Quincannon said in his best Sherlock Holmes manner, “In the absence of definite information I will proceed on the basis of two assumptions. One, that the murderer believes the remaining artifacts are still where your father and Padre Urbano secreted them. Two, that he will come to the pueblo to search for them. I intend to be there when he arrives.”
“You will maintain a vigil?”
“A daytime vigil-he won't go to the pueblo at night. There is no moon, and he dare not show a light that might be seen from up here.”
Velasquez nodded. “You will do this alone?”
“One man can lie in wait more safely than two or three.”
“When do you begin?”
“Tomorrow morning. There is less than an hour of daylight left today; and I saw no indication that our man has yet been to the pueblo. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“Very well.”
“One thing, Senor Velasquez,” Quincannon said. “I may be here for some time. During my stay I suggest you at least pretend to treat me as an invited guest. It will make matters easier for both of us. Agreed?”
Purse-lipped, Velasquez said, “Agreed.”
Quincannon was given accommodations on the lower floor of the house-perhaps not the best guest room the hacienda had to offer but a comfortable one nonetheless. He permitted himself a two-hour nap on its tolerably soft bed, during which he dreamed of Sabina. She called him “dear” twice in the course of the dream and kissed him once, and he awoke refreshed and in much better spirits.
He washed in a pannikin of water brought by one of the servants and changed into his only clean clothing-a nobby, dressy, all-wool brown-and-gray-mixed cassimere suit with a diagonal Cheviot pattern that made him look (or so Sabina had said, much to his satisfaction) like a gay young blade. He was just knotting his cravat when the servant returned to conduct him upstairs to the dining room.
Dinner was a somber affair. There were just the three of them; Barnaby O'Hare had left that morning for an overnight visit to the Alvarado ranch, some distance away. Velasquez was moody and had little to say. His wife made polite conversation for the most part, although from time to time she asked probing little questions that told Quincannon her husband had indeed informed her of recent developments in Santa Barbara. The food, at least-a spicy beef stew, tortillas, fresh vegetables-was good enough so that Quincannon indulged in a second helping. It seemed to him that he deserved it.
He and Velasquez had coffee and cigars in the parlor. The rancher also had several glasses of aguardiente, which only served to deepen his dark mood. Unlike his wife, he had nothing more to say about Luis Cordova's murder or the words on the paper scrap, which suited Quincannon. Constant reiteration and speculation served no useful purpose, only led to a heightening of frustration.
He was back in his room by nine o'clock, his mood once more as grim as Velasquez's. He did not like the man or his wife, or the style in which they lived, or Rancho Rinconada de los Robles; he longed to be gone from here, to be back among people who lived in the present instead of the long-dead past. If Cordova's murderer did not come soon …
But he would. He had killed to find out the location of the artifacts; he would not wait long to come after them.
Quincannon undressed and went to bed. By the light of a coal-oil lamp he tried to read from the volume of poems by Wordsworth; but he had no interest in poetry this evening, took no enjoyment in Wordsworth's bleak, episodic reminiscences of his childhood and his residence at Cambridge. He closed the book finally, put it aside. And in spite of himself, he again took out the conical piece of metal and turned it over in his hand, holding the object so that the lamplight glinted off its shiny surface.
He knew what it was. Hell and damnation, he was morally certain he knew what it was.
What was it?
THREE
It was another cold, gray day that Quincannon awoke to-a worse day than the previous one, in fact, because of a blustery wind and a wet, swirling ground mist. The prospect of spending eight or nine hours out in weather such as this was enough to try the sweet disposition of a saint. And he was no saint, God knew; it made him feel low and irritable and very sorry for himself.
He dressed as warmly as the contents of his warbag would allow, drew on a pair of wool-lined gloves, and left his room. Haifa dozen men and women moved about the courtyard, performing a variety of early morning tasks; the two guards, Pablo and Emilio, were at their watch posts on the main gate. Out at the corrals the ranch hands were evidently engaged in the branding of calves: he could hear the animals' frightened bawling, smell the faint drifting odors of chaparral fires, hot metal, and singed hair. He entered the kitchen, where he drank several cups of coffee and ate a huge breakfast to build up his strength for the day's ordeal. He also convinced the fat cook to prepare him a meal of tortillas and fried meat that he could take with him.
In the courtyard again he stopped one of the servants and sent the man to saddle and fetch his horse. There had been no sign of Velasquez this morning, and Quincannon wanted to talk to him again before he left for the pueblo. He approached another servant, sent this one upstairs with a message. When the servant reappeared on the upper gallery, the ranch owner was with him; Velasquez came down alone and crossed to where Quincannon waited by one of the baking ovens.
Quincannon had not passed a restful night, but it seemed obvious that Velasquez hadn't slept at all. He appeared haggard and sunken-eyed, moved like a battle-weary soldier from a vanquished army. One look at him answered the question in Quincannon's mind and kept him from asking it aloud. Velasquez had no more idea this morning than he had had last night of the possible whereabouts of Don Esteban's artifacts.
“You have something to tell me, Senor Quincannon?”
“No. Just that I'm about to leave for the pueblo.”
“Then you have not yet identified the piece of metal you showed me?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“I have no doubt of it.” But Velasquez's eyes were bleak, his voice listless. “Where will you make your vigil? You have a place in mind?”
“Not as yet. I'll find one that commands a clear view of the graveyard.”
“There is high ground to the south of the creek and the orchard, a knoll topped by two large oaks. All of the pueblo can be seen from there.”
“Good. I may need a spyglass, though.”
“I will have one brought for you.”
“You might also instruct your guards to listen for gunfire,” Quincannon said. “If they hear any, it will mean trouble and they should come pronto.”
“They will be told.”
The servant arrived from the stables with Quincannon's claybank. Another brought an old Mexican spyglass in a worn leather case. Velasquez had nothing more to say; he stood hunched and silent as Quincannon mounted his horse. There was an air of resignation about him, as if he felt the mission would ultimately prove futile; as if he retained little hope that his father's artifacts would ever be found.
Quincannon rode out through the gate, down the hill to where another road branched to the south. He turned there, so as to loop around on the far side of the ruins and approach them through the orchard and along the stream. He had gone perhaps a fifth of a mile and was about to leave the road and strike out across a section of rumpled pastureland, when a rider appeared around a bend a hundred yards ahead. Warily Quincannon slowed the claybank to a walk. He did not wish to be seen riding cross-country toward the pueblo; and he wanted a look at the rider in any case, in the event it was someone other than a local rancher or cowhand.
And it was: the man astride the approaching chestnut was Barnaby O'Hare.