Back at his study at the old church, Devon pondered the texture of adobe in the afternoon shade. It was a good, small thing to focus on as he tried to make sense of what he had seen of Petra today. If she had not heard of Ricardo’s death before the sheriff announced it, she had very little emotion to show. If she had known already, either she had done a good job of concealing her knowledge in her two conversations with Devon, or the death had had little effect on her. In any case, it did not seem as if she had much sympathy, much less romantic ardor, for Ricardo. It was hard to know, then, what to make of her admitted willingness to run away with him. It may have been more talk than real intention, to spite her stepfather and her mother as well. She showed no discomfort at admitting to it, but there was no telling what she would have done if the moment had come for action.
Her admission itself, in retrospect, seemed almost too matter-of-fact, as if she had not expected Ricardo to begin with and had not waited up for him. Perhaps she had, even if she was not that enthralled with him, and then when he failed to show, she shrugged it off. Then again, she might have received a message that he would come, then gone to bed early and had her sweet head resting in slumber on a soft pillow, as Carlos would have liked to imagine it, and heard nothing whether Ricardo came or not. But it was difficult to think she would lie about expecting him to come, and it was at least as improbable that she would have heard or seen something and then lied to protect Don Felipe.
Something was missing, he was sure of that. If it wasn’t in Petra’s account of things, which held together almost toowell, in view of her lack of enthusiasm or feeling for Ricardo, it was in the actual sequence of events. If Ricardo did not come to the rancho, howdid he meet his death? Dev on could not envision Carlos going out to challenge him, or even winning if he ventured that far, and he could not picture Don Felipe coming and going without being heard. That left the possibility of a third suspect. One would think of Alfonso, but he had been at the rooster fight and then in the cantina. Beyond that, Devon had no idea what other suspects might be out there.
Even if someone else had waylaid Ricardo when he was on his way to the rancho, there was still something missing on this end of things. No matter how he kept mulling things over, Devon kept coming back to Petra. With all of her sense of propriety, would she really have run off with Ricardo? Would she have exposed herself to condescension from her stepfather, someone she considered to be lower in dignity than herself? Even if she wanted to spite him with her admission, wouldn’t it give him something to hold over her? One would think so, yet she was as undaunted as a stone.
All the time that Devon sketched the exposed adobe blocks and worked on the puzzle, he listened for the sound of the buggy. He doubted she would come. Only a couple of hours had passed since he had left in the wake of the sheriff’s visit, and though he and Petra had agreed to continue the visit again before long, he expected she would wait at least until the next day before she sallied out again in full repose.
Presently he had the sense that he had been hearing a sound and was just now becoming aware of it. It was a low, uneven, muffled sound of movement, with an occasional tinkling. He went to the side of the church opposite from where Petra arrived, and as he looked through a window opening, he saw a herd of sheep about three hundred yards away. Now he could hear their hooves crunching on the dry grass and scuffing on the earth. The animals were moving to his left, with a man on foot in back and a dog circling around this side. The man was leading a pack burro and carrying a shepherd’s staff. Devon stood at the window, and when the sheepherder came opposite and waved, he waved back.
The air was dry and hazy already, and now the dust of a thousand hooves hung like a thin cloud. The combination of dust and sheep smell reached Devon where he stood and looked out. The sheepherder walked to the far side of the bunch, then came back in Devon’s direction. He waved again, turned and walked along the flank of the herd for about forty yards, and then left the herd and came toward the church with his staff in his hand. The burro trailed behind on a lead rope.
When he was within thirty yards, the man called out, “Buenas tardes.”
Devon returned the greeting and observed the man as he came closer. He was of average height and slender, wearing a straw hat, drab peasant clothes, and leather sandals.
Smiling, he called out, “How are you?”
Devon noted the use of the formal usted form and used the same form in his answer. “Fine, and yourself?”
“Well enough.” After a pause, the man asked, “Are you the artist?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s what I thought. They said there was an American artist here, doing pictures of the tapias.”
Devon smiled and squinted into the sun as he nodded.
“Say,” said the man. “Do you have the makings of a cigarette?”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right. It’s good to come and say hello anyway.”
“Yes, it is.”
The man lingered, as if he was trying to think of something to say. “Are you here for very long?”
“This is my third day out here. I’m staying in town. Maybe a week longer.”
“That’s good.”
“And yourself, you take care of sheep?”
“Yes.”
“For the rancho?”
“Yes, Rancho Agua Prieta.”
“Good work, I hope.”
“Good enough.”
“I’ve met Alfonso. I suppose you deal mostly with him.”
“Alfonso, yes.”
Devon wondered how much more conversation he could make. He recalled Carlos’s comment that a common peon wouldn’t be allowed a horse. “Is that your burro?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a good one? What’s its name?”
“Perla.” Pearl.
“That’s a nice name.” Devon saw that the dog, a medium-sized black-and-white animal, had come up and was standing in the burro’s shadow. “Good dog.”
“Yes, he’s a good one.”
“A good dog is a treasure for a sheepherder, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Do you always have just one?”
“No, sometimes I have two, or three. I had another one, but it got killed.”
“Some bad luck.”
“I suppose. The patrón killed him.”
Devon made a face. “That’s too bad.”
“The dog came too close to the patrón’s horse, so he took out his pistol and gave it to him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, there’s not much to be done about it. We do our work and try to be happy.”
“Alfonso understands better.”
“Maybe.” The man didn’t say anything for a moment as he glanced around at the walls of the church. “Are you going to do a big painting?”
“Probably a few small or medium ones.”
“That’s good.” He turned and looked at his burro, and the dog perked up.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any tobacco.”
“Oh, that’s all right. It was worth asking. And I’m glad to meet you.”
“The same.”
The man stepped forward as Devon leaned out, and they shook hands. Then with a flick of the lead rope, the sheepherder turned and headed back to his flock. The dog, light-footed, went at his side.
Nice enough fellow. Probably didn’t have many choices in life, though. And he probably didn’t get much tobacco from Alfonso.
Devon went back to his sketch and tried to concentrate, but his thoughts returned to Petra. Try as he might to make sense of her attitude toward Ricardo, she remained inscrutable. On a smaller scale, he didn’t know what to make of her interest in him—whether she saw him as a curiosity, as something potentially more affectionate, or just a convenient burr to put under Don Felipe’s saddle.
With the various interruptions that had come his way, he felt he hadn’t made much progress, so he decided to call it quits for the day. He packed up his pencils and sketch pad and got the horse ready to go. Rather than cut straight across the plain to strike the road that led from the headquarters back to town, he meandered in the direction of the rancho. He admitted to himself that he had no clear objective—he was hoping he might cross paths with Petra, but he didn’t think he would go through the stone gateway and ask for her. Rather, if he bumped into someone, either Alfonso or a lesser hand, he might ask if he could go in and water his horse. If he saw no one, he could wander back to the road and return to town.
He loafed along, then, with his feet light in the stirrups and his upper body rocking with the movement of his horse. Now and then he cast his glance at the plains around him. It would be a while until the rancho came into view. He studied the ground for a while, wondering from what direction the sheep had come. The grass here was short and dry, but it hadn’t been grazed close or trampled.
When he looked up again, he felt a small jolt in the pit of his stomach and then made the identification. Ahead of him on the plain, half a mile away, appeared a white horse with a rider in black. The horse came straight at him, then turned almost ninety degrees and gave a partial profile of the right side. The horse seemed to sidestep for a few paces until it straightened out again. A hundred yards closer, it turned again and stepped as before. Then it turned and gave a left-side view and came prancing from that angle. After several minutes of display, the horse fell into a normal path again and came forward at a brisk walk, lifting its feet in sharp strokes and causing the black sombrero to move up and down.
Devon kept his own mount on its casual forward course. He felt silly, not because of his own plodding progress but because of the contrast between his plain presence and the elaborate self-presentation of the master of the rancho.
When Don Felipe drew up alongside, Devon noticed not only the customary clothing but also a pair of dark gray riding gloves. From there he took in the braided reins, horsehair noseband, and laced leather headstall with silver conchos.
“Buenas tardes,” he said.
“Buenas.” The master drew rein so that his right hand was poised about a foot above and forward from his pistol grip. The riding quirt dangled from his wrist. He had his chin lifted so that the wide sombrero brim made a dark circle against the sky. “Do you look for something?” he asked.
“No, not really.”
“If it’s not much trouble, could you tell me where you’re headed?”
Devon shrugged. “To town, I assume. I’ve done my study for the day.”
“That’s fine. Perhaps you are aware that the town is more in that direction.” He showed his teeth as he motioned with his head.
“Yes, but when I go this way, I am sure I can find the road.”
Don Felipe looked him up and down. “It’s easy to get lost farther out on the llano, but here, the road can be found from anywhere.”
“Yes, and I know there are even paths I can follow to get there, just as when I come from town. But a herd of sheep came through, and the ground doesn’t look the same.”
“Sheep.”
“Yes, a herd of them. Yours, I believe.”
“No doubt.” Don Felipe squinted as he looked out upon the plain. Then his nostrils flared, and his gaze came back to Devon. “Look,” he said, using the formal mode of address as always, “it’s all right for you to come and draw your pictures. But do not go seeking other things.”
“Very well. I—”
“Understood?”
“Yes, understood.”
“Good enough.” The master seemed to settle down an inch. “Have a safe trip to town. And may you continue to find inspiration in our humble church.”
“Thank you.”
“De nada,” he said in a curt tone, with his mouth open and his lower teeth showing. He turned his horse toward the rancho, put it into a trot for twenty yards, and then spurred it to a gallop.
Devon watched the black-and-white figure recede. He didn’t think the master had lost much self-assurance through the visit from the sheriff, but he wondered if this most recent gesture came from a need to reassert his authority. It could be. Petra’s statement that she had planned to run off with Ricardo may have stirred the stepfather’s pot enough to compel him to take it out on the nearest possible suitor.
Still, he was the landowner, and he had made clear what the artist was welcome to do. Devon turned his horse to the left and headed north, telling himself he needed to respect the bounds of hospitality and at the same time admitting he had let the other man play out his role as the dominant male. It was like one dog covering another’s mark, or a horse laying back his ears and getting ready to take a gouge out of an animal lower in the pecking order. Devon didn’t like the feeling, and he knew he was going to have to learn to summon up resistance.
In town, he let the horse drink at the stone water tank as he lifted his hat and dragged his shirtsleeve across his forehead. He felt as if he had put in a full day’s work, but in the view of a blacksmith or even a sheepherder, it was trivial play. So be it. At least he knew what he was working on, or he thought he did.
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?”
“This 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.