He tried the next house and the next, with the same result, and returned to the well slowly. As he stood there beside his horse, a dog howled somewhere out in the desert, the sound echoing back from the mountains. Was it a dog? Or was it one of those Indian signals? In that first moment of irrational fear, Fallon scrambled into the saddle and galloped out of the village.
Whatever was wrong had succeeded in frightening every man, woman, and child in the place. He pushed his mount hard. Half an hour later he reached the head of the valley and rode down to the hacienda.
As he went across the courtyard, the door opened, and Donna Clara appeared. Her hair was plaited like an Indian woman’s. She seemed considerably distressed.
“Senor Fallon, thank God you are here.”
Fallon looked down at her without dismounting. “Isn’t Don Jose here?”
She shook her head. “I’m quite alone except for Juanita and Maria, my maid. My husband went up to the north pastures with Rojas while it was still dark. His herdsman brought the news that some of the cattle had been slaughtered.”
“What about the servants?”
“Usually the cook brings me coffee in bed at six. When she didn’t come, I decided to look for her.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “The kitchen is cold, there is no one there. It is like a house of the dead.”
“It may be something to do with what happened yesterday at the mine,” Fallon told her. “I’ll ride down to the servants’ quarters. There must be somebody who can tell us what’s going on.”
He galloped round to the rear of the house and down the slope toward the cluster of adobe huts beside the stream. When he kicked open the first door and went inside, it was the same story. The servants had taken their belongings with them.
As he scrambled into the saddle again, someone up at the hacienda screamed, and he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and urged it up the slope. When he entered the courtyard, a buckboard was standing at the front door. Donna Clara leaned with her face to the wall, and Felipe, Rivera’s vaquero, stood on the steps, hat in hands.
Fallon dismounted. “What is it?”
Felipe came down the steps slowly, his face very pale. “See for yourself, senor.”
In the back of the buckboard, behind the rear seat, lay something covered with a brightly colored Indian blanket. Fallon moved forward and drew in his breath sharply. Father Tomas gazed up at the sky, his faded blue eyes retracted only slightly. The mortal head wound had turned his face into a grotesque mask.
Fallon covered the priest’s head with the blanket. “Where did you find him?”
“No more than a hundred yards from my hut, senor. The strange thing was that the horses had been hobbled.”
“They didn’t bury him. They sent the body here as a message.”
Donna Clara turned from the wall. Her face was drawn and very white, but she had obviously regained control of herself. “Senor Fallon, tell me the truth. What does this mean?”
“What has Don Jose told you?”
“He tells me nothing. Please, I must know what is going on.”
“There was a dispute at the mine. Twenty or so men were trapped by a cave-in. The new American suggested dynamite to move a huge rock that was blocking our rescue work. Don
Jose refused and ordered the American turned over to the authorities. Father Tomas pleaded with Don Jose. So-I am sorry, Donna Clara- Don Jose shot Father Tomas as an example.”
“I don’t believe you!” she cried.
“There were many witnesses.”
“Is that why the cattle have been slaughtered?”
Fallon shrugged.
“Is that why the people have run off?”
Fallon didn’t answer her.
“Senor Fallon,” she said, “I would like you to escort us into Hermosa.”
“Don’t you think we should wait for your husband to return?”
She shook her head. “No, we’ll be safer in town. We can go in the buckboard and take Father Tomas’s body with us. Felipe can drive.”
She turned without giving him time to reply and went into the house.