“Yes, it is one of his great passions,” she commented, as if shewere speaking of avarice or gluttony.
“And what does the rancho dedicate itself to? Mostly livestock?”
“Cattle and sheep. My father raised great numbers of both, and the men still tend to them. That is what my mother lives from.”
“But Don Felipe is the owner?”
“He is the boss, and what is my mother’s became his. But my father, in life, provided for the future of his wife and daughter.”
Devon could see that she clung tight to some ideas, just as she did to the handle of her parasol, which she seemed about to wrench with both gloved hands.
“Tell me what you know about this church,” he said.
“The person who really knew about it was my father. All I know is what I have heard.” From there she went into a general narrative of how the grandfather of a grandfather oversaw the building of the church and gave to it generously. The best priests came from Spain. They were men of learning and drank fine wine with her father’s grandfather. Then the hacienda was divided up, and the town of Tinaja grew. The common people became very numerous, and the diocese built the church in town. Now she and her mother went to mass there.
“And do you have other family?”
“There are some aunts and uncles left, and many cousins.”
“I think I met one of your cousins in town. Carlos Hernández.”
“Oh, yes. He is my cousin.” She smoothed her parasol and pointed the tip at a piece of exposed adobe block. “Tell me. When you paint, do you represent all the defects?”
“In my style, yes. I am a realist. I came here looking for things no longer perfect.”
“Sad things.”
“Melancholy, let’s say.” He made a motion with his hand. “Something to activate feeling.”
She smiled. “That is good, to knowyour purpose.”
At that moment, a motion caught Devon’s eye. On the other side of the buggy, a dark figure had ridden up on a white horse. Devon was sure it was Don Felipe, but the man had his head tilted and turned away, and the large brim of the sombrero closed off the features of his face. Then the head turned, and Don Felipe looked down on him with an imperious gaze.
Devon made an inquisitive gesture toward Petra, who gave a flick to her eyebrows as if she were trying to ignore a hanger-on at a dance.
“It is very good,” she said, her voice a little louder than before. “My mother is glad to know there is an artist here. We have so little culture these days. I am sure she would like to meet you.”
“It would be a pleasure for me, whenever it would be convenient.”
“Why not this afternoon, then? When you are done with your study here, we can expect you at the house. To take something.”
“Oh, that would be fine.”
She called to the driver in a loud voice, to tell him they would be leaving in a minute. Then she turned to Devon again. “Do you have with you something to eat?”
“Oh, yes. I brought a bit of food and water. Don’t expect me until after mealtime.”
She lingered. “And what do you like to take for refreshment? Tea? Coffee? A cool fruit drink?”
“Whatever you have. I’m sure I will enjoy it.”
She pulled at her gloves, shifted her parasol, and gave Devon her hand. “Very well, we will see you later. At the house.”
“Certainly. And thank you.”
As she walked back to the buggy and let herself be handed up, Devon thought he understood why she took her time to leave. It would be a way of telling Don Felipe she would take her own good time. As for the master of the rancho, he was already gone.
Chapter Three
Rancho Agua Prieta was a satisfying sight, as it came into view right where Devon expected to find it. In no hurry, he sat relaxed in the saddle as his horse plucked along. From time to time in the last mile as he looked over the country, he let his gaze rest on the rancho. With the trees on the west side casting shadows in mid-afternoon, it had a peaceful look to it, and he saw no motion or dust rising from within the walls.
When he was within a quarter mile of the gate, he heard drumming hoofbeats off to his right. A rider was coming in at a gallop, angling across to reach the gate ahead of him. Devon noted the dark horse, then the cream-colored hat and brown vest of Alfonso. The man rode light in the stirrups, leaning forward, and as he cut in front, Devon saw that he was slapping his right boot with a short length of knotted rope. Alfonso let out a whistle and a sharp yell, more for effect than necessity, as the gatekeeper was already swinging one half of the gate inward.
Devon gave his horse a nudge to pick up the pace. The ranch hand was holding the gate open, and be sides, Devon wanted to get a closer look at the wooden effigy on the foreman’s saddle horn. He had barely glimpsed it earlier, and now that Alfonso had thundered by, Devon’s curiosity was piqued again. He rode the horse at a lope until he reached the entrance, then slowed down so as not to raise dust in the yard.
He nodded to the gatekeeper as he rode through. As he expected, very little was moving inside the enclosure. The cottonwoods around the dark pool whispered as a faint breeze stirred the leaves, and the sound of a closing door carried on the air. Alfonso walked from the tack room to the dark horse, which stood barebacked and shiny where the saddle had been. The foreman untied the horse from the hitching rail and led it to the stone trough.
Devon rode through the middle of the yard, which again struck him as a parade ground with its packed dirt and its regimented layout. Ahead on his left, a powder-gray horse stood snubbed to the training post with a nondescript riding saddle on it and a burlap bag of grain tied across the seat. The horse stood still but gave Devon the wide eye as he passed.
By the time he dismounted and got the horse tied near the tack room, Alfonso was no longer in sight. On second thought, Devon untied the horse, led it to the water trough, loosened the cinch, and let the horse drink. Then he tied it to the hitching rail again and walked to the double doors of the portal.
The entryway was easily large enough for a carriage to pass through, and the left door had a smaller walk-through door built into it. On the frame of the inset door he rapped with the butt end of his penknife.
After a long moment, the door opened inward and a woman appeared. She had a plain face, drawn and creased, with her hair tied back, and she wore a servant’s apron.
“Yes, sir?”
“I believe they are expecting me.”
The woman’s brown eyes swept over him, taking in, he was sure, his light hair and skin and his blue eyes.
“You are the artist?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Very well. Please come in.”
She stood aside and let him pass into the portal, a roofed entryway with the entrance to the house on the left and an open view of the patio straight ahead. His eyes adjusted to the shade, which reached out a few yards into the patio. Sitting by herself at a round table well within the shade was Petra, the young woman he had met earlier.
She rose from her chair and said, “Please come and have a seat.”
Devon took off his hat and walked across the paving stones of the portal, noting an open door a few yards to the right and a dark tack room beyond it. Then he let his eyes meet Petra’s as he took her hand in greeting.
“Please sit down.” She looked past him to the servant and with less warmth said, “Consuelo, tell my mother the artist is here.”
“Sí, señorita.” The older woman turned and went into the house.
As Petra sat down, she said, “My mother is about to finish her dinner. She won’t be long.”
“I should have come a little later. Iwas in no hurry.”
She gave a light frown and shook her head. “Don’t worry. She waits for him to finish, that is all.”
“Oh. And you yourself have eaten?”
“Before.”
“Ah. Very well.”
She touched the hard, bright earring on her ri
ght. “And how did you find the ruins of the old church? Interesting?”
“Yes. It is all very much so.”
“A lovely sadness,” she said, without a trace of humor or sorrow.
“It is different for me than for you. I am an outsider, come to observe the picturesque.”
“And to find your vision.”
He flinched at having it repeated where someone else might hear it. “That’s just an idea.”
She smiled. “What harm is there in an idea? After all, so many people have none at all.”
“Oh, I suppose everyone has ideas of some kind. As one of our writers said, if a man’s thoughts are of oxen, his dreams will be of oxen as well. Don’t you think? Even if a person has, shall we say, not very elegant topics of thought, at least he has them.”
“So that he may dream of oxen.” She gave a dry laugh.
“There are worse things. At least they are honest dreams, based on honest work.” He thought of an open spot. “I am sure your father believed in the value of all work. After all, someone has to kill the chickens, clean the stables, render the lard.”
“You are right. My father tended to all the affairs of the rancho, and he made sure all his people had their proper jobs.”
“I am sure he did it well.”
“And he did it without a caporal.”
“A caporal?”
“The second boss.”
An image of Alfonso and his leather vest presented itself. “Oh. A person to take care of the cattle and sheep.”
“Yes, and to look into everything and tell the servants how to do it, even unto gathering the eggs and grinding the corn for tortillas.”
Devon was tempted to ask about the saddle horn, but he decided to go at it less directly. “To oversee such a large ranch must entail a great deal of movement. Did your father have horses for himself to ride?”
“Oh, yes. Very fine ones. But not for show.”
“Of course.”
“Do you paint horses?”
“Not very much. But I do have a small interest in saddles.”
“For painting?”
“Perhaps for a detail in a larger picture.” He paused to look at her dark eyes and light-complexioned face. Her features were not so soft as to make him feel he was taking advantage of her. “Do you still have your father’s saddles?”
“Oh, yes. No one touches them.” She raised her head in the manner of a person who had a prized possession to show. “Would you like to see them?”
“It would be an honor.”
She rose from her chair. “Come this way.” She led him to the tack room he had passed earlier. It’s dark,” she said. “Let me open the door.” She went inside, and a moment later the room was lit by daylight coming in through the front door.
Devon stepped into the room and surveyed all the gear. There had to be upwards of twenty saddles, ranging from old, dusty antiques to others, nearer the door, that were slick from recent use.
“These were my father’s,” she said, moving to the back of the room and pointing out a pair of saddles on racks jutting out from the wall.
The first saddle was a tall, rigid-looking affair with a high cantle and swells that made the seat look narrow and deep, then stirrups with thick tapaderos that hung low. It had inlaid silver across the cantle and along the skirts, as well as silver conchos for the saddlestrings and on the taps.
The saddle next to it had a similar build but less ornament. It had leather rosettes instead of silver conchos, and it had a plain, round wooden pommel rising straight up. This one was no doubt lighter than the first one, but Devon guessed it would still weigh a good sixty pounds.
“Just these two?”
“He had others, more common, but he gave them to his trusted workers before he passed away.”
Devon paused, uncertain how to answer. Then he said, “I am not familiar with that kind of pommel.”
She shrugged. “There are many kinds.”
He swept his glance over the other saddles in the room. “And the rest?”
She pointed to a row of half a dozen, all of them clean and shiny and of a similar style with large, flat saddle horns that reminded Devon of small upside-down skillets. The leather had been dyed in rich colors—one saddle was black, another oxblood, another mahogany, another the color of honey.
“These are his,” Petra said, motioning with her head toward the house.
Devon nodded as he wandered toward the rank and file of working saddles. “And these? They are for the cowboys and the sheepherders?”
“Yes.”
He noticed curled saddle leather, a frayed belly cinch, a latigo mended with twine. There was a mixture of styles, ranging from the high and narrow to the low and flat. Some saddle horns were covered and wrapped in leather, some were of bare brass sticking up from the swells, and some were of the now-familiar wooden type. He meandered past a row of these saddles and then walked around to get a front view as he came back. Finally he saw the one he had seen before, a large wooden knob with human features carved into it. The eye sockets and the recesses of the grinning mouth were painted black.
“All very interesting.”
“Do you have an interest in drawing one of them?”
“Oh, not right now. I often think of things a little at a time. But I thank you for showing them to me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Shall I close the door, then?”
“Yes, please. I will wait for you outside.” She moved toward the door to the portal.
When they were seated again at the table in the patio, she said, “It is good that people take an interest in the old things. It is so easy for others to forget.”
“Yes, things change. Before I came here, I heard that this was a place where things had not changed much, yet I can see they have.”
“Oh, yes. In the days of my grandfather and great-grandfather, everything was more elegant—the clothes, the coaches, the servants. But little by little, themoney ran out. My grandfather, who never had to work in his lifetime, realized that his sons would have to. He decided thatmy fatherwould run the ranch.”
“Was he the eldest son?”
“No, but my grandfather saw that he was the best suited. Even as a small boy, my father played with the bones left over from the menudo and pozole. He pretended that they were his cattle and sheep and horses. And he was good with numbers, always counting the sacks of grain in the warehouse or the animals in a herd.”
“A good decision, then, on your grandfather’s part.”
“Yes. My father was attentive to all details. He built up the herds and restored the finances, and my grandfather and grandmother lived in comfort until the end of their days.”
“A very good son.”
“Very good, even though it meant some sacrifice, that he waited until later in life to marry and to have his own house.”
“That is worthy.”
“He was a man of great principle. And he made sure that his wife and daughter would be provided for. He did not know, of course, that it would become the plaything of another man, all that he left, but he fulfilled his duty.”
“A man to be admired.”
“Would you like to see a painting of him?”
Devon wondered about going into the house with so little ceremony. “Well, I suppose.”
“It is a small one. I will bring it. You are an artist. You will appreciate it.” She rose from her chair and crossed the patio to a door he had not noticed earlier.
She was back in a couple of minutes, carrying a framed miniature about five inches by eight. “Here,” she said, placing it in his hands. “He had this painted in the year before he died.”
Devon tipped the portrait to see it in better light. The artist had done a good job of capturing an ex pression of dignity. The late Vicente Cantera had a steady gaze and a firm chin. His graying hair, receding on top, was neatly trimmed and combed. His bushy gray mustache, which came out to a point on each side, rem
inded Devon of a photograph he had seen of Porfirio Díaz, the president of Mexico. Señor Cantera wore a high white collar, a black tie, and a dark gray jacket. The artist had mixed his colors well, just as he had done with the dark brown eyes and the royal blue background.
“A handsome man,” said Devon as he handed back the portrait.
“The best.”
“Do you want to put it away?”
“There is no hurry.”
“The sunlight, though it is not direct, is not good for a fine piece of work like that.”
She raised her eyebrows, as if in mild surprise. “Is that right? I hadn’t thought of that.” She stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
For the few minutes she was gone, Devon gazed out through the open gate at the far end of the patio. A small orchard of fruit trees grew beyond the wall; earlier he had noticed their bushy tops, and now through the opening he could see the branches and their shapes. It looked as if the trees were cherry, peach, and plum, all of which would have born their fruit and been picked for this season. Now they seemed restful as they cast their shade.
Petra came out of the house and rejoined her guest at the table. “Still my mother does not come.”
“It’s all right. I’m comfortable here.”
“She won’t be long.”
Thinking back on an earlier part of the conversation, Devon appreciated what went unsaid: that Petra did not eat at the same table with her stepfather, and that the master might be taking his time when he knew his wife was waiting to meet a visitor. With nothing to say about any of that, Devon let his gaze drift around the roofed area between the house and the tack room. He noticed something he had seen earlier but had not registered consciously. It was a rectangular cage with a wood frame and a screen covering, suspended from the roofbeams of the portal by thick wires.
“What is that thing there?”
“It is for keeping cheese. When the door is open, the air circulates.”
“Oh, yes. That’s good for cheese. I didn’t think it was a bird cage.”
“No. My mother does have a bird cage, though, with a lovely white dove. Sometimes Consuelo sets it out here in the morning.”
Death at Dark Water Page 3