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

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.