with more gentleness than Quincannon had believed he possessed. His eyes seemed to say, almost challengingly, “Now do you understand why I have posted armed guards at the gates?”
Barnaby O'Hare had said that Mrs. Velasquez was a beautiful woman. Quincannon could understand why—she presented a striking physical presence—but he did not agree with the assessment. There was a haughtiness about her, an air of aristocratic superiority, that he found unappetizing; and her eyes were cool, distant, with no hint of the fabled Latin passion. He preferred women who mixed warmth with their self-possession—women like Sabina.
Doña Olivia was polite enough, but he sensed that she was no more fond of Americanos than her husband. They made an ideal couple, he thought. He wondered if Velasquez had confided in her about his hiring of a detective and decided that the answer was yes; she seemed to know Quincannon's name. She was the type of woman, he judged, who would always insist on knowing her husband's business, and the business of everyone with whom either of them came in close contact.
“Will you be dining with us this evening, Señor Quincannon?” she asked.
“It would please me to do so,” he answered before Velasquez could speak. And added perversely, “Your husband has invited me to be your guest for a few days.”
“You are welcome, of course.” She shifted her cool, black-eyed gaze to her husband. “When you and Señor Quincannon have finished your business, please come to me in the parlor. There is a matter we must discuss.”
Quincannon thought: A matter named John Quincannon, no doubt. He felt like smiling at Velasquez and gave in to the impulse. The look he received in return was withering.
Velasquez said to his wife, “As soon as we are finished, Doña Olivia,” allowed Quincannon and the woman to exchange a polite parting, and then ushered him into a smallish, oak-paneled study. When the door was shut, he let his anger show; his eyes glinted with sparks of light as he said, “You presume a great deal, señor. A great deal.”
“Do I? Perhaps you'd care to terminate my employment, then?” Quincannon had had about all he could tolerate of Velasquez's superciliousness and bigotry. “Pay me what you owe for services already rendered, and I will be more than happy to vacate your house and your land.”
Velasquez glared at him for a moment. Then, abruptly, he turned and crossed the room to a window set beside a broad rolltop desk. He stood silent and rigid, staring out at the gray afternoon.
Quincannon let the silence build; he wanted Velasquez to be the first to speak. He packed his pipe and lighted it. The study, like the parlor occupied by Velasquez's wife and daughter, was furnished in the dark, ornate Spanish style of a bygone age. The old-fashioned way in which he and his family were dressed, the house and its atmosphere of faded elegance, had a pathetic quality. The Velasquezes lived in the past, sought to recapture the lost days of the Spanish aristocracy; they succeeded only in making an enemy of the prese
nt.
At least two minutes passed before Velasquez turned from the window. The anger was gone; his face was set in grim, tired lines. In that moment he seemed somehow old, not so much an anachronism as a man whose time has come and gone—a man with nothing left to make of his life. And no desires save one: the recovery of his father's lost treasure.
He said, “Why are you here? What has happened in Santa Barbara?”
“Luis Cordova is dead. Murdered two nights ago. Whoever killed him took papers that may reveal the original hiding place of the artifacts.”
Velasquez showed no reaction. He stood a moment longer, then turned and shuffled to a chair before the room's cold fireplace, sat down in it, and looked at his hands as if he were a Gypsy seeking his fortune in their seams and creases. At length he said, “How do you know all this?”
“I found the body.”
“And the police—did you inform them?”
“No. They'll find out soon enough.”
“What did you do?”
“Left Santa Barbara immediately to come here. I suspect the murderer did the same.”
“You believe the artifacts are still hidden? That Cordova did not steal them?”
“There is no evidence that he stole them. Or that anyone else did.”
“But the statue of the Virgin Mary—how did that come into his hands?”
Quincannon explained about Tomás Cordova and his legacy. Velasquez's anger returned as he listened; a small, bright hatred seemed to flicker like firelight over his features. “A filthy traitor, this Tomás Cordova,” he said broodingly. “If Don Esteban had discovered his treachery, he would have died in agony.”
“Perhaps that's how he did die, and only one day later.”
Velasquez made a guttural noise and looked again at his hands.
Beyond the Grave Page 18
