Valdez Is Coming Read Online Free PDF Page B

darkness over the same ruts that stretched across the mesquite flats and climbed through barrancas to crest a hill and drop curving into the endless flats again, forever, it seemed, on the boot or now in the saddle of a stage company horse.
    He said in his mind, Mr. Tanner, I’m Bob Valdez. You remember, I was out at the pasture today when the man was killed.
    When the man was killed. When you killed him, he said to himself.
    We were talking about doing something for his wife and Mr. Beaudry, the land agent, said—
    He said go out and try to get it from Frank Tanner; you dumb Mexican son of a bitch. That’s what he said. Do you know it?
    He knew it. Sure. But what was he supposed to do? Forget about the woman? He had told her they would give her money. God, it would be easy to forget about her. No, it would be good, but it wouldn’t be easy. But with all of them watching him he had had to walk out and get a horse and he would have to ride the ten goddam miles or more to the goddam swing station and, getting it over with, smile and be respectful and ask Mr. Tanner if he would please like to give something for this fat squaw who had lived with Rincón and was having his child.
    And Frank Tanner, like the rest of them, would say—
    No, they said this Tanner had a lot of money. Maybe he would say, “Sure, I’ll give you something for her. How much do you want?” Maybe it would be easy to talk to him. Maybe now, at night, after it was over and the man had had time to think about it, maybe he would talk a little and say yes.
    A mile or a little more from the stage station he saw low shapes out among the brush patches, cattle grazing, bedded for the night, and among them, the taller shape of a rider. But they were well off from the stage road and none of the cattle he saw or the mounted man came near him. During the last mile he was certain a rider was behind him, but he didn’t stop or slow down to let the horse sound catch up with him. It could be somebody on the road, anybody, or one of Tanner’s men watching him; but he had nothing to say to whoever it was. His words were for Tanner, even if he didn’t know how to put the words to convince the man. It would be easier to say it in Spanish. Or in Chiricahua.
    Now, coming over a low rise, he could see the glow of their fires, three of them, where the swing station would be in the darkness. Gradually then, as he approached, he could make out the adobe building, the fires reflecting on pale walls in the night. The front of the building, beneath the mesquite-pole ramada, was in deep shadow. Closer now and he could see the low adobe outer wall across the front yard, shielding the well and the horse corral from open country.
    Valdez listened as he approached. He could hear the men by the fire, the thin sound of voices coming across the yard. He could hear horses moving in the corral and a shrill whinnying sound. He was aware of horses closer to him, off in the darkness, but moving in with the heavy muffled sound of hooves on the packed sand. He did not look toward the sound but continued on, coming to the wall and walking his horse through the open gate, feeling the riders out of the darkness close behind him as he entered the yard.
    A figure by the wall with a rifle said, “Hold it there,” and a voice behind him, in English also but with an accent said, “We have him.” The man with the rifle came toward him, raising the barrel of a Henry or a Winchester — Valdez wasn’t sure in the dimness.
    He said in Spanish, “I have no gun.”
    And the voice behind him said, also in Spanish, “Get down and show us.”
    Valdez swung down. He dropped the reins and opened his coat as the man with the rifle, a Winchester, came up to him.
    “The saddle,” the voice behind him said in English.
    Not looking around Valdez said, “You make sure, don’t you?” The man behind him didn’t answer. He walked his horse forward and dismounted close to Valdez, looking into his