Bill Pronzini - Beyond the Grave

“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.

O'Hare recognized him at the same time; his moon face registered surprise that modulated into a smile as he drew rein. “Mr. Quincannon,” he said. “Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Yes, isn't it?” Quincannon said without enthusiasm.

“I didn't expect you for another day or two. But you're going the wrong way, you know; the Velasquez hacienda is the one on that hill behind you.”

“I am aware of that. I've just come from there.”

“You have? When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Really? But I understood you had two or three days' business in Santa Barbara …”

“My business is here now,” Quincannon said shortly. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'll get on with it.”

“You wouldn't be riding to the Alvarado rancho, would you? I've just come from there.”

“No, I wouldn't.”

“Well… that is where this road leads, you know.”

Quincannon said nothing, pointedly. He would have liked to lean over and knock O'Hare off his horse. For some reason the man brought out uncharitable feelings in him.

O'Hare gave him a knowing look. “On the trail of something, eh?” he said. “Detective work for Senor Velasquez?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, I won't pry,” O'Hare said. “Won't detain you any longer, either. But I would consider it a personal favor if you'd confide in me later on. Hasta la vista , Mr. Quincannon.”

And a good day to you, too, you horse's ass , Quincannon thought.

O'Hare lifted a hand and continued on his way. Quincannon rode on a short way himself, looking back over his shoulder as he went. When O'Hare had passed from sight he swung the claybank off the road, cut back at an angle through a screen of trees to where the rain-swollen creek meandered among a series of low, rolling hillocks.

He followed the stream until he came in sight of the orchard that marked the pueblo's eastern perimeter. Then he veered away from it to the south, skirted a tangle of wild blackberry bushes and the shoulder of another hillock. Layers of mist undulated above a section of marshy lowland beyond. And beyond that was yet another hillock, this one crowned by a pair of huge black oaks: his reckoning had been correct. He negotiated the bog and rode halfway up the gentle slope of the hill, at which point he picketed the claybank. He went the rest of the way on foot.

From atop the knoll, as Velasquez had said he would, he had a fine clear view of the pueblo. He could also see portions of the main road to Rancho Rinconada de los Robles, the one he had traveled yesterday; and at an angle behind him, part of the hacienda was likewise visible. All in all, it was a better vantage point than he had hoped for.

He scanned the ruins with his naked eye, saw nothing out of the ordinary. He scanned them again with the spyglass, paying particular attention to the graveyard behind the ravaged church. There was no sign of disturbance in the area, no indication that anyone had been there since his visit yesterday afternoon.

Half a dozen large rocks were scattered through the high grass between the oaks. One of these, shielded by low-hanging branches, had a kind of natural bench on its near side. He had brought the claybank's saddle blanket with him, and he spread this out over the bench to insulate his backside from the cold dampness of the stone. When he sat down he found that he could see over the top of the rock with no difficulty. And he was satisfied that no one could see him from down below.

He settled in to wait. The shape of the rock gave him some protection from the wind, but the cold seeped in through his clothing, his gloves, his boots. As did the damp, even though most of the ground mist was beginning to evaporate. He shifted position constantly, first in an effort to make himself comfortable and then to keep the muscles in his legs and arms from stiffening.

He had been there an hour and a quarter when he spied movement on the main road beyond the pueblo. He caught up the glass, fitted it to his eye. A light spring wagon had come rolling down the hill from the hacienda and was proceeding westward. He lost sight of it for a time, picked it up again as it emerged from behind a wall of trees, and saw that there were three people on the high seat. Two of them were Velasquez's wife and young daughter, both wrapped in heavy ponchos, the child cradled in her mother's arms. The third person, the one driving the wagon, was Emilio, one of the guards who had been posted at the main gate.

Quincannon's beard bristled, and his face shaped itself into a piratical glower. The woman and child were probably on their way to visit a neighbor, he thought, and Velasquez had detailed Emilio to protect them. But had he put anyone on the gate in the man's place? What if there was trouble here and this poor half-frozen gringo detective needed more help than Pablo alone could give? Had Velasquez given any thought to that before he permitted his family to go gallivanting through the countryside?

The wagon disappeared completely between two hills. Quincannon lowered the glass and ducked his head turtle-fashion into the collar of his coat. He was feeling sorry for himself again. What sort of miserable job was this for a detective of his experience and talents? There was no dignity in it, by God. No dignity at all. He decided he would charge Velasquez double the agency's fee- triple the agency's fee if he were forced to spend more than one day out here in the cold, risking a serious case of the grippe on top of everything else. That made him feel a little better. There was a certain warmth in the prospect of a large sum of money. Not that he was the greedy sort, a common money-grubber. Perish the thought. But a man had to be compensated for his sacrifices in some way, didn't he?

More time passed. The sky began to darken; the wind gathered strength, and the air took on a moist, metallic smell. To the west, above the Santa Ynez Mountains, gangrenous thunderheads had begun to mass like soldiers assembling for an attack. Two hours, perhaps three, and the heavens would open up and dump forth enough water to drown any man fool enough to still be sitting behind a rock on a knoll, accumulating chilblains and flirting with the grippe.

Well, he wouldn't still be sitting here when the storm broke. Luis Cordova's murderer was not going to be out digging up buried treasure in a thunderstorm and neither was the man who would eventually bring him to justice. Enough was enough. He would wait one more hour, perhaps an hour and a half if those thunderheads took their time sallying forth for the deluge. Then he would ride back to the hacienda and spend the day in front of a blazing fire, drinking hot coffee and thinking about Sabina.