There would be time to think about that tomorrow. Devon brushed away the thoughts of sad young men and recalled again the warm interlude with Ramona. That was his good fortune for the moment, and he was going to enjoy it. If he got to do so again, so much the better.
Chapter Seven
Devon sat with his back against the wall that divided the priest’s quarters from the main building of the church. Across the room in front of him, about twelve feet away, stood the stone fireplace. Except for a couple of gaps where rocks had fallen from the top of the opening, it was intact. Four feet to the left of it stood an open doorway looking out onto the plain. Like the other exterior doorways in the church ruins, this one had a barricade of rocks about three feet high.
The adobe that the door was set into was much thicker than the wooden frame, so the wall came out from the doorway nearly a foot and had been finished square all the way around. Like so many other spots he had seen here, the flat area of the wall showed various levels of deterioration. On the right-hand side, as with the doorway he had sketched a couple of days earlier, the bare ends of the adobe block showed through from about the height of the lintel to about the middle of the doorway. Back from that barest exposure lay an irregular area of adobe-colored mortar, covered in turn by a jagged layer of stucco-like plaster, which here and there, by the vagaries of time and weather, still held patches of paint.
As he sketched the scene, he wondered again if he would be able to capture his idea—in this instance, the degrees of resistance to time. Of that which was visible, the thinnest and least resistant was the paint, of course, but something that had an even shorter duration was the man, or series of men, who had lived in these quarters. Through that doorway the priest would have carried in firewood and hauled out ashes; he would have gone outside at times of necessity, and he no doubt would have paused there, now and then, to ponder the vast landscape. Devon feared that in the end he would have only a picture of cracked plaster and flaking paint, that he would not be able to imbue the scene with an idea about change or with the feeling that a person had once dwelt here.
He told himself he could not let himself worry about doing it all at once. He needed to work on it in parts; today was just a study. If he worked on all the little pieces, perhaps they would come together.
As he worked, he wondered if he would have any visitors today. News of Ricardo’s death should have made its way to the ranch the day before, and certainly by this morning at the latest. He imagined that if anyone were to come by, it would be Don Felipe or Alfonso, to tell him to go back to town and stay out of the way for a day or two. He did not relish the prospect of a solitary meeting with Don Felipe, but he felt that he himself had been neutral enough that no one would see him as troublesome. He was just the artist, a maker of pictures.
Devon smiled as he turned his pencil sideways to shade the interior of the scene. Men’s wives had run off with painters; their daughters had been seduced by them. For that matter, wives and daughters had been seduced by priests as well, perhaps even in this room. In the world at large, men and women had had their trysts in coaches and cloakrooms, woodsheds and haymows, law offices and graveyards. It was folly for a man to think he could screw down his control like a giant wine press, even if he had some good sense as to the parties he should leave alone.
The short, low sound of a human voice took him out of his work and his wandering speculations. He rose from his seat on the floor and made his way through the main part of the church. He thought it a little too early for Petra to be visiting, but when he reached a window opening on the side where she had arrived before, there sat the horse and buggy with the aged driver in his usual relaxed pose. Petra sat in the shade of the canopy, her dark hair and light complexion visible.
Devon presented himself at the window and, touching his hat brim, called out, “Buenos días.”
Petra called back the same, then spoke to Miguel, who climbed down from his seat to hand her to the ground.
She opened her parasol and walked toward the building in her airy way. Devon noticed that her hair was tied back as usual, and she had on a pair of dark red earrings the size of .45-caliber bullet points. She wore a dark jacket and white blouse, with the silver cross shining on her chest. Her dark skirt flared out and reached down to her ankles, covering the top buttons on her shoes. From her fresh and untroubled expression, Devon guessed she had not heard any upsetting news.
“How are you today?” she asked as she came to a rest and gave him her gloved hand.
He caught a small trace of perfume as he took her hand and released it. “Well enough. And yourself?”
“Quite well.” She turned her head to survey the building, as if he were working on the structure itself. “And how goes your work?”
“Rather well, I think. There are always new perspectives to gather, and little by little they may add up.”
“Then you are not in a hurry to leave Rancho Agua Prieta?”
“Not unless someone is in a hurry for me to leave.”
She gave a light laugh. “To the contrary. As I said before, my mother is very pleased that the rancho is worthy of an artist’s attention.”
“It is small homage when the artist’s abilities are not very considerable.”
She directed her tight smile at him as she tilted her head. “You are very modest.”
He smiled, relaxed. “I try to tell the truth.”
“Always the best.” She looked at the ground and then at him again.
“What else?” he asked.
“Tell me, are you a prisoner of your work today?”
“Do you mean, am I governed by it?”
“Oh, no. I mean, can you leave? My mother would like to invite you to eat with us, but we do not want to interrupt your work.”
Devon tried to catch a quick study of her face, but he found it impenetrable. “As I said, my work is in small pieces. There is no imperative schedule or sequence. And I greatly appreciate your mother’s courtesy.”
With a tiny smile she gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Did you not bring your own meal?”
“Oh, yes, but I’m sure it will keep for a day. It will be a pleasure to have dinner at your house.”
“Excellent. It will please my mother.”
“At about what time, then?”
“A little before one.”
He gave a faint wag to his head. “I don’t want to be a prisoner of the clock, of course.”
She twirled her parasol. “Oh, that was a thoughtless thing for me to say, wasn’t it? It was not well considered.”
“Don’t give it a thought. We are all prisoners to something, at one time or another. Better it should be work than some other things.”
“That is true. My mother said you are intelligent, and she is right.”
“I will try not to prove her wrong.”
They both laughed.
Petra, with her voice raised a little, said, “We will expect you then.” She gave him her hand and walked to the carriage. Miguel let himself down, handed her up to her seat beneath the canopy, and climbed back to his place. Petra waved her white gloved hand as the buggy turned, and the visit was over. As the vehicle rolled away, Devon scanned the surrounding plain to see if anyone had ridden out as a chaperone today. To his surprise, he saw no one.
The gate of Rancho Agua Prieta swung open as Devon drew near. The headquarters had a still, quiet appearance as he passed through the stone gateway. The leaves on the cottonwoods around the dark pool did not move; no horses were tied in the training area, and no people stirred. Devon expected Alfonso to come thundering in behind him, but no such thing happened. Except for a couple of horses thumping in their stalls, no sounds carried as he rode to the stone water trough, dismounted, loosened the cinch, and let his horse drink. Then he led the animal to the hitching rail and tied him.
He heard no sounds from within as he walked to the entryway of the portal. There he paused, still hearing nothing, until he took out his penknife
and rapped on the frame of the walk-through door. After a long moment of waiting, the door opened to show Consuelo’s anxious countenance.
“Yes, sir?”
“The señora and her daughter invited me.”
“One minute, please.”
She closed the door partway, and Devon heard footsteps on the paving stones. He did not hear anyone go into the house. Then he heard footsteps returning, and Consuelo opened the door again.
“Please come in.” She stood back, smoothing her hands on her apron.
As Devon stepped into the roofed area of the portal and was letting his eyes adjust from the glare outside, Consuelo motioned with her left hand toward the patio.
“The señorita waits for you.”
Devon saw her then as she rose from her chair. The table had been pulled closer in to the portal, as the shade had not yet stretched very far out to the patio. He crossed the paved area, noticing that the tack room on his right was closed.
“Buenas tardes,” he called as he took off his hat.
She returned the greeting.
“I hope I’m not too early.” He heard the door close as Consuelo went into the house.
“Not at all. Please sit down.” She gave him her hand for a light touch and settled again onto her chair.
“It’s a nice day,” he said. “Warm, but very agreeable. Calm and quiet.”
“Yes, that is nice.”
“And your mother is well?”
She seemed to hesitate. “Well, yes. But there has been a small change in plans. Earlier in the day, before I went to invite you, she did not think that he was going to eat here at midday. But as it turns out, he does not leave.”
Devon asked his question without thinking very far ahead. “Oh, did he change his mind when he found out that the two of you invited me?”
“I don’t know,” was her quick response. “Sometimes it is his way, to change things on short notice. But I don’t ask him.”
“Very well. I gather that they have the custom of taking their meal together, but by themselves.”
“Something like that. But you are still invited, I assure you. If you don’t mind, we will eat out here.”
“Enchanted.”
“My mother will join us by and by, I am sure.”
“Whenever she wishes, it will be a pleasure.”
“Yes, and like you say, it is a very pleasant day.”
At the sound of the house door opening, Devon turned in his seat. When he saw that it was only Consuelo, he wished he had had better repose—like Petra, who sat relaxed as she gazed across the patio at the now-fruitless plum and peach trees.
Consuelo spoke a fewwords in a lowvoice to Petra, got a “sí” for a response, andwent back into the house.
“It is certainly quiet today,” Devon resumed.
“Oh, yes.”
“I don’t mean to say this in a negative way, of course, but do you ever get bored?”
She widened her eyes and tilted her head. “Not much. And you?”
“Oh, no. I don’t. I always have things to absorb my attention.”
“My father always said it was not good to be bored. It made a person wish for life to pass by too quickly.”
Devon realized it was the first time today she had mentioned her father. As a more general reflection, he thought she wasn’t very conversational yet, either. “I would agree with that. I’m sure your father had a great deal of wisdom.”
“Oh, yes. He lived through many things, and they were not lost on him.”
“I can see he was a good example for you.”
Her look fell. “Sometimes I think I do not benefit enough.” Then she seemed to get control of herself, for she raised her head and had an impassive expression on her face. “At other times, however, I think he would approve of some things as little as I do. Perhaps even less.”
“It’s difficult to say, isn’t it?”
“He was a hard man at times. He had to be. I know he would understand why I don’t conform. And as for other things, such as the habits I mentioned the other day, I have no doubt of what he would think.”
“Yet things go on in their own way, don’t they?”
She seemed to be looking down her nose at her own gloved hands, which she held together on the table in front of her. “So it seems.” Then her eyes met his again as she said, “Why did you ask if I get bored? Do I look bored? Or does this life seem boring to you?”
“Neither of the two. It’s just that people in town have told me that nothing ever happens here, and I was wondering how you saw it.”
The corners of her mouth went down. “People say many things. It doesn’t do to pay themmuchmind.”
Consuelo came out with a large round tray. On it were two covered plates, two glasses of what looked like fruit-flavored water, and a linen cloth wrapped in the shape of a stack of tortillas. Petra sat with her hands in her lap as the servant rested the tray on the edge of the table and set the meal out.
“Un momento,” said the older woman. She turned and hurried away, and a couple of minutes later she returned with napkins and silverware. “Provecho,” she said with a slight bow as she withdrew.
Petra raised the cover of her plate, and Devon did likewise. As the steam cleared, he saw the encouraging prospect of strips of meat that had been cooked with green chile, onion, and tomato. To the side of the main serving sat a mound of refried beans with a melted cap of white cheese.
“Here are the tortillas,” said Petra, reaching into the cloth and taking out a corn tortilla for herself.
Devon did likewise, and the two of them ate without speaking. Consuelo appeared once, and at a word from Petra she went back to the house. Devon wondered if she was waiting on two tables at once or if the master had finished earlier and was now lingering over his second cigarette.
The silence continued for a while longer. Devon finished his meal and fruit drink and was beginning to think about dessert when he heard a commotion out front. At first it was a rumble of horse hooves, and as that noise faded, there came the sound of men’s voices.
Petra looked at him with a questioning frown.
“Someone is here,” he said. “Shall we go see?”
“Yes.”
She rose from her seat as he did, and they walked together to the entry that was built into the large double door. Devon opened the smaller door inward to let Petra peer out.
“Do you know them?”
“Some of them.”
“Shall we go outside?”
“Yes. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Petra stepped through the doorway and Devon followed, putting on his hat and then taking a place to her right as the men and horses milled in the dust that had risen. All of the riders had dismounted and were now gathering their reins and getting the horses settled. One man had handed his reins to another and was coming forward. He had a large gray mustache and a florid face that went along with his full girth. He wore a tall, dark brown hat, a wool vest of a lighter shade, a gray wool shirt, tan leather gloves, and a pistol with a dark brown grip. Devon counted the others. There were five, with the six horses.
“Good afternoon,” said the man.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” answered Petra. “In what way can we help you?”
After a glance at Devon, the man said, “Is your father at home?”
Petra’s face stiffened. “You mean Don Felipe, of course. I believe he is within the house.”
She turned to the open doorway, as did Devon, in time to see Consuelo going into the house.
A couple of minutes later, Don Felipe emerged in full dress, complete with his black sombrero and embroidered jacket, his pearl-gray shirt, his pistol and riding quirt, his trousers with the braided seams, and his boots and spurs. The large rowels clinked as he came out of the shaded portal and stood in the sunlight on the other side of Petra. Behind him in the doorway stood Emilia, looking worried and hesitant, and at her shoulder, just behind, stood Consuelo.
&
nbsp; “Don Felipe,” began the sheriff. “Buenas tardes.”
“Muy buenas.” Don Felipe’s eyes traveled to the other men and back to the sheriff. “And how can I be of service to you today?”
“Regrettably, I have had to come to ask questions.”
Don Felipe raised his chin and, with his left hand, lifted a tailor-made cigarette to his lips and took a puff. “Indeed?”
“Yes. About a very unfortunate thing that has happened.” The sheriff’s eyes were roving, as if he were reluctant to proceed.
“Good enough. Go ahead.”
The sheriff held his gaze steadier. “You have known Ricardo Vega, I am sure.”
“Without a doubt.”
“And it is said that recently you had some strong words with him.”
Don Felipe, with the advantage of standing on slightly higher ground than the sheriff, plus with his additional height, was able to look down on the man. “Nothing to be sorry for. I simply told him to stay away from my daughter.”
The sheriff flicked a glance at Petra and came back to Don Felipe. “I understand that you told him to stay off your land, otherwise he risked his life.”
Don Felipe made a dismissive expression. “These young men are headstrong, impulsive. I felt it necessary to use forceful words, to let him know I was serious, and that’s why I don’t regret it. He hasn’t come back.”
“But you did make the threat?”
“Of course I did. Why deny it? Several people heard it.” He took another drag from the cigarette.
“Are you a man of your word?”
A look of disdain crossed over Don Felipe’s face as he raised his right hand. After pointing at the sheriff he turned his finger to his own chest and said, “I, sir, am a horseman, skilled in my art and steeped in my honor. I am the master of this rancho, which you are now on. I do not toss around my words in vain. And I believe this young Ricardo Vega knows it, and for that he has not come back but rather goes crying to you.”
Death at Dark Water Page 9