Twice Buried Read Online Free PDF Page B

face.
    “Sheriff, he pulled out that monstrous revolver and laid it right here on the counter! I could look right down the barrel. And I could see the ends of the bullets.”
    “He took the gun out of the holster?”
    “He did. And then he rummaged around until he found his coin purse. He paid me for the stamps and put the purse back in his pocket.”
    “And then he put the gun away and left?”
    “He did no such thing. You know Ella Fernandez? Well, at that moment she came in with her ailing mother. Mr. Fuentes picked up the revolver—I assume to put it away—and dropped it! Can you imagine that? He dropped it, Sheriff. I thought Mrs. Fernandez was going to have heart failure.”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Well. He’s so crippled. He hung onto the counter with one hand and bent down, trying to pick up the gun. I thought he was surely going to fall. Finally, Ella reached down and picked it up. He mumbled something when she handed it to him. Then he left. And that took another five minutes.”
    “I see.”
    “Now, Sheriff, that thing might have gone off and killed someone.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I told Ella and her mother that I would talk to you. I’ve heard that you know Mr. Fuentes rather well. I can’t overemphasize how important this is, Sheriff. It is my responsibility to make sure that nothing like this happens again.”
    “You did the right thing.”
    She softened a little. “I mean, don’t misunderstand me. I wouldn’t want Mr. Fuentes arrested or anything like that. But you must make him understand, Sheriff. And you know—” she leaned forward again and whispered, “he drinks so much .”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I pushed away from the counter and straightened up. “I’ll run out and have a chat with him. And thanks for giving me the call. I appreciate it.”
    “Thank you, Sheriff.” She smiled. She needed new dentures. “I have some coffee on in back if you’d care for some.”
    “No, thanks. I had too much for breakfast.” I nodded and did my best to look solemnly official. “I’ll talk to Reuben and let you know.”
    The sun was bright through the few skeletal elms when I walked outside. I sat in the county car for a minute, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
    Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember when I’d seen Reuben Fuentes with a gun in recent months, or even years. A week before, I’d seen him hobbling up and down the aisles of Griego’s Big G Supermart. He hadn’t been using a cane then. And he hadn’t been carrying a gun.
    Two weeks before that, he’d driven his battered Bronco into a bar ditch. Deputy Eddie Mitchell had turned the front hubs, yanked the old truck into four-wheel drive, and then rocked it free. The deputy said old Reuben hadn’t been drunk that day, or he wouldn’t have let him plod on homeward. Eddie was a methodical, thorough young cop. If Reuben Fuentes had been wearing a gun, the deputy would have mentioned it in his report.
    I accelerated the county car away from the curb and headed toward the west edge of town. It wouldn’t take long to swing out past Reuben’s place and have a chat.
    I owed him a visit anyway, to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten that he was going with me to his great-grandnephew’s christening. He probably wouldn’t remember the incident in the post office. He could recall everything about the summer of 1916 and nothing about an hour ago.
    Reuben Fuentes, in his lilting and fractured Mexican-English, could describe the great Pancho Villa better than any photograph. But about himself, Reuben was not reliable. He was either 84, 96, or 101, depending on when he was asked. He was oldest when he was ailing—as most of us are. He was youngest when wrapped around a bottle of Black Velvet.
    His stories over the years had blended into a wonderful hodgepodge of fact laced liberally with whimsy. His grandniece and my former deputy, Estelle Reyes-Guzman, had said that old Reuben was born in 1898. She treasured a