Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

The Horse with White Stockings by Anne Weston

The day got off to a bad start when Efraín spilled the tin cup of salt into the cookfire.

He could have salvaged most of the salt from among the coals if he hadn’t snatched at the falling cup, trying to save it, and knocked the pot of water into the fire, too.

That put the salt beyond rescue and also extinguished the fire.

“You shouldn’t have left the salt there,” he snapped at Sulema.

She didn’t reply, just picked up some kindling and built a small fire to one side of the wet area. She refilled the water pot from the big bucket and set it on the new fire.

Efraín ate his saltless beans and rice in silence, then stood up. “I guess now I have to go to the store for salt,” he muttered.

Sulema glanced up. “The water’s boiling,” she said. “There’ll be coffee in a moment.”

“I can’t wait. I don’t want to waste any more of the day.” He started down the trail.

“Yes, you’d better hurry in case there’s a big run on salt this morning,” Sulema called after him.

The aroma of fresh coffee followed Efraín along the rain forest path. He could picture Sulema sitting on the log he’d cut into a chair, sipping her coffee in peace and playing with the baby. The farther he walked, the more he wished he’d stayed a few minutes longer and not been so short-tempered.

The reason he was angry had nothing to do with spilled salt, of course. Their cow was dying, and he couldn’t bear to tell Sulema.

Efraín had taken the older cow over to their new neighbors a few days before. The neighbor, Soto, planned to raise cattle on the farm he was cutting out of the rain forest. He was expecting a fine bull to be delivered from the big Ramos ranch on the other side of town. Efraín had arranged with Soto to leave the cow at Soto’s place to be bred when the bull arrived.

He and Sulema had talked a lot about all the things they could buy when the cow had her calf and the calf got big enough to sell. Efraín had said that besides being able to buy plenty of seed and pay off their bill at the local store, they could buy cloth at the big store in town for Sulema to make herself a new dress, and what color did she want? She’d talked all through dinner about the merits of yellow (cheerful in the rainy season) or blue (wouldn’t show stains) or maybe a print with flowers. Efraín didn’t see much difference between them, he thought they’d all look nice, but he liked watching her eyes flash with excitement. They both knew they’d probably end up keeping the calf, to make their herd bigger, but it was fun to dream.

Then late yesterday Soto had ridden over on his horse and said that Efraín’s cow was dying.

Efraín had hurried on foot to Soto’s farm. He hadn’t told Sulema what was wrong. The cow lay wheezing on her side. Her eyes seemed ready to burst out of her head. Saliva pooled around her mouth.

“She’s been like this since yesterday,” Soto said.

Efraín checked her all over but couldn’t find a bite or injury. He looked in her mouth, thinking that if she’d eaten a poisonous plant her tongue might be swollen, but it wasn’t.

“I never saw a sickness like this,” Soto had said.

Neither had Efraín. He rushed to the house of his other neighbor Catalino, but Catalino wasn’t there to advise him. Efraín waited till nearly dark and then went home.

So this morning Efraín planned to describe the ailment to the storekeeper and see if he knew what it was. The accident with the salt made an excuse for going to the store without having to tell Sulema about the cow.

Halfway to the store Efraín remembered that he had been the one to set the salt on the rock of the fire ring while he filled his plate with rice and beans.

When he sighted the store, Efraín realized that his day was not going to get any smoother. Four horses were tied under the cashew tree beside the small wooden building. A knot of men stood nearby. Efraín recognized most of them as neighbors. The storekeeper’s daughters, wide-eyed and solemn, leaned out the store window, listening to the men.

If it had been a Sunday, he would have assumed the girls were trying to overhear a bit of especially scandalous gossip. But on a weekday there shouldn’t be such a crowd. Something bad had happened.

“Did you hear the news?” asked old Adolfo, a distant neighbor.

“Nooo...” Efraín tried to think of the last time he’d heard anything that could be called news.

“About that rich cattleman.”

“The one who brought my new bull yesterday,” said a man that Efraín couldn’t place for a moment. Then he realized it was his new neighbor Soto. What was different about him? One of Soto’s teenage sons was there, too.

“What about him?” Efraín asked.

“Dead!” Adolfo burst out.

“Dead? How?”

“Beaten to death! Last night, on the road near the cantina, on the way to town. And all the money Soto gave him for the bull is gone.”

“That bull is mine now,” Soto said. “Fernando Ramos sold it to me, and I paid him for it. I’ve got witnesses — all my sons. He was a fool to go and get drunk in the cantina with so much money in his pocket.”

Soto’s bluntness brought a pause to the conversation.

“Well, it’s true that if he was going to drink, he shouldn’t have told everyone in the cantina how much money he’d made selling the bull,” admitted Adolfo.

“Or he should have given his money for safekeeping to someone responsible,” said another man.

“He should have had enough sense not to ride out alone at night,” Soto stated.

“How did the news get here so fast?” Efraín asked.

“I was there,” Adolfo said. “I happened to be in the cantina last night. It got late, so I slept on the bench. At dawn some boy ran in yelling about a dead man in the road. I hurried back here.” In a land without streetlights, those who stayed late at the cantina often slept on the long bench that ran along one side.

Efraín remembered his errand. “Where’s the storekeeper? I came to ask him about my sick cow.” He was afraid to ask Soto outright if the cow had survived the night.

“He just left, to see the body,” Adolfo said. “You know Mr. Ramos was a distant cousin of his.”

“Your cow’s still alive, but no better,” Soto remarked. “It must be some sickness she got before you brought her to my place. None of my cows have it.”

“I didn’t see the bull when I was there yesterday.”

“Ramos brought it right after you left.”

Efraín asked the other men if they’d ever run across the symptoms his cow had. They each had a different idea about what it might be, but no one seemed sure. There was no help for it. He’d have to hike to the cantina to find the storekeeper.

“I’m going that way,” said Soto. “You can ride that bay horse tied to the tree. I think my son’s staying here for a while.”

The son had gone over to the store and was chatting through the window with the girls. They were giggling, the cattleman’s tragedy forgotten.

Efraín suspected that Soto was mainly worried that if the cow died he wouldn’t get the four sacks of com that they’d agreed on as a breeding fee. But that was no reason not to take advantage of Soto’s generosity, whatever its motive. Efraín untied the bay, mounted, and set off down the trail behind Soto.

Riding a horse certainly made distances seem short, Efraín thought. That was another thing he and Sulema had joked about, that if both their cows had calves this year, maybe they’d be able to buy a horse.

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?”

“He had the money in his valise.” The storekeeper shook his head.

“The salesman was at the cantina last evening?”

“Yes. It got late, and most of the other customers left, Fernando last of all. The salesman lay down to sleep on the bench.”

“Adolfo slept there, too?”

“Yes, but he’s too deep a sleeper to know if the salesman went out and came back in the night. Belicia sleeps in the loft. She says she didn’t hear anything. Of course, she always says that, no matter what you ask her.” Lencho sniffed.

“Adolfo said a boy found the body.”

Lencho snorted. “Old Adolfo may call him a boy. He’s bigger than I am. The son of that fellow who lives in the green house between here and town. Wilfredo, that’s his name. He woke everybody in the cantina, yelling, ‘He’s dead, he’s dead.’ They all ran to see. Belicia told Wilfredo to catch Fernando’s horse — that chestnut tied by the cantina — and ride to town for the police, but the horse was too skittish. Can’t blame it, the creature had just seen its owner murdered. So Belicia told him to get her old black mare out of the pasture, and that was how he went to town. More people showed up, neighbors attracted by the commotion. They finally did manage to catch Fernando’s horse.”

Efraín wanted to know how the scene had looked before dozens of neighbors trampled it. “Did Wilfredo come back with the policeman?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. The old black mare would be too tired to come straight back without a rest first. And the policeman was probably afraid to put more than one person on that motorcycle.”

“How did they know the money was in the salesman’s valise?” Efraín asked.

“When the sun got hot, everybody went back to the cantina to wait for the police. Belicia brought out her mending to pass the time. She asked the salesman if he had a thimble. He opened his case to get one. Everyone crowded around to see his merchandise. In a corner of the case was a stack of money, all small bills. No one would touch it. When the policeman came, he counted the money. It’s almost as much as Soto gave Fernando for the bull — Fernando spent some on guaro last night.”

“How does the salesman explain the money?”

“Not very well,” the storekeeper said. “He claims that yesterday in town he ran into an old friend. They hadn’t seen each other in years. The salesman says this man had borrowed money from him long ago. When they met yesterday, the man said he was now in a position to pay his debt with interest. He pulled out a wad of money and handed it to the salesman.”

“It should be easy to find the old friend and ask if the story’s true.”

“According to the salesman, the man mentioned he now lives abroad somewhere. He was only in town for one day. There’s no way to contact him. You’d think the salesman would have come up with a better story.”

“Yes, you’d think he would have.”

Lencho fanned himself with the palm frond. “It’s nice to have company, Efraín, but you don’t have to stay here in the sun,” he said.

“Well... maybe I will go back to the shade for a while. I’m very sorry about your cousin.” Efraín hadn’t forgotten about his sick cow, but he needed to ask Soto something before the man rode off on whatever errand had brought him here.

Soto was still on his horse. He’d moved over to the mango tree to get a better look at the chestnut. “What sort of bills did you give Mr. Ramos?” Efraín asked.

“Small bills. The policeman asked me that. I don’t remember how many of which kind, though. More or less what was in the valise. When Ramos’ widow gets here I may make her an offer for this horse.”

Efraín dismounted and tied the bay to the tree. He eased over to the chestnut. “Good shoulders,” he said.

“Means a smooth gait,” Soto concurred.

The chestnut stamped its hoof with displeasure at Efraín’s presence. This was exactly the kind of animal a well-to-do cattleman would ride, steady for its owner but independent with strangers. Efraín knew it was in a category beyond anything he and Sulema would ever own, except in their dreams. But he enjoyed looking.

Efraín studied the most important part of the horse, its legs. He didn’t see any bone or joint problems, but the sleek white stockings were marred by several raw scrapes.

Efraín looked around the countryside while wondering if he should tell Soto to wait a few days before bothering the widow with business. Beyond the cantina pasture he saw a small pink house nearly smothered by purple bougainvillea. The Vargas family lived there, he recalled. Was that a face peering through the flowers? Efraín ducked through the barbed wire fence and cut across the pasture.

“Mr. Vargas!” Efraín greeted the man through masses of bloom. “How are you?”

“More or less, more or less. My rheumatism, you know. And then this scandalous event. Lucky we weren’t murdered in our bed. Marta’s nerves—”

“Yes, it’s terrible,” Efraín interrupted. “How did you hear about it?”

“I had just climbed into the hammock on the porch to let my breakfast settle. Suddenly I heard an awful yelling coming from the cantina. Marta ran out of the house with a dishcloth in her hand. I hadn’t seen her run since a hawk tried to steal her best laying hen three years ago. ‘I knew something horrible would happen, living this close to a cantina,’ she said. You know, she thinks we should have built our house over by her parents’ place when we got married.”

The Vargases had married thirty years before.

Efraín tried to remember why he’d come to see Mr. Vargas. “I heard Mr. Ramos was beaten. Did you see the body?”

“Yes, Marta came back for a sheet, and I covered him with it. I suppose he was beaten to death — he wasn’t shot or stabbed. I didn’t see any marks on him. I don’t think it was that salesman. More likely a gang from the city did it. Young people don’t know how to work any more. No respect, either. When I was six years old, my papa put a machete in my hand and said, ‘Son, you see this ricefield? I want all the weeds out of it by dark.’ Well, I whacked and chopped till—”

Mrs. Vargas stepped out of the house and poked her husband with her sun umbrella. “He doesn’t want your life story,” she told him. “And I think you’re wrong about a gang. That horse wouldn’t let even one stranger come up to it at night. It was dark of the moon, remember. I think it was somebody Mr. Ramos trusted, who got right next to the horse and then yanked him off and hit him on the head with something. A person who knew he was too drunk to struggle.” She gave Efraín a meaningful look, then gestured toward Lencho in the distance. “I’m taking that poor man some lemonade.” She held up a tall glass.

Efraín really wanted to talk to the young man who’d found the body. He excused himself and went back to the cantina.

“Hot day,” he commented to the room at large.

People nodded.

He turned to Belicia. “Has Wilfredo come back yet?”

She shook her head. “He better not have lamed my mare.”

The policeman spoke up. “You mean the fellow who came for me this morning? I think he stayed in town. He was awfully upset. I saw him let the mare loose to eat grass in front of the station. Saves me having to cut it.” The policeman went out to his motorcycle, untied the water bottle, and drank. He brought the bottle inside and offered it to the salesman, who also had a long drink.

“Anyone else?” the policeman asked, waving the bottle in the air. Efraín had some; he knew Belicia wouldn’t offer anyone water. She was hoping they’d get thirsty enough to buy soft drinks from her.

The policeman retied the bottle onto the motorcycle.

“Nice rope,” Efraín told him. “You don’t have to worry about losing your water bottle when you hit a pothole.”

“That’s what I hope!” The young policeman seemed glad to have a neutral topic of conversation. “When I started out this morning, I’d gone only a couple of yards when my old rope broke and the bottle fell off. But luck was with me. I looked around a bit in the weeds and found this one.”

Efraín leaned back on the bench. He wished Sulema were here. He hadn’t even said goodbye to her this morning. He should have told her about the cow. She might even have known what was wrong with it. She liked that cow so much she’d given her a name.

He still hadn’t asked Lencho’s advice. Well, there was plenty of time. He was stuck on this side of the cliffs till high tide passed.

Efraín missed his neighbor Catalino, too. Where had he gone? Probably to visit his people, who lived scattered deep in the rain forest.

Efraín watched Belicia slowly drag a rag along the scarred wooden bar. How much had Mr. Ramos hurt her when he married his neighbor’s daughter? Belicia was strong, and tough from years of dealing with difficult customers. Had she killed for revenge and planted the money in the salesman’s valise to draw attention away from herself? But the salesman didn’t deny the money was his.

Belicia certainly could have followed Mr. Ramos when he left and called to him to stop once they were out of hearing of the cantina. She could have stepped up beside the horse and taken Mr. Ramos’ hand. Then a quick tug and a blow with a heavy bottle or rock.

Efraín turned his gaze to Soto, who along with his family had appeared out of nowhere a few months before. No one knew Soto’s past. His cows hadn’t produced their first crop of calves yet. How had Soto come up with enough money to buy a bull and have enough left to consider buying a fine horse? Had he decided to take back the money he’d paid for the bull?

But there were dozens of other possible suspects. The whole community had known Mr. Ramos was selling the bull to Soto. The people who lived along the road would have seen Mr. Ramos ride by leading the bull, and come back without it. Everyone in the cantina had heard him boasting about how much money he’d made. Plain greed was always a motive. Or it could have been an old grudge, forgotten by everyone except the grudge-holder.

Efraín looked down at his hands. There were several short black and white hairs, from a horse or a cow, stuck to the palms. That reminded him of his cow.

“Something’s wrong with my cow,” he said to everyone in the cantina, and described the symptoms.

No one had any helpful advice.

Efraín wanted a close look at the road between the cantina and the body. He returned on foot to where Lencho continued to sit under his wilting palm frond, keeping Mr. Ramos company. Lencho couldn’t help with the cow problem either.

The stout stick still lay by the side of the road where the band of leaves ended. Efraín scuffed the toe of his rubber boot through the leaves. Where they ended at the edge of the road, he found a hole the same diameter as the stick and half its length. A low grinding noise rumbled in the distance.

“That’ll be the judge’s Landcruiser,” Lencho said, sounding relieved. “I expect he went to get the Ramos family from their ranch and that’s what took so long.”

Efraín walked toward the cantina. He didn’t notice anything else out of the ordinary along the road. He went inside and whispered to Belicia for a moment. She gave him a deadly look. Then Efraín came back out and knelt by the motorcycle to examine the rope holding the water bottle.

He motioned to the policeman, who joined him.

“What do you see on this rope?” Efraín asked.

The policeman squinted at it. “Black and white hairs from a cow or horse. It’s a farm rope, that’s what you’d expect to see on it.”

“If you go to where the body lies, you’ll see a short, strong stick lying there and a band of leaves spread across the road.”

“I remember seeing the leaves.”

“There aren’t any trees around that place. Where did the leaves come from?”

The policeman took in the scenery, bare pastures with low grass. His eyes came to rest on the carpet of dry leaves under the mango tree.

“Yes, they’re mango leaves. Someone carried them from here,” Efraín said. “Why? To cover something that lay across the road — something that would scare a horse, something like a snake.” Efraín looked at the policeman.

The policeman blinked. “A rope,” he said at last.

“The person didn’t want the horse shying and running away with Mr. Ramos and his money... there’s a hole at the side of the road, across from that boulder, that the stick would fit into.”

The policeman gazed along the road. “On a dark night, that boulder would hide a person who was crouched down low.”

“You found the rope outside the police station. Who would throw down such a good rope? Either someone very rich, or—”

“A person who was upset and not thinking clearly—”

“And who didn’t plan on ever needing the rope again.”

The people in the cantina were keeping absolute silence, trying to catch every word.

Efraín cleared his throat. “Did you happen to notice the hands of the young man who reported the crime?”

“Yes, I did because they were shaking so badly. The skin was scraped raw across one palm,” the policeman said. Efraín stared at the ground. “Wilfredo needed, or just wanted, money. Like everyone else, he knew Mr. Ramos was selling Soto a bull,” he said. “I suppose he happened to approach the cantina last night and observed the drunk Mr. Ramos bragging about his money. He probably listened in the shadows for a while. No one would have seen him; it was the dark of the moon. He worked out a plan — at first it might have been just idle thought. Unfortunately, he put it into motion. He scooped up an armful of mango leaves and carried them down the road to that boulder.” Efraín pointed.

“Mr. Ramos stayed at the cantina for hours, so Wilfredo had plenty of time to collect a strong stick, a rope, and a rock,” he went on. “He pounded the stick into the ground with the rock and tied one end of the rope to it. I expect he laid the rope across the road in coils to better entangle the horse’s legs. He covered the rope with leaves and crouched behind the boulder, waiting. In his hand he held the loose end of the rope.”

“How could he be sure he had the right horse and rider?” the policeman asked, then answered himself. “Oh, the white stockings.”

“Yes, that was probably all he saw — four white legs coming down the road. At exactly the right moment he leaped up and yanked with all his strength on the rope. The horse tried to bolt, but its legs were caught. In that situation it would naturally buck. The rope cut into Wilfredo’s palm. The horse, being of course stronger than a human, got out of the rope in seconds. But by then Mr. Ramos, not at his most alert, had fallen off. That was what Wilfredo wanted.

“He might then have given Mr. Ramos a tap on the head with the rock, or he might not have hit him at all if the man was already unconscious. I’m sure he never intended to kill Mr. Ramos. There would have been no need to. In almost total darkness, and full of guaro, even if the cattleman were conscious he would have no idea who assaulted him.

“The young man felt for the money and couldn’t find it. I don’t think he would have used a flashlight; someone could have spotted it from the cantina. He finally gave up and left.

“At dawn he came back to search the leaves for the money, thinking it might have fallen out of Mr. Ramos’ pocket. He also had to collect the rope, which he must have forgotten the night before. He expected Mr. Ramos would have come to his senses in the night and staggered back to the cantina to sleep, maybe thinking his horse had just had a bucking fit and not even realizing he’d been attacked.

“Imagine the young man’s shock when he found Mr. Ramos dead in the road. When they take the body to town and the doctor examines it, I expect he’ll find a broken neck or fatal head injury which occurred in the fall — not from an attack.”

“What made you look at the rope?” the policeman asked.

“I noticed black and white hairs on my hands. I rode here on a bay. I realized they must have come off your damp water bottle. They’d stuck to it from the rope. The white hairs got on the rope when Wilfredo tripped the horse with white stockings. When Belicia told Wilfredo to catch her mare, he used the rope he had at hand — his own — and black hairs got on it.”

“How did Ramos’ money get into the salesman’s valise?” asked someone else.

“It didn’t. That money belonged to the salesman, just as he said.”

The salesman nodded vigorously.

Everyone let out their breath. Belicia stepped in front of the bar. She bent to pick up a squeezed lime-half; it had fallen to the floor.

“Wilfredo has probably headed for the city, hoping to lose himself there,” Efraín added.

Mr. and Mrs. Vargas had walked across the pasture and stood outside the cantina, listening to Efraín. “Wilfredo’s father let him spend too much time in the city, visiting his cousins,” said Mr. Vargas. “He must have picked up bad morals there. I should have known he was the one.”

“Someone’s going to have to tell his father,” a man said.

“Isn’t the judge a sort of uncle to the family?” asked the policeman. Everyone discussed the degree of relatedness.

Mr. Vargas said, “But what happened to Fernando’s money? How do you know the boy didn’t find it on him and steal it?”

Efraín looked at Belicia. She was back behind the bar. “I wonder if it fell out of his pocket while he was sitting at the bar,” she said. “That’s happened before. A person pulls out his money to pay for a drink, and when he tries to stuff it back into his pocket, it slips to the floor instead.”

Everyone looked at her.

“Why doesn’t someone check?” she added.

The policeman walked over and pulled the stools out of the way. He bent down and opened a pocket knife. He slid the blade into the crack between the floor and the wooden counter, and fished out a tight roll of bills.

“Yes, they must have fallen,” Belicia said. “Then someone accidentally kicked them under the bar.” She held her head high and stared everyone down.

Outside, Soto’s horse neighed as another horse trotted up. “Hi, Pop,” said the rider to Soto. “Thought I’d come over and see what was happening. Walked home and got another horse. Tide had just fallen low enough to pass.” He looked in the cantina and noticed the salesman. “Say, aren’t you that guy who sells trinkets? I need a present. For a girl.”

The salesman glanced at the policeman, then leaped off the stool and snatched up his valise. “Of course, all kinds of nice gifts,” he said. He laid the case on the bench and opened it. He grabbed the wad of bills. “I better put this in my pocket. It’s caused me enough problems.”

Everyone watched as the salesman rummaged through his goods.

“Crochet thread for the lacy tablecloths I’m sure she makes,” he told Soto’s son. “Beautiful ribbons for her hair, wide satin. Variety of colors.” The salesman held them up so they danced in the breeze. “Deluxe sewing kit: two needles, a dozen spools of thread, and a thimble.” He cast a malevolent glance at Belicia.

“Enameled tin coffee cup with painted flower design.” He made a quick assessment of his customer’s economic status, taking in the new shirt and sporty watch. “Or to please her even more, a whole set of cups, with these plates to match.”

“How much are the satin hair ribbons?” asked Soto’s son.

The salesman told him.

Soto’s son made a face. “Something cheaper.”

The salesman evaluated his wares. “Ah, just the thing.” He picked up some yam ties. “Also for her hair, but more inexpensive. Very economical. She will be happy, and so will your pocket.” He laughed.

Soto’s son chose two yam ties, handed over a few coins, and went back outside.

Belicia bought a painted cup and plate. Efraín wasn’t sure if it was to make up for what she’d nearly allowed to happen to the salesman, or to cheer herself for having to renounce all that money.

The judge’s battered Landcruiser had reached the scene of the crime and was discharging officials and Ramos relatives.

The policeman bought a pair of sewing scissors for his mother. “I’d better hurry over and explain things to those officials,” he said, adjusting the rag over the spring in the motorcycle seat. “When they get back to town, they’ll want to phone the city police, to have them look for Wilfredo. I have to give this money to Mrs. Ramos, too.”

The salesman was about to close his valise when Efraín stepped up. “I’d like to see those satin hair ribbons.”

“Certainly.” The salesman lifted them out. They floated gaily in a band of afternoon sun that swept through the cantina. Efraín wiped his hands on his pants and gently touched the yellow one. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bill, worn soft as cloth. He rarely had any money on him; it was fortunate, he thought, that today he did. His eyes wandered back to the valise, to a small mirror set in a wooden frame with white roses painted on it. “Would this be enough for a ribbon and that mirror, too?”

“Oh yes.” The salesman started to take the bill. Then he pushed Efraín’s hand away. He stuffed the ribbon and the mirror in Efraín’s shirt pocket and closed his valise. “Take them. It’s the least I can do to thank you. Now I’m going to run over and see if I can get a ride to town in that Landcruiser.” He rushed out.

Efraín jogged along the beach on the bay horse. Soto had ridden a few miles farther toward town to take care of his errand. He had told Efraín to ride the horse home and bring it back to Soto’s in the morning. Efraín would be going over anyway to check on his cow — he’d probably have to bury her then, he thought glumly. He doubted that she’d last much longer. They couldn’t eat her, not knowing what the sickness was.

He’d have to tell Sulema about the cow tonight.

Efraín approached his palm-thatched house in the twilight. A small stocky figure was walking away from it.

“Catalino!” Efraín called. “Where’ve you been?”

Catalino turned. “Went to visit my people,” he said. “By the way, I fixed your cow.”

“You fixed my cow!”

“I met one of Soto’s sons on the trail. He mentioned your cow was sick. I went to see.”

“What did she have? How did you treat her?”

Catalino raised his eyebrows. “She had a lesson about not eating too fast. She swallowed an orange while she was grazing, I suppose. It stuck halfway down. That’s why she could hardly breathe. I reached down her throat and pulled the orange out. I came over to tell you she’s all right now.”

“—so Mr. Ramos must have realized he’d had too much guaro to take proper care of his money,” Efraín said. He stood behind Sulema, holding the mirror for her while she twisted the yellow ribbon into her long hair. “Mr. Ramos slipped the money over the bar to Belicia and asked her to hold it for him. After he was dead, she thought she might as well keep it. She didn’t care what happened to the salesman.”

Sulema shook her head. “Some people can’t be understood. I hope the storekeeper’s daughter has sense enough not to go off with Soto’s son for a pair of cheap yam hair ties,” she said. “She’s a sweet girl, not too bright maybe but she’ll learn.” Sulema wound the coil of hair onto her head. The ribbon glistened in the candlelight. “How does this look?”

Efraín couldn’t resist. He reached out and tugged on the ribbon. Glossy black hair tumbled across Sulema’s shoulders. “You got an expensive satin ribbon. See how lucky you are?” he said. “You could have ended up with one of the Soto clan.”

“You and your foolishness,” she retorted, coiling her hair again. “You forgot to buy salt. You’ll have to eat your dinner saltless tonight unless you feel like walking over to Catalino’s in the dark to borrow some.” She had her back to him but he could see the curve of her smile.