by E. R. Slade
“Señor Smith. He is a fine man who has saved my life twice in the past short while. He is a friend, you need not fear.”
As they had agreed, Felipe did not mention Clint’s real name to Griego, since they didn’t want to be asked to explain the death of Griego’s messenger, Antonio.
“Could you open this for me? My hands shake too much. It is from Pepita, Felipe?” The old man’s eyes had a yearning in them which made Clint feel the old man’s loss and concern.
Felipe broke the seal off the letter and opened it, then passed it back to Griego.
“Muchas gracias,” Griego said, and struggled glasses onto his nose.
For a few moments there was silence while the old man read. Then he threw the sheet down in disgust, becoming animated.
“This is preposterous!” he said in Spanish. “It is inconceivable. I do not believe this at all. Pepita would never wish to marry that scoundrel. She would never willingly write such a letter.” Then he looked appealingly at Felipe. “Tell me, Felipe, that it was not her wish to write this letter. She would not have run away purposely to marry this bandit who murders in cold blood! And now she writes a letter saying she wishes to marry him! It is not true, Felipe, is it? Can you tell me?”
Felipe, with his sombrero by the rim with both hands, tapped it against his knees.
“Señor Griego,” he said, “it is possible that the little I know may be of use.”
“I am aware that you are a poor man,” Griego said when Felipe paused. “I may be able to help you very much today, if the wind blows right.”
“I would not think of taking money from my own cousin,” Felipe said with a self-deprecating wave of his hand.
“But I insist. Perhaps your Adelita would like some medicine, or perhaps a new dress would cheer her spirits.”
“It is very possible that a new dress would lift her spirits,” Felipe admitted. “Señor Griego, your Pepita certainly did not write this letter out of a wish to marry Valenzuela. It was Miguel.”
“Miguel?” The old man struggled up onto his elbows, which evidently cost him quite a bit of effort. “What of Miguel? Has something happened?”
“He is dead, señor,” Felipe said sadly. “Valenzuela had him shot. But first he told Pepita that if she would write this letter to you, Miguel would be spared and would bring this letter to you himself. But Miguel has much honor, like you, señor. He refused to take the letter, even if Pepita wrote it. He said it would be a dishonor to him and to you and to the whole Griego family, and he would rather die than dishonor the name of Griego. Pepita was afraid for him and said she would not allow him to die, and she wrote the letter to save his life. She has a good heart, señor. But Valenzuela gave Miguel no chance to change his mind. He ordered him shot immediately.”
The old man’s hands bunched into weak but determined fists. “That filthy scoundrel who calls himself a man! A mongrel dog who attacks his master is not as low as this dog Valenzuela. I will see Valenzuela dead. And I will most certainly not give my permission to Pepita to marry him, much less will I give her the gold mine for her dowry that I have promised her. Instead I will find a way to rescue Pepita from the bandit’s hands, and I will then attack his stronghold and vanquish him and all his men to the lower parts where they belong.” He breathed hard, as though the speech had cost him a lot of strength. Then he added, “I wish I was not under the rule of this disease of mine, or I would have long ago gone to deal with Valenzuela personally.”
“I have no doubt,” Felipe said.
After Griego had calmed down some, he rang for a servant and had the man get a locked box from a safe in another room. Griego took a key from under his bedclothes and opened the box. He paid Felipe in gold. Then he indicated Clint.
“Is he deserving of money also? You have said he has saved your life. Have I him to thank for this information as well as yourself?”
Clint decided not to let on to know Spanish, in case Griego might be upset at having a stranger know about his troubles—you could never tell with Mexicans just what might upset them.
Apparently Felipe also thought this a good idea and without letting on, either, he translated the import of the questions into English.
“Tell him he can please himself, but that I’m not asking for anything,” Clint said in English, hoping that would be about the right attitude to please Griego.
Felipe translated it quite exactly, then added that it was his opinion that Clint deserved as much payment as himself, since they had been together all the way, and neither might have come through without the other. Griego then insisted on paying Clint in American gold coinage, twenty dollars. Clint made a show of being reluctant to take that much, and then thanked the rich old man through Felipe.
“Now then, Felipe,” Griego said in Spanish, when the transaction had been taken care of, “here is another twenty for you. I have a message to write out for you to take to this bandit filth, if you think you can return there safely.”
“Of course,” Felipe told him. “Valenzuela trusts me completely. He does not know that I work for you firstly and him only as a part of working for you.”
“That is good. Could you hand me that writing paper and the pen and ink, Felipe?”
As the old man wrote, his face grew dark and forbidding, and Clint was glad he was not the object of Griego’s wrath, even with Griego a sick bedridden old man.
“There,” the old man said, as he fumbled at the paper, trying to fold it. Felipe took it from him, did the folding, and helped Griego apply his seal. “You take this to that filthy dog of a bandit. It will anger him, without doubt. You must be careful. It may cause him to strike out at the messenger for the message. It would not be beneath him. Will your friend be going with you?”
Felipe told him yes, and there was another small scene about money, Clint winding up with twenty more dollars.
“Well!” Griego said, once business had been taken care of. “And how is Adelita and the rest of the family?”
“They are fine, except for Adelita’s illness, which you already know of.” Felipe gave Griego a long and detailed rundown on each of the children, and then went on to pass along news of other people in the family. Clint was getting the feeling that every Mexican was somehow related to every other Mexican, and half the gringos as well, though common sense told him it couldn’t really be true. Clint fidgeted, chewing his toothpick into a mush of pulp and cleaning his nails with the point of his knife.
At last, Griego invited them to stay for a few days and enjoy themselves. But Felipe reluctantly refused, mentioning Valenzuela’s desire for a reply in three weeks, almost two weeks of which had already passed.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Griego said. “But at least you will stay the night?”
Felipe agreed to that, and they were shown to a couple of rooms. Clint was impressed with the one he was given. It was large, clean, with a massive oak bedstead. The bed was more comfortable than any he’d ever slept on.
Supper was the one unfortunate thing. For all his practice lately, he couldn’t eat much of it. He sat around sipping wine made from grapes grown on the hacienda, and listening to a fellow named Mateo play the guitar. Mateo was quite good, and drew a lot of the house servants to listen.
When the evening was getting on, Clint and Felipe went off to their separate rooms. Clint, still feeling that he wasn’t trusted, in spite of the old man’s payment of forty dollars for his services, looked for a lock on the door, but found none. He put his knife and pistol under the silk-covered pillow before settling in to go the sleep.
It was like floating in the air, and after all the weary riding he’d been doing recently, he didn’t lie awake long ...
... He was dreaming of burros. They were circling over his head like vultures, they were hidden out in the brush like Indians, and as soon as the sun came up ... There was one somewhere in the room with him, he was sure, slipping around stealthily ...
He came awake and in the darkness he heard the light
scuff of a bare foot over the hardwood floor.
Chapter Fourteen
Clint listened hard for a few moments until he had a direction on the sound, and then leaped from the bed, gun in hand.
There was an answering scuffle as whoever was in the room with him headed for the door. Clint made a dive for the intruder, missed, and piled into a massive oak chest of drawers. As he was picking himself up, slightly dazed, the door closed and the running of padded feet retreated across the patio.
Clint yanked open the door and by the flickering light of a handful of oil lamps in brackets around the patio could make out a man darting into the shadows across the way.
Clint, irritated and determined, ran after the man, following him through the zaguán and out into the open yard full of flower gardens. The sweet smell of jasmine was heavy on the night, and it felt like running through a thick fog to go through it. Clint could make out the running footfalls somewhere ahead and kept on.
The night exploded with muzzle flashes, and Clint dove for cover. The shooting stopped and the footfalls went on.
Clint came up from the flower bed he’d flopped down in, running, gun in hand.
The night began to wake up. Guards came running, hammers of their guns clicking back. Casement windows opened; men called to each other in Spanish.
Clint thought about going on after the man who’d gotten into his room, and then thought about the kind of trouble that might buy for him, and against his powerful desire to find out who the man was decided he’d best light out for his room, and see if he could get there without showing himself. It was likely he wouldn’t last the night, if he were found out here gunning for one of the hacienda’s trusted men. This was a long way from home and mighty treacherous kind of country for a norteamericano. A smart man didn’t push his luck.
He slid around through the bushes as men came charging down the garden paths to investigate the shooting. They all went by, and he trotted for the door of the house.
There were servants there, in their robes and wrapped in blankets. Clint held back in the shadows, thinking, waiting for these people to clear out so he could get in. But nobody was planning to budge until the excitement was over, that was clear. And Clint got to wondering what would happen if it was discovered he wasn’t in bed where he belonged.
He considered acting as though he’d been first out to investigate the shooting, but figured nobody would believe him, since his room was on the far side of the patio and none of the people who came out of their own rooms to investigate would have seen him and so would question his story.
Clint had half a mind to hunt up his horse and make for the border, but that seemed an unlikely business, since he didn’t even know where exactly the horses had been bedded down, and the vaqueros knew their ground a lot better than he did. Besides that, he was barefoot. As was his usual practice, he’d slept with his clothes on, but his boots were under the bed.
There was only one thing left, as far as Clint could see: go up over the roof somewhere at the back side of the building, climb down the latticework and slip along to his room.
It was hard to tell exactly what was going on down in the gardens, but everybody sounded plenty busy thrashing in the undergrowth, and Clint hoped they’d stay busy a while longer. He went along the wall to the left, following around two corners, and then hunted for a way up.
The wall was stone and adobe, massive construction. It was not perfectly smooth, but not rough enough to get handholds or footholds on. He wished he had a rope.
Some distance along the wall, he found a big oak tree with limbs that spread nearly over the roof. He climbed it and got cautiously out on the longest limb towards the building. The roof was ten feet down and five or six feet away. When he landed he was going to make a clatter on that tile. But there was no way around it, so he jumped.
He broke loose three tiles and they went skipping down the roof like bits of shale down a mountainside, ending up in the trough in the middle of the roof where rainwater collected to run along to a drain, under which was undoubtedly a cistern. Clint slid after the broken tiles into the trough and then listened. Off in the distance he could hear men talking. It sounded like the chase was over. Clint climbed up the other side of the roof and looked down into the patio. It was empty at the moment, but he could hear people in the pórtico discussing the situation in rapid Spanish.
He found some latticework on which grew vines, and climbed swiftly down to the stone floor of the patio. Then he darted through the shadows to his room and got into bed. Later, when everything had quieted down, he lit a candle and checked the room over. All seemed well until he got back into bed and reached his pistol back under the pillow. That was when he became aware that his knife, with his initials carved in the handle, was missing.
~*~
In the morning, Clint and Felipe were invited to have breakfast with Griego. Griego was still in his bed, but propped up. They were seated at a table by his bedside. Clint wondered how much who knew about what. They were served fruit, some of which Clint didn’t even know the name for. But it was all welcome after the spicy food he’d been stuck with for supper. It was smooth and fresh and he would have enjoyed it greatly if he hadn’t been worried about what had happened the previous night.
Griego’s eyes seemed to settle on him curiously every few minutes, as though waiting to see what he was going to say. Clint said nothing.
Felipe talked about his family some more, and then he and Griego both talked about the weather and about the danger from bandits that seemed to be everywhere. Griego’s eyes clouded over with thunderheads as he talked about bandits.
Finally, Griego settled back against his pillows and eyed Clint with faint amusement. But he addressed Felipe when he spoke.
“I believe I have never told you, Felipe, of a small incident which happened not very long ago. I wished to hire a norteamericano who goes by the name of Clint Evans to rescue Pepita. It is said this Señor Evans is a very effective hunter of men and has done many amazing things. It is said he searches for a man who killed his wife.” Griego was still looking at Clint, and Clint had a strong notion that Griego knew who he was.
“I sent a man to find this Señor Evans and my man carried money to pay Evans with. My man never returned.”
“It is Valenzuela,” Felipe said with such conviction that if Clint hadn’t known of Felipe’s involvement he would never have suspected it. “He has men everywhere. I do not think you will ever see this man again.”
“I do not expect it,” Griego said. And, still in Spanish, he addressed Clint. “You have killed him, have you not, Señor Evans? And taken the money.”
Clint did not let on.
Felipe looked shocked and translated the accusation into English. Clint looked what he hoped was surprised and said, “Tell him my name is Smith, and I can’t understand what’s put that notion into his head.”
When Felipe had translated, Griego’s smile remained steady on Clint. His hand fumbled under the covers and pulled out Clint’s knife.
“Señor Evans,” he said, “I am well aware that you speak Spanish, and so I do not see any reason to trouble Felipe for translations. As you can see, I have your knife. Now you understand the disturbance last night. Let us not continue with this charade, eh?”
Clint looked back into Griego’s eyes evenly, thinking. He had half a mind to put up a front of innocence, and hope Felipe would back him. But it would require long unconvincing explanations and in the end it was unlikely he’d ever convince Griego he was not Evans.
“It is a fine way to treat your guests,” he told Griego in Spanish.
“It is a fine way to treat a man who comes to hire you. It is beneath your dignity to kill such a man for money, is it not?” Griego’s eyes were hard.
“I did not wish to become involved. I refused both the job and the money offered. There was shooting from the darkness, killing your messenger. I left. A man came after me and I killed him. Another man was after me also, but
I got away.”
“And how is it you are here now with Felipe?”
“I am staying close to Felipe because I am hoping he can help me find Blake Dixon, who killed my wife.”
Griego smiled. “Felipe promised this?”
“Felipe has promised nothing. It is that he is my only hope of finding Dixon right now.”
“How is it you did not wish to rescue my daughter Pepita? The pay would be very high.”
“I do not like to become involved in family quarrels.”
It appeared for a moment that Griego would explode at this way of referring to the kidnapping, but he contained himself and said softly, “I will pay you as much as you desire, Señor Evans, if you will bring back my daughter alive and well.”
“It is not the money, Señor Griego. It is the lack of desire. I am sorry. I wish you well and my sympathies go with you, but I cannot become involved in this.”
Griego closed his eyes and looked very old.
“I could have you killed, Señor Evans,” he said weakly. “I could very easily think you killed Antonio and stole my money.”
“It would be a mistake,” Clint said flatly, leaving his meaning ambiguous.
Griego’s eyes opened, and he looked sadly at Clint. “Señor Evans, I care nothing for the life of one vaquero. I do not care if you have taken my money from him and in return have done nothing for it. I care only for my poor daughter who is in the hands of that bandit Valenzuela. If I considered that you would obey my orders and free her if I threatened your life, I would threaten it. But you need not fear, Señor Evans. I know enough of you to know that you would not scare so easily. You would be worse than useless in an attempt to rescue my daughter if you were not doing it because you wished to. Señor Evans, I must now appeal to your sense of right and decency and to your foresight of what will become of my daughter if she marries this dog. I am a very rich man, Señor Evans. I could afford to lose the mine which I have promised her as her dowry when she marries. It is not the wealth that concerns me. It is the man who will possess it, and worse, the man who will possess my daughter, against her will. Señor Evans, think of how it would be for you, if Pepita were your daughter. Would you be able to sleep or recover from your disease if your daughter were about to marry this scoundrel?”
