Listen to the Mockingbird Read Online Free PDF

mind rebelled. I couldn’t bring myself to think about it. Like as not, I had surprised a drifter in the act of stealing some tack. I sent the men back to work. The boy had to be buried as soon as possible.
    In the kitchen, I ladled some water into a pan, dipped a towel in it and held it to my head. After a time the pain gave way to numbness. I gave my face a good wash and went back outside.
    Fanny was munching hay, still saddled, near the barn doors. I took the reins, thrust myself onto her back and set out for the cuevas, keeping her at a slow gait to appease the ache that drummed in my head each time her hooves hit the ground.
    I had ducked to peer into the cave’s darkness when Tonio Bernini’s face suddenly appeared around a rock, just inches from mine.
    “Pardon me,” I faltered, backing away.
    “Good afternoon.” He stepped into the sun.
    I backed two more steps then drew myself up. “Have you been up to the ranch today?”
    He frowned and shook his head.
    “Have you seen anyone? Anyone who doesn’t belong here?”
    He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “I expect I wouldn’t know whether someone belonged or not. Why?”
    “No matter.” I leveled my gaze at him. “I’ve heard you are a priest.”
    His eyes bored into mine, then strayed above my head. “Sorry. I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
    I studied his face. It was full of something I could not read. “Beg pardon.” I turned to go.
    “Have you need of a priest?”
    “The boy—I thought it fitting to have a service. Sorry to have bothered you.” I moved toward where I’d left Fanny.
    “As it happens, I do know the service.” I turned back. His face was almost empty now. “I was in seminary once.”
    999
    A clod of clay thunked the top of the narrow coffin.
    The flute felt cold and heavy in my hand. My lips and fingers were wooden with the weight of the time that had passed since I last held it. The casket gleaned from scraps of wood seemed unutterably apart from the group gathered around it, and the wind-scoured range a cheerless place for a spirit to begin its journey toward the next world.
    Thirteen of us clustered under an old scrub oak. When I counted, the number made my skin prickle as though someone had tread on my own grave. But I shook off the feeling, not much one for superstition. Thirteen, and not one of us had known the boy alive.
    My eyes rested for a moment on Nacho’s bowed head. Next to him, on her knees but back straight, head thrust up, face wearing a profound sadness, was Herlinda. Mexican women have a gift for mourning. Their sons, Ruben and Julio, albeit a bit unsteady on their feet and smelling of whiskey, stood obediently, with eyes closed. The Lujan boys might have been a trifle rowdy from time to time, but they were good hands.
    Homer Durkin, a rawboned man with slicked-down hair, had planted his feet apart, as if someone might try to knock him down. His head was hunched down between his shoulders, like one trying hard to show proper respect for the dead. At Homer’s elbow, Eliot Turk stood as tall as his scant frame would allow, dark face held high, eyes closed, looking peaceful as a monk in chapel. Buck Mason towered over Eliot, eyes staring blankly at the coffin, a battered felt hat grasped tightly as a lifeline and held to his heart. I always thought Buck wasn’t quite right in the head, but Nacho said he was strong and willing and that was good enough for me.
    A small knot of Indian women clustered near, but not with, Herlinda. Two looked to have no more than twenty years between them; the third, mouth open showing absent teeth, was getting on. They swayed a little in unison, no doubt having a word with their own Great Spirit as we prayed to ours.
    I glanced again at the casket, ineffably lonely perched next to its rocky grave; and once more wondered who had done this. Killings were common in these parts. Not a year went by without a dozen men meeting their Maker forthwith in a tavern brawl or a