Valley of Shadows (eBook)

One

1883

Solitario Cisneros squinted across the golden plains at the growing cloud of dust. He stood out on his porch, sipping his bitter morning coffee from a hot tin cup, just like he did at the start of every day, the new sun peeking over the vast blanket of creosote-dotted desert.

He reckoned there were at least three riders, and they were moving fast judging by the rate at which the dust cloud mushroomed, battling the orange glow of the rising sun. Between him and the interlopers stood a scattered regiment of cattle, motionless, oblivious to the intrusion. The cows didn’t even bother to raise their heads from the sparse clumps of grass they grazed upon.

You’re about as much use as my comrades were, back when I was with the Rurales, Solitario mused at the cattle, his dark eyes smoldering as he maintained his steady stare toward the east. The outlines of three horses emerged from the swirl of sandy particles churning across his land. Two gringos and a Mexicano. He could tell by the types of hats the riders wore on their heads. Soon they’d be able to spot him there on his wooden porch. Even though he was dressed in black, they could probably already make out the flash of the sun glinting off his tin cup. After all, the sun was behind them. He took a final sip, setting the cup down on the rustic table next to him. He stared down at the weathered wood. It blended into the floorboards beneath it and the wall next to it. All had been painted gray at some point and now sat faded and covered in layers of sand. The whole place yearned to blend into its background, featureless, nearly invisible unless you knew where it was, who you were looking for. That was not only how Solitario felt, it was how he preferred things. Simple. Sparse. Subtle. Pensively, he stroked his long full mustache before ducking into the front room of his house, reaching for his gun belt, and slinging it around his waist in a fluid motion. It was tooled from black leather, just like his boots. And it sat below a turquoise belt buckle exquisitely fashioned into the shape of an eagle. A silver revolver gleamed below each hip. Glancing outside, he surmised he did not have the luxury of time to wrap his ammunition belts over his shoulders or to throw his jacket over his frayed vest. Instead, he pulled his broad-brimmed black sombrero off its hook, lowered its midnight-blue underbrim over his wavy black hair, and stepped back outside, waiting at the top of the stairs as he observed the approaching intruders. Visitors were rare in these parts, at least for him. At least these days, since the river had changed course.

When the riders reached the clearing in front of the low-slung house, the sun was directly behind them, and all he could make out were their dark silhouettes, their outlines sizzling deep orange, like the yolks of frying eggs.

He stared at them impassively, his hands at his sides, not threatening but ready.

“Jefe.” The Mexican man removed his sombrero as he spoke. “¿Me permite desmontar para saludarlo como debe ser?”

A wave of relief washed through Solitario as he recognized the man’s voice, but outwardly he betrayed no signs of either having been alarmed or of letting down his guard. Besides, for all he knew, the man might be performing under duress. He could still not make out the two gringos who flanked him. “Claro, Elias,” he replied.

When the man dismounted and approached, the girth of his belly and the dearth of his stature both became evident. While Solitario looked no different than he had during their fighting days together, his comrade had grown stockier, and white stubble populated his chin like the prickles on cholla. Solitario fought back the urge to smile in recognition as the man stretched out his weathered hand. Shaking firmly, he scanned Elias’ eyes for any hint of trouble. He read worry in them for certain, but not panic, not urgency, not the darting sideways glance that would have been code for immediate danger. Whoever the gringos at his side were, the stout man in denim pants and a tan work shirt did not seem particularly afraid of them.

“What brings you out here, Elias?” asked Solitario, his eyes trained on the rifles holstered to the flanks of his companions’ horses.

“It’s been too long, Jefe. You look the same. Pero está muy flaco. Are you eating enough? I know you never eat breakfast, but how about lunch or dinner?”

“I’m sure you’re not here for breakfast or to check on my health.”

“No, Jefe. I remember your cooking. And, no offense, but my Otila’s huevos rancheros are much better.” The man wiped his forehead with the red bandanna tied loosely around his thick neck. Already the heat was rising, promising that the day would be a scorcher.

“¿Entonces?” Solitario nodded. “Who are your compañeros?”

“They are from the village. They asked me to guide them to you. I hope you don’t mind. They promised to pay me well. This is Mr. Stillman, the mayor.” He pointed at a tall man sitting stiffly in his saddle. “And this is Mr. Boggs, the banker.” He motioned toward a shorter man with a bowler hat perched awkwardly on his horse.

Solitario squinted up at the men, still rigid on their steeds. “How can I help you?” he asked, his English flowing with the phonetic rhythm of a tongue dipped in the Rio Grande.

Mr. Stillman spoke with a southern drawl. “If you come with us, we’ll compensate you handsomely as well.”

“What for?”

“There’s been a murder in the village.”

“There are murders in the village often,” Solitario responded in a measured tone as if this was merely a natural part of life, which it was, “and nobody comes out here to interrupt my morning café.”

“I remember your café, Jefe.” Elias grinned, shaking his head, his ruddy cheeks inflating like those of a well-fed chipmunk. “Being interrupted might not be such a bad thing.”

Solitario scowled at Elias. A few years out of service and people quickly forgot their place. He stared with suspicion at the mounted men. It was hard to assess a man’s intentions when you could not look into his eyes. “Like I said, killing is as common as coyotes and cactus. Why do you need me?”

The tall southerner shifted in his saddle. “Because this here murder is . . . well . . . let’s just say it is highly unusual. And we have no idea who might have committed it.”

“I am not the law around here anymore. And I don’t get involved in matters of vengeance,” Solitario replied, regret tingeing his gravelly voice. “I’m sorry my old sergeant wasted your time bringing you all the way out here.”

“It is no matter of revenge or anything of the sort,” Mr. Boggs finally spoke, his voice quivering as if it took a lot out of him to pipe up. “We just need help ascertaining who has committed this terrible atrocity, bring them to justice so they don’t do something ungodly again. The townsfolk are petrified. Some are talking about packing up their wagons and leaving. You must come. At least come bear witness with your own eyes.”

Solitario could sense the fear in Boggs’ voice. He had seen something that had shaken him to the core, his voice still trembling from the aftershocks. Out in these far reaches, it took a lot to unsettle a man, even those wily or naive enough to abandon the safety of their northeastern cities for the uncertainty of the frontier, the way he figured Boggs had done.

“I’m sorry to hear it. But I’m not the one you should be looking for anyway. Go find your sheriff, Tolbert. He’ll help you.”

“That’s the problem,” Stillman explained. “Sheriff Tolbert is precisely the one that has been killed.”

“And you are the only other lawman within a couple days’ ride that can take stock of the crime scene . . . well . . . before it’s too late,” Boggs added.

Bodies rotted fast in this heat. Evidence disintegrated. Bandits escaped into the chaparral, wound into the mountains, and vanished across the Rio Grande as nimbly as the puma that roamed the lands.

“I’m sorry about your sheriff,” Solitario said, removing his sombrero, its silver embroidery glittering in the sunlight. “He was un hombre decente, a decent man.”

The two mounted men removed their hats in unison, bowing their heads.

“His wife and children must be grieving. Perhaps it’s best to leave things alone,” Solitario said, still hoping to avoid the journey into town. “Widows and mourners don’t welcome people like me picking over their dead. What’s done is done. They should bury him and be finished with the whole business. No amount of meddling will bring Tolbert back to them.”

“You see, that’s the other half of it,” Boggs replied, his voice faltering. “Whoever killed the sheriff, they killed his wife and family too.”

“They’ve done it in a way that doesn’t seem human, Jefe,” Elias added. “You have to come see for yourself. Es una barbaridad.”

Solitario’s gaze dropped to the faded porch step he stood on and then to the cracked earth that spread out below. A heavy weight threatened to descend upon his broad shoulders. He felt despondent. He wasn’t sure if it was for the sheriff and his family, whom he’d respected but hadn’t known all that well, or for himself. He rarely left his ranch, hardly ever dealt with other people anymore. Cows didn’t ask him questions or expect much of him. Cows didn’t cry when he failed. He furrowed his thick eyebrows as his eyes stalked a trail of...