The Griego hacienda was in the foothills of the Sierra Madre not very far into Mexico. It was a sunny, rich spot halfway between the brutal wastes of the desert and the impenetrable jumbled mass of the mountains. The Griego hacienda ran cattle and did it on a grand scale. As he rode with Felipe over a hill and had a view of the sprawl of the buildings near a sparkling river, the mass of the Sierra Madre behind, the fluffs of distant summer clouds overhead, Clint drew a deep breath. He had always thought of Mexico as desert and endless squalid repetitions of Felipe. But it appeared there was wealth here in places.
They passed a group of vaqueros, looking prosperous and healthy for their kind, whooping cows into a bunch to drive off somewhere. Felipe waved and a couple of them waved back.
After a half hour, during which it seemed that the buildings got no closer, they dropped behind a ridge, and when they topped it a few minutes later, they were almost in the dooryard.
Felipe was known here, and because Clint was with Felipe he was also accepted with friendly politeness. Yet, Clint had the feeling that it was nothing more than politeness, that he was being tolerated, not trusted. Clint didn’t care a hang for that, but figured he’d stay next to Felipe. He wasn’t confident he wouldn’t be ambushed if he were to be separated from the tortilla chili pepper.
Their animals were taken care of by cordial vaqueros who joked with Felipe about the burros. Then they were shown into the house, which went in for the usual Spanish architecture: high ceilings, a patio full of flowers and caged birds in the middle. The uniformed man who had let them in took them along to a room that seemed taller than it was long and whose white stucco walls were hung with what looked like priceless paintings and whose furniture was equally valuable. Lying in a huge bed under a canopy of silk tapestries was a shriveled little figure in a white nightcap and bedclothes showing a hunting scene. The man’s head was propped up gently by the man who let them in, and Felipe approached the bedside.
“Hola, Felipe,” Griego said weakly, trying to smile. Continuing in Spanish, he said, “So, my cousin, what is occurring at that scoundrel’s camp? Do you have a message for me?”
Clint had passed the letter from Pepita to Felipe before they entered the house, and now Felipe passed the letter to Griego, who took it in a bony, shaking hand.
“Who is your American companion, Felipe?” he asked as he fumbled trying to open the seal.
“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.