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

“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.