Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  Standing under the wide sky, Devon realized he had helped send Ricardo’s kinsmen to the rancho. That meant one thing. He couldn’t go back to his room, get a night’s sleep, and find out in the morning what had happened—not after having spilled the beans. He owed it to Doña Emilia and Petra, and maybe by some stretch Don Felipe, to get a horse and ride out there tonight.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The moon hung high and bright, a couple of nights past the full moon, so Devon felt he was up to the task of making a fast ride across the plain. The trail would look different at night, but he knew it well enough. Don Felipe would have arrived at the rancho a ways ahead of him, and Alfonso might have gotten there as well. The main hazard, other than the horse taking a spill, was the chance that he might cross paths with or be pursued by Ricardo’s people before he made it to the rancho.

  Devon rousted the stableman, who came to the door barefoot and wrapped in a serape. When Devon told him what he needed, the man complained that it was way too early, but as Devon persisted, the man said he would be back in a moment. A few minutes later he reappeared, dressed in his work clothes and carrying a lantern. In another ten minutes he had Devon’s horse ready to go.

  As he handed the reins to Devon in the lamp-lit stable, he said, “Something in earnest would help me not worry about letting a horse go in the middle of the night. Anything could happen.”

  Devon winced as he imagined breaking his neck or getting a bullet through the ribs. “Take this,” he said, giving the man a ten-dollar gold piece. “We’ll settle the account later.”

  “Very well, sir.” The stableman opened the door. “I hope everything goes well for you.”

  “Thank you.” Devon led the horse out into the moonlight, checked the cinch, and stepped into the saddle. He let the animal walk to the edge of town, to warm it up and to get out of earshot of the sleeping townspeople. Then he touched his heel to the flank, and the horse went into a lope.

  Devon could feel that his recent riding stood him in good stead. His balance and his riding legs fit right into place, and he felt in harmony with the animal as it covered the ground. The trail was not hard to follow, and the horse knew it anyway, so the country flowed by. In the cool of the night, Devon could smell the dry grass and dust and the warm, sweetish odor of the horse.

  The rancho did not come into view quite as soon as he expected, but the trail was true and the horse was dependable, and finally the adobe wall and the stone gateway appeared in the moonlight about half a mile ahead. As he peered in the night, he made out the darker shapes of the trees, taller on the left side than on the right.

  He followed the trail right up to the gate, which, to his surprise, stood partway open. Having slowed the horse to a walk, he reined it left and then right to weave through the gateway. Just as he was straightening the animal out, an unseen force slammed the free end of the gate into the front shoulder of the horse, which lurched sideways and backwards. Devon lost his right stirrup and began to slip to the left, so rather than take a fall, he grabbed the saddle horn with both hands, kicked his feet free, and pushed backwards. He landed on his feet with the left rein still in his grasp.

  A coarse voice came from the shadows of the trees on the other side of the gateway. “Who goes there?”

  “It is I, the artist.”

  “Beggar,” said the other man. As he stepped forward from the shadows, his pale hat shone in the moonlight, which also cast a sheen on the leather vest.

  “Alfonso,” said Devon, “there’s not any time to lose.”

  The foreman laid his left hand on the headstall of Devon’s horse. “You presume too much,” he said, with a slur that Devon could now detect.

  “Look, I didn’t come to fight. I came to warn Don Felipe.”

  “He doesn’t need your help.”With his hand still on the bridle, Alfonso stepped in front of the horse and pushed his chest out. “And who’s to say you won’t fight?” Letting go of the headstall, he stepped forward andwith both hands shoved Devon backwards.

  Devon could smell liquor on the man’s breath, and although the shove was forceful, it was clumsy. Devon stumbled backward, letting go of the rein, and then regained his footing.

  Alfonso took another step forward and swung out his right arm in an attempt to grab Devon by the shirtfront.

  Devon batted the hand away and got into a better stance. “Look,” he said, “don’t be so difficult.”

  Alfonso lunged forward in an apparent move to grab a hold, but Devon stepped back and aside. Alfonso stumbled, straightened up, turned, and rushed again.

  Devon smelled liquor and sweat as the man closed in on him. Devon was reluctant to throw the first punch and turn things into a fistfight, so he ducked and grabbed Alfonso’s right leg. Then he stood up and away, holding his opponent’s leg by the calf and boot heel. Alfonso hopped on his left foot to try to keep balance until Devon stepped forward, planted his right foot behind the other man’s heel, gave the uplifted leg a slight turn, and sent Alfonso falling back onto his butt.

  Devon stepped past him and his fallen hat, lingering just long enough to make sure the man wasn’t drawing a pistol, and gathered the reins of his horse. He swung aboard and moved forward at a trot, across the parade ground in the moonlight. Horses came to the openings in their stalls, and a couple of them nickered. Devon saw two white heads peering out, and he figured one of the animals had just been put away.

  Up to the hitching rail, he made a fast dismount and tied his horse. As he made his way to the door of the portal, which was ajar, he heard raised voices from within the house. He stood for a moment, trying to pick up words and identify who said them, and suddenly the door jerked open and Don Felipe stood there.

  He was still in full regalia, from his sombrero and embroidered jacket down to his pistol and black trousers. As he stepped through the doorway and drew the pistol, his spurs clinked. Devon figured the man had left the argument inside the house and had come as quietly as he could to see if someone had come into the yard.

  “You!” said Don Felipe, with his eyes glaring. “What in the devil do you want?”

  Devon did not move, and so he made it easy for the master of the rancho to grab a handful of his shirt. Nevertheless, he held his chin up firm and said, “I came to warn you.”

  “You came to stick your nose in,” said Don Felipe, laying the end of his pistol barrel between Devon’s cheekbone and nose.

  “I know you don’t like me, but—”

  With his left hand, the master shook Devon’s upper body. “I don’t like! No, I don’t. Not at all. I’ve never liked you being around my daughter.”

  Devon tipped his head back. He had the feeling that Don Felipe had latched onto him as a way to reassert his authority, more of an exercise than a deadly grudge. Nevertheless, a pistol barrel was something serious. “I did not come with that interest,” he said.

  At that moment Doña Emilia appeared at the doorway and stepped through, with Consuelo following her and carrying a lantern. “What is the matter?” asked the lady. Then she said, “Oh, the artist. Let him go, Felipe. He doesn’t do us any harm.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Let him go. He has always come here as a friend, in confidence.”

  Don Felipe lowered his pistol, and Devon was able to nod to Emilia, who, in a white blouse and black sweater, looked pale and worried in the lantern light.

  “Buenas noches, señor artista.”

  “Buenas noches, señora.”

  The taller man released his grasp on Devon’s shirt and, holstering his pistol, stood back a step. Before anyone had a chance to speak again, Petra came through the doorway and made a petulant halt.

  “What is this?” she demanded. “What are you doing?” Devon noticed that she used the familiar form of address with her stepfather, which went along with her insolent tone.

  Don Felipe tipped his head to one side, and without turning to look at her he said, “Your lukewarm admirer has come on some busines
s not yet made clear.”

  “You beast!” she spat out, her face hardening in contempt. “You can’t live with the idea that anyone else might have a normal relation, while you, with your sick passion, make your attempts while my mother is under the same roof! In the next room, and you, conceited as a cat, expecting to have your way.”

  The master tipped his head again and wrinkled his nose, as if he was trying to deflect the tirade with his shoulder. Devon had the impression that Petra was either repeating or restating what she had been saying inside and possibly what she had said earlier in the day, and again, she seemed to be delivering it for an audience.

  “House of my mother,” she went on. “And you with your whispered words.”

  “Enough,” said Doña Emilia. “The artist has come here for some reason, not to listen to this.”

  Petra smiled to him, though her eyes were still narrowed in anger. “Welcome,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Devon had stood back a couple of steps and was smoothing his shirt.

  “Give him a chance to speak,” said Doña Emilia, still in her placating tone.

  Devon took a deep breath and released it as he pulled himself up straight. “I came to warn Don Fe-lipe that Ricardo’s people are looking for him and are probably coming this way.”

  “Tonight?” said Doña Emilia, her voice rising. “Why now?”

  Devon looked at Petra, and finding no resistance there, turned to her mother. “It is known that Ricardo met his death here.”

  Don Felipe cut in. “It is said. Many things are said.”

  Devon brought his glance again to Petra, to imply that it was her turn.

  “The artist is right,” she said, in a steady voice. “It is known.”

  Don Felipe gave her a look of surprise and recognition mixed, but he said nothing.

  After a few seconds of silence, Emilia spoke. “If the artist is not mistaken, that they may be on their way—”

  “Let them come.” The master gave a toss of his sombreroed head, and the lantern light glanced off his high cheekbone. “Sheep shearers. Hog butchers that smell of lard.”

  “Felipe—”

  “Let them come.” Then, as if he had finally regained the authority he had been trying to assert, he said, “Go inside. Both of you. If they come, this is no place for women.” Don Felipe took out a cigarette, lit it, and shook out the match.

  Emilia gave him a critical look, then turned and went in through the portal with Consuelo behind her. Petra followed with a lighter step, swishing her dress and making a cheerful silhouette in the yellow light.

  When the lantern went away, the area outside came back into focus in the moonlight. With no one speaking, Devon felt that he and Don Felipe were both listening for the drumming of hooves.

  A movement with the scuff of a footstep sounded from the direction of the water trough. Both men turned.

  “Who goes there?” called Don Felipe, not very loud but in his commanding tone.

  “Just me,” came the dull voice of Alfonso.

  “Why aren’t you at the gate?”

  “I came to see if you needed help.”

  “You think I need help with this?”

  “I didn’t know. I heard several voices.”

  “Everyone hears a great deal.” Don Felipe took an imperious puff on his cigarette and turned to Devon. “And you?”

  “I suppose I said what I came here to say.”

  I suppose I said what “More than enough.”

  “And with no othermotive, I can go back to town.”

  “May you have a safe trip.”

  Devon noted the formal usage. “Thank you,” he said. “Good night.”

  He walked to his horse in the moonlight, untied him, and gathered the reins. As he turned the horse around and got ready to mount, he realized he heard a low, rumbling sound. He stopped and listened. It sounded like a small of group of horses running together.

  Devon looked around at Don Felipe, who stood up straight with his head lifted and turned to one side, the glowing end of his cigarette at chest height.

  From the sound of it, the horses were getting closer.

  “Alfonso,” called the master. “Is the gate closed?”

  “No, this one left it opened.”

  “This one.” After a few seconds, Don Felipe spoke again, in the tone he used with Devon. “You. Don’t leave yet, until we see what it is.”

  Devon waited, listening out into the night. Alfonso and Don Felipe both seemed poised as well.

  “Alfonso, go to the gate. No, wait. I think they are too close. Aren’t they?”

  “I think so.”

  “Damn them. Let themcome.” Don Felipe dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, then drew his pistol and, holding it down by his side, walked out onto the parade ground to stand in themoonlight.

  Devon, at the edge of the shadow near the building, grabbed the reins of his horse up close to the bit with his right hand and held the slack ends in his left. With any commotion, he would want to have a good grip on the horse.

  The hoofbeats thudded louder now. The riders came in through the gate, past the pool and the cottonwoods, and across the hard ground. They drew rein in front of the man on the ground. Devon could smell dust and the warmth of horses as the dark animals bunched and settled. He counted the riders—one, two, three. Then he recognized the voice of Ricardo’s father.

  “Felipe!”

  “Here I am.”

  “This, for my son!”

  Gunfire flamed as a pistol shot rang out. Don Felipe’s form jerked as he hunched over. The gunman’s horse jumped to the left as the man, leaning out, pointed and fired again. Don Felipe fell to the ground on all fours as his sombrero spilled off to the side. The elder Vega rode in a circle around him, closing off Devon’s view, and the two sons fell in behind him in single file, riding in a circle and firing at the man on the ground. After about eight shots, they broke file and galloped off in a bunch, slowing at the gate and then pounding away out onto the plain.

  Devon’s horse, meanwhile, was pulling backwards and thrashing from one side to the other, so Devon had to grab and pull hard. When he got the animal settled down, he turned his attention back to the scene of the shooting. He could see that the master of the rancho was done for, lying facedown in the dirt, a dark form in the moonlight. He could also see the foreman, who had hung back and watched from a safe spot behind the stone water tank.

  Alfonso took slow steps out into the open and stopped about ten yards from the body. He stood, not weaving and not still, and he looked as if he was in a stupor.

  The door of the portal flung open, and Doña Emilia, dressed in the same black and white, came rushing out and crying.

  Consuelo followed at a fast walk, carrying the lantern. She caught up with Emilia, who stood over the body and sobbed. “Oh, my God, help us God. What has happened?”

  As the lady knelt by her dead husband, Petra came out into the yard, taking slow, deliberate steps.

  Miguel appeared from somewhere out of the shadows by the carriage room, and two of the men Devon had seen hanging around the gate now emerged from the area of the bunkhouse.

  No one spoke for a few minutes as the woman sobbed and cried. Then she stood up, with the help of Consuelo lifting her at the elbow. With the dignity of a queen rising from a fallen king, she turned to her daughter and said, loud enough for the others to hear, “I cannot help it. I know what he was, but he is still my husband. We will sit up with the body, and we will bury him with the honor that the master of Rancho Agua Prieta deserves.” With tear filled eyes she looked around at the rest, and then she went into the house. Consuelo walked at her side, an arm around her shoulders in consolation.

  Alfonso stepped forward, pulled his hat down onto his brow, and barked at the two men from the bunkhouse. “Go for blankets and a litter, and carry him into the house.”

  The two hired men, who seemed to be relieved to have something to do, broke away and hurried toward their
quarters. Miguel muttered something and went to the house.

  Devon looked across at Petra, too far away for him to see very well in the moonlight. “Shall we talk?” he said.

  “Yes, we can talk.”

  He thought it would be best to keep his horse out of the way, so he led the animal out into the yard and past the fallen body, to a spot in the open where he waited for Petra. When she reached him, the two of them walked across the parade ground to the far end of the enclosed area. At the edge of the cottonwoods, where Devon could see the moonlight reflected on the surface of the pool, they paused.

  “It all happened so fast,” he said. “The Vegas came in, rode up to him, and shot him before he knew to raise his pistol. The father shot first.”

  “It is their way. And his, too.”

  “I am sorry for your mother. It was largely for her benefit that I came, but as it turned out, I came in vain.”

  “You tried. That counts for something.”

  “Yes, but the result is that your mother has to go through this ordeal, not only to lose her husband but to be present when he is killed. That is a strong blow, even if, as she says, she knows what he was.”

  Petra’s words came out tense, as if she were speaking through clenched teeth. “It is fitting that she treat him with dignity, for, as she says, he is her husband. But I know what he was, too, and I am not obliged to honor him.”

  “I can see that your bitterness does not go away at once.”

  She took a moment to answer. “Perhaps not. But I feel that I have gotten over my hatred. That may be the only good thing that comes out of thiswreckage.”

  “There might be something else.”

  “What is that?” Her silver cross flashed in the moonlight as she turned her head.

  “You still have the opportunity to clarify the truth about Ricardo’s death.”

  She looked at the ground. “Does it matter much, except to show that the Vegas had justification?”

  Devon hesitated a couple of seconds. “I think the Vegas knew that you were ready to tell the sheriff, just as the sheriff did.”