He looked at Soto, who sat his horse as though he grew out of the saddle. That was why Efraín hadn’t recognized Soto at first today — he’d never seen the man off his horse. Even the day Soto and his wife had come over to pay a social call, soon after they’d moved to the area, Soto had hooked one leg over the saddle horn and stayed on his horse while he visited with Efraín in the yard.
Soto hadn’t done much talking. Efraín had pointed out the different plants that he had growing around the place — papaya, mango, ginger, pineapple, vanilla, chocolate trees, star fruit, citrus, bananas, a cinnamon tree, and so forth. “Would you like some seeds and starters for your new farm?” he asked Soto.
“Waste of time to plant anything a cow won’t eat,” Soto had said, putting an end to that topic.
From what Efraín had overheard of the women’s conversation, Sulema wasn’t doing much better with Soto’s hardfaced wife. Sulema was showing her the baby.
“He’s so much fun for us!” Sulema said.
“That’s because he’s your first,” the woman said. “Just wait.”
“How many children do you have?” Sulema had asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Ten sons. No daughters. I told the oldest boy he’d better bring a girl home soon. I’m tired of doing all the work.” The woman clamped her jaw shut.
That had been Efraín’s introduction to Soto and his wife.
But they were his closest neighbors, except for Catalino, so he had to get along with them.
Efraín brought his attention back to the present. Here the trail veered toward the beach to avoid a jagged ridge that rose in front of them. A narrow strip of sand lay exposed between the waves and the cliff.
“Tide’s coming in,” Efraín ventured. “Good thing it’s not high yet.”
“Uumph.”
At high tide the ocean pounded against the cliff, and no one could pass on the beach. The terrain above the cliffs was too rough for horses to cross, so trips to town had to be timed for low tide.
“I wonder who killed Mr. Ramos,” Efraín said.
Soto shrugged.
“That close to town, they probably sent for the police.”
Soto nodded.
Efraín tried to phrase a question that required a verbal answer. “Who broke the news to the storekeeper?”
“That old man who talks too much.”
Soto must mean Adolfo. Efraín decided to hold his other questions for a more cooperative informant.
The cliffs flattened, and the horses turned back onto the trail, wide in this more populated area. Soto and Efraín could ride side by side. It was hotter here, though, without the rain forest to shade them. Most of the land from here to town had been cleared for pastures.
Efraín wondered if the land where he lived would ever look like this. He doubted it. The forest up there was just too big. He couldn’t imagine how many families would have to settle around his house to clear all the trees.
Their horses shied as a speedy black snake raced across the path. Efraín paid it no attention, knowing those snakes liked to eat the deadly fer-de-lances.
They rounded a curve and saw the cantina slumped in the heat. The sun glared off its tin roof. All four sides were open to welcome any stray breeze. Along one side was a weatherbeaten wooden bar with half a dozen stools in front of it.
A dozen men were gathered inside, perched on the stools or on the long bench. A sharp-eyed woman stood behind the bar.
A dusty old motorcycle rested to one side of the entrance. Efraín had seen it before, parked by the little square box of a police station in town. The seat had a rag neatly folded over a protruding spring. A soda bottle filled with water hung from the handlebars, tied on with a long length of good strong rope.
“Buenos días,” everyone said.
Soto halted his horse. He and Efraín took in the tableau.
A very young man sat on a stool that had been pulled away from the bar. His olive uniform had faded almost to beige. Efraín assumed he was a policeman sent out from town. A battered valise lay at his feet.
Next to him, on another stool, sat a nervous middle-aged man. Sweat ran down his round face. He kept jerking his hand up to wipe it off.
Efraín recognized this man as an itinerant salesman who showed up at their place a few times a year peddling dishes, sewing supplies, and other household goods out of his valise. Once Sulema had bought a needle from him.
A flashy chestnut horse with four white stockings was tied under a mango tree. Its ears pricked forward as it studied the newcomers. The horse tossed its head in challenge.
“I’m looking for Lencho, the storekeeper,” Efraín said.
“There,” said the woman, pointing.
Efraín looked along the trail — now wide enough to be called a road — in the direction of town. In the distance he saw a long white shape on the ground. A man sat on the ground beside it. As there were no trees nearby, he held a palm frond over his head for shade.
“Since Lencho was the first relative to get here, he thought he should wait with Mr. Ramos until the rest of the family arrives,” explained a man at the bar.
Efraín knew the body wouldn’t be moved till the proper officials came out from town and viewed it. They would take notes on the situation and collect names of witnesses to Mr. Ramos’ last moments and to the discovery of the body. If there was an obvious suspect — and it looked as if there was — that person would have to go back to town with them.
Efraín nudged the bay in Lencho’s direction. He was rather relieved that Soto stayed put.
“Such a shame,” Lencho told Efraín. He clucked sympathetically at Mr. Ramos, who lay discreetly underneath a sheet. “I saw him ride by yesterday after he left Soto’s. I thought he’d go straight home with the money. I never dreamed...”
“What happened exactly?” Efraín asked, getting off his horse.
“They say Fernando reached the cantina about dark. He said he’d have just one little glass of guaro to celebrate the sale. Well, you know how that goes.”
Efraín had heard that Mr. Ramos enjoyed an occasional evening out.
“Besides, Belicia was tending bar last night,” Lencho added.
Efraín recalled a few old stories.
“Fernando and Belicia were a couple, years ago,” the storekeeper continued. “Then Fernando’s next-door-neighbor died. It just seemed natural for Fernando to marry the man’s daughter and combine the two ranches. I don’t think Belicia was mad about it. She always sees the practical side of things. She asked her uncle to let her come out here and manage his cantina. I think she’s happier as a manager than she would have been as a housewife.”
Efraín squatted on his heels. A sturdy stick lay by the road. It was as big around as a staff but shorter. Efraín looked it over. Some dirt stuck to one end but no blood. He poked idly at a band of dry leaves that stretched across the road. “So Belicia and Mr. Ramos still enjoyed each other’s company now and then?”
“Yes, I think so. And look where it got him.”
They pondered the unfortunate Mr. Ramos.
Efraín crossed the road to sit down on a boulder. It was hot from the sun. He propped his feet on a smaller rock, getting as comfortable as he could. After a while he said, “I noticed that salesman sitting with the policeman in the cantina.”
“Yes... poor fellow. He must have gotten tired of puffing around the hills, trying to make a living off spoons and thread. I suppose he gave in to temptation when he heard Fernando bragging about all the money he’d made on the bull.”
“What makes people think the salesman killed Mr. Ramos?”