He rode on, toward the one hundred thousand acres, referring to the map Davis had given him. There were a lot of hoofprints on the road, showing him evidence of horses both coming and going.

  When he reached the acreage where the gold was supposedly buried, he saw that horses had left the road and ridden over the land there. He did not follow any of these, but, here and there, he saw signs of digging, as if someone had tried to follow the clues on the treasure map and had come up dry.

  He thought of the futility of searching such a vast area for little caches of gold. Unless a man had an accurate map, he was unlikely to find anything beneath the ground except more dirt. It was odd, he thought, that men would kill to buy a piece of ground so large without knowing in advance where the treasure lay. But Slocum had long ago given up on trying to understand the stupidity and greed of some men, men who would go to any lengths to achieve wealth or a woman—without regard to the consequences.

  He wondered, as he rode back along the road, what part Fernandez and his wife Pandora played in the scheme to acquire the land he rode upon. What connection did they have with Hardesty? And how much did Lorelei Hardesty know about her father and the widow Cordelia? Was she in on the scheme? She had been mighty upset about something when last he had seen her. Now, he wished he knew what had been bothering her.

  He had no allies in Del Rio except for Emory Davis, and Davis, like everyone else, had his own personal axe to grind. He had lost a case and seen his client hanged. Now, perhaps, he wanted revenge. But Slocum knew how empty revenge could be. If it was a dish best served cold, then it was as tasteless as flat beer.

  Just west of town, on the ride back to Del Rio, Slocum became aware that someone was following him. He didn’t know who and he didn’t know how many, but Ferro was as jittery as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The horse kept turning its head and glancing, wide-eyed, at every dirt clod, his ears twisting in all directions, hardened to cones, trying to pick up any vagrant sound.

  It was late afternoon and he had the sun at his back, a sun that was drifting down the western sky that was scudded with battens of clouds that were already rimmed with gold and salmon. If there was a rider behind him, where had he come from? The Hardesty ranch? Or was he just a traveler from the west, heading into Del Rio?

  Slocum turned Ferro toward San Felipe Creek. There were trees there, cover. He had been riding out in the open and a good marksman with a long rifle could have picked him off easily once he came within range. He had no idea how far behind the rider was, but he knew the distance put him beyond the horizon because every time he turned around to look at his backtrail, he never saw the skyline broken by a man, or a woman, on horseback.

  He reached the creek and found a stand of cottonwood trees that afforded him some protection from long-range rifle fire and a good view all around in case someone meant to sneak up on him. Slocum slipped his rifle from its sheath and laid it across his pommel, at the ready. Whoever was following him should show soon, he thought, and he’d have time to lever a cartridge into the chamber of his Winchester ’73.

  The minutes slipped by and the sun skidded farther down toward the horizon, drifting clouds hiding its blazing face every few minutes. Ferro pawed the ground with his right forefoot and continued to gaze westward, ears twitching, rubbery nostrils flexing to pick up any vagrant scent.

  After a time, Slocum relaxed. Ferro had stopped fidgeting. The danger, if that had been what it was, had seemingly passed. Slocum picked up the rifle, hefted it in his hand. He was about to slip it back in its sheath and continue on his way when a voice startled him. His senses froze as he stiffened in the saddle.

  “You no need the rifle.”

  Slocum twisted around to see who was speaking to him.

  There, like an apparition, sat a man on a burro, a man whose skin was the color of red clay and whose face was hairless. He wore a red bandanna around his forehead and his hair was as white as snow, with long tresses that flowed to his shoulders.

  “I am called Abeja. I come from the house of Carmen Delgado,” he said. “I follow you from the town.”

  “You are the one who has been following me.”

  “And them,” Abeja said, pointing toward a distant spot on the road.”

  Slocum saw two tiny dots on the horizon. Two riders, too far away for him to identify. They were riding slow, as if they were studying his tracks, sorting them out from all of the others on the road.

  “I see them. Who are they?”

  “They are of the sheriff. Jones and Smith.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “I rub out your tracks to this place,” Abeja said. “They will not find us here.”

  “Hell, they can see us,” Slocum said.

  “We will go.”

  “Where?”

  “I take you to Hidalgo.”

  The man was soft-spoken, but his voice had a deep timbre to it. His dark eyes glinted with something savage and wild.

  “You are not Mexican,” Slocum said.

  “No. Soy Indio. Indio puro.”

  “And you know Carmen Delgado.”

  “She is my goddaughter.”

  “But she is not Indian. Not pure Indian.”

  “No. She is mestiza. She has the white blood in her.”

  Slocum watched the two dots. They were riding in separate circles now, as if trying to find his tracks. Abeja had done a good job, he thought.

  “Come,” Abeja said. “We go to Hidalgo.”

  That was the place Carmen had mentioned, the settlement where she lived. Slocum followed Abeja as he turned his burro and crossed the creek, heading north and east across a rocky and desolate land filled with tumbleweeds and brush, creosote and mesquite. He felt he had to trust Abeja, for he was a stranger here and men were determined to either drive him out of town or kill him.

  The sun sank lower in the west until its lower rim touched the horizon and then their shadows began to stretch across the trackless wasteland. A breeze sprang up and tumbleweeds rolled in every direction as aimless as Slocum felt now, although he was certain that Abeja knew exactly where they were.

  As the sun dropped even lower, Slocum saw the whitewashed adobes glistening in the last rays of daylight and soon, they came to Hidalgo, a scattered jumble of humble huts, jacales and adobes that seemed to have been built with no pattern in mind. All the time they had ridden, Abeja had not said a word, but neither had he looked over his shoulder.

  They entered the settlement and Slocum saw bony-ribbed dogs slinking here and there, scrawny cats furtively darting behind shacks and under little porches. Flowers in pots sat at every hovel, bright as fresh paint, adding color to a drab world that was now filling with shadows, the white adobe walls ghostly in the twilight.

  Abeja reined his burro in front of a house that had a black wreath of woven vines on the door. It was very quiet. No children were playing and he had not seen a single soul who inhabited Hidalgo.

  “This is the house of Carmen and her mother,” Abeja said.

  “Are we stopping here, then?”

  “You will go in and then return. I will take you to a little house where you can stay.”

  “Why are you doing this, Abeja?”

  “Carmen say to do this. The men who were following you, those men you saw, I think they wanted to kill you.”

  “Why do you think this?” Slocum asked.

  “The Mexicans in town are like spirits. They are not seen by the whites. They are seen only as shadows, as pieces of wood, as rocks with no faces, no hearts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They are invisible, the Mexicans. So they see much. They hear much. There is one who brings the food to the jail. He has big ears. He hear the sheriff tell those two who followed you to find you and make sure you do not come back to Del Rio.”

  “Did this man hear why they wanted me killed?”

  “The sheriff, he say that a man will pay the money if you do not come back to town.”

  “What man? Did your friend hear a name?”

  “Yes,” Abeja said. “He hear the name of the man who will pay the money.”

  “And what is that name?” Slocum asked, almost fearful of hearing it.

  “The man is called Rankins. Frank Rankins.”

  “Rankins? The banker?”

  “That is the one.”

  Slocum swore under his breath.

  So, he thought, Rankins knows what’s at stake with the land. He’s in on it, with Hardesty and Cordelia, and probably with the judge, the sheriff and Fernandez, the hangman. And his wife, Pandora. A conspiracy, wider than he had thought. But why let Hardesty buy the land? Why not just kill him and let Rankins buy it for himself? Or Wyman? He wished he knew what the hell was going on.

  “You go in now,” Abeja said.

  A curtain fluttered at a window. The door opened. Slocum stepped out of the saddle. Abeja held out his hand to take the reins. Slocum handed them to him.

  Carmen appeared in the doorway. She looked wan and tired.

  “John,” she said. “Come in. My brother is here.”

  She was dressed in black, a dark shawl over her jet hair. He heard a match strike as he walked toward her and a lamp came on inside the adobe hut, throwing Carmen into silhouette, a dark silhouette that seemed part of the night, an apparition not of this world at all.

  She stepped back to allow Slocum to enter, and he walked inside to find a table in the center of the room on which lay a coffin. Next to it stood Carmen’s mother, also garbed in black. She held a candle in her hand and was lighting another oil lamp. The room danced with shadows and, from another room, he heard a rustling and soft whispers, as if ghostly beings had gathered in this place of death, gathered in silence to mourn.

  14

  The whisperers emerged from the other room, two young girls and an older woman. Like Remedios, a rosary dangled from the older woman’s hands. They were dressed in ordinary, simple clothing and stood silently in front of one wall, looking at Slocum as if he were a traveler from a distant land who had come to Hidalgo by mistake. Slocum took off his hat and nodded to the three women.

  “John,” Carmen said. “Abeja will take you to a little adobe, which is comfortable. He, or someone, will bring you food. I think it is very dangerous for you to stay in Del Rio. You will be safe here.”

  “Thank you, but it’s not necessary,” he said.

  “I think it is necessary. I need you. Now, more than ever. Tomorrow, we will cook and have friends over to say good-bye to my brother. I would like you here. There will be whiskey and wine and good food and we will tell stories about Luis. There will be some grieving, but there will also be some laughter.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not good at these things.”

  “Go with Abeja now. I will try and slip away later to visit you. We can talk more about it then. I have learned some things since I last saw you.”

  “Some things?”

  “They may be important. For now, your life is in much danger. That is why I sent Abeja to find you, bring you to Hidalgo.”

  “You’re very kind, Carmen.”

  “And you are a kind man, John Slocum. Vaya con Dios. My little bee will take you to a place where you can get some rest.”

  “Little bee?”

  “Abeja. That is what his name means in Spanish. ‘Bee.’ ”

  He knew she was dismissing him and he did feel uncomfortable being in such a sad house. He nodded to Remedios, Carmen’s mother, and she nodded back, unsmiling. He walked outside and heard the door close behind him.

  Abeja handed Slocum the reins and Slocum mounted his horse. He followed the man down a long street, past dark adobes. They turned a corner and came upon another adobe sitting out in the open. In the gloaming, it looked abandoned, but he saw orange light spilling from under the door and around the windows.

  “This is your little house, John Slocum,” Abeja said. “Here you can stay for as long as you wish.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I will take your horse and unsaddle it. You take your bedding and rifle inside with you. I will give your horse some grain to make it strong for the next sun.”

  “Will you be the one to bring me food?” Slocum asked. “Carmen said that you might be.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, will you have supper with me, Abeja? You seem a wise man who knows much, and I am a blind man in the darkness of Del Rio.”

  “It would be an honor, Slocum.”

  Slocum smiled, feeling good about the invitation. He felt he could learn from this quiet man who had led him out of danger. Del Rio was beginning to look like a town full of snakes and perhaps he could find out enough about the bad people to let him walk through it without getting bit.

  Slocum swung down out of the saddle, removed his bedroll, with the sawed-off Greener wrapped inside it, his saddlebags and his Winchester. He handed the reins to Abeja, who took them.

  When the Indio turned in the saddle, Slocum noticed that he not only wore a knife inside his waistband, but a piece of rope embraced his shoulder, and the rope held an old, sawed-off rifle that resembled a Sharps. The man’s weapons were so well-concealed, Slocum hadn’t noticed them either at the creek or on their ride to Hidalgo.

  “You have a rifle,” Slocum said.

  “If a man owns a horse or burro and a gun, he is very rich,” Abeja said.

  “Why is the barrel sawed off?”

  Abeja chuckled.

  “A dying soldier used it to pry his wagon from the mud of the Rio Grande,” Abeja said. “Many seasons ago. The barrel was bent from the middle to the nose. I found it and I cut off the crooked part. In the wagon, I found many cartuchos, the rifle cartridges. I have learned how to take out the lead bullet and load the cartridge with small stones or pieces of lead so that I can hunt the quail and the dove.”

  “A Sharps rifle?”

  “I do not know what it is called. I cannot read the white man’s words.”

  “It would not be accurate at long range,” Slocum said.

  “Yo soy Indio. I am Indian. I do not fight at the long range. It is the way of the coward.”

  “I will not ask you about the wagon and the soldiers,” Slocum said. “It was a long time ago. And I was a soldier once.”

  “I know this. It was a long time ago. This place has been under many flags and we no longer count the killings of men or sing our songs of fighting and bravery. The old ways are gone and we live like the weeds that grow from the ground even when there is no water and the sun is very hot.”

  Slocum hefted his saddlebags and turned toward the adobe.

  “I look forward to talking to you when we have supper,” he said.

  “I will bring the wine with the comida,” Abeja said. “It will make the talk easy to do.”

  Slocum smiled and walked to the door. He opened it. When he turned around, Abeja was gone and he heard only the whisper of Ferro’s hooves in the darkness.

  There was a single oil lamp burning on a small, handmade table. There was a mat on the floor for sleeping, another larger table next to the wall and three chairs that seemed to have been salvaged from some cast-off dump site. In another room, there was a fire ring and a pit, over which hung a metal rod set on forked metal stakes where people had once cooked. The place smelled musty and he saw a rat scurry along the wall and then disappear through a hole that led outside. There were cobwebs, old ones, in two of the corners of the cooking room, their white strands glazed with a copper glow from the lamp in the front room.

  Slocum set down his saddlebags and rifle, then unwrapped his bedroll and laid it atop the sleeping mat. He noticed little niches cut into the adobe brick walls and, in one of them, was a crumbling statue to some saint, the colors faded, the features blurred.

  He sat on one of the chairs and it was sturdy enough to hold his weight. He reached into a saddlebag on the floor and pulled out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon wrapped in a towel. He uncorked it and set it on the table. He removed his frock coat and took a cheroot from an inside pocket. He struck a match and lit it, then took a swallow of the whiskey. The warm liquid flowed down his throat and into his belly. He smoked and felt good that he was in this peaceful place where he could think and use reason to figure out his next move.

  Greed, Slocum thought, was like a strong itch. Once a greedy person smelled money, or wealth, he would stop at nothing to obtain it. No obstacle was too great, including murder. From what he had been able to glean from the events surrounding his short stay in Del Rio, not only was there strong evidence that Bill Hardesty wanted the one hundred thousand acres, on which gold was supposedly hidden, but that he had gone through an elaborate scheme to obtain the property. Or had he? A woman had killed Granby and framed an innocent man for her crime. But was she in cahoots with Hardesty? And where did Judge Wyman fit in? Was he also a cohort of Hardesty’s? Which led Slocum to think of Fernandez, the hangman. And his wife. She obviously enjoyed the grisly spectacle of seeing a man’s neck breaking at the end of a rope.

  But if the hanging of Luis Delgado was to cover up a conspiracy, who orchestrated the entire scheme? If the banker, Rankins, had been in on it, he could have just refused to loan Granby enough money to buy the property in question. However, Slocum had learned that Hardesty had been turned down for a loan on the same piece of land. Why, then, with the murder of Granby, was Hardesty probably going to get a loan? Had he been forced to reveal that there was a fortune in gold buried somewhere on that huge acreage? If so, then he would have had to cut in Rankins, and he had probably had to offer shares to the sheriff, his deputies, perhaps, and the hangman, along with the hangman’s lady, Pandora.

  Slocum took another small swig of whiskey and shook his head. It was all too complicated to figure out in his present state of weariness. There were too many people involved for him to sort it all out just then. But he kept coming back to Luis Delgado.