El Lazo - The Clint Ryan Series

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  “We’re not very well prepared for a few days in the mountains,” Clint grumbled as he paced Ramón’s steady lope.

  “Rancho del Robles Viejos is just over the rise. My father works there ... and we know Don Estoban and his segundo are in the pueblo and not at home. We can get a few provisions there.”

  Clint clamped his teeth as he realized that Ramón was purposely avoiding any contact with Inocente Ruiz. For the first time since Padre Javier had come with his warning, Clint thought of his appointment with Inocente at Teodoro’s Cantina. His fists balled, and the muscles in his shoulders bunched. The man would think him a coward when he did not show up.

  He felt like turning around and galloping back to the pueblo but it was not that simple. Padre Javier had asked a personal favor of him. Though his confrontation with Ruiz was a matter of pride, Padre Javier had helped save his life, and he owed him. “Hell,” he thought. “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Inocente will wait, and who gives a damn what he thinks,” he decided as they crested a small rise and saw the rancho’s impressive buildings ahead. Now, this is the way to live.

  Clint surveyed the hacienda and forced his mind from Inocente Ruiz. The hacienda faced the ocean in the distance; the barn and a large corral were within easy walking distance in one direction and the kitchen building, the cocina, sat within spitting distance from the rear of the red-tile-roofed adobe house. A flat-roofed matanza, or slaughterhouse, huddled a few feet beyond. The whitewashed adobes reflected the western sky and shimmered with a golden glow.

  A thin wisp of smoke betrayed the last of the supper fire, and the aroma teased Clint. A herd of horses stood in knee-deep lush green grass in a meadow between the house and the sea, and huge mottled sycamores lined the meadow and framed the pastoral scene.

  They dismounted, and Ramón called out to his father. The old man appeared at the barn door. His eyes, in a craggy face of indeterminable age lit up at the sight of his son and the smile that followed revealed a mouth with few remaining teeth. He was a man who looked as if he had ridden the world and soaked up its knowledge.

  At the sight of his father, Ramón removed his hat. Clint followed suit.

  “Clint Ryan, this is my father, Alfonso Maria Diego.”

  The old vaquero pushed his flat hat back to reveal a mane of steel-gray hair that flowed to his shoulders. He extended a knotted hand, and Clint shook it, impressed with its strength and hard callused texture. He watched as Ramón related recent news to his father. The son listened attentively when the old man spoke. When the old man rolled a smoke, which Ramón lit for him, and offered one to them, Ramón politely declined. Though Ramón must have been easily twenty years Clint’s senior, he would not smoke in front of his father.

  Alfonso instructed an Indian boy Muñoz to grain, water, and rub down the lathered horses.

  The men talked as they walked to the kitchen, and Ramón told his father of Clint’s run-in with Inocente Ruiz.

  After they were seated in the cocina and had a plate of leftover beef, beans, and squash steaming in front of them, and a cup of coffee that would raise a blood blister on a leather boot, Alfonso turned to Clint. “You must not think too badly of Inocente. You are a stranger and don’t understand our ways. A California don and his vaqueros place their women above all else.” He smiled mischievously. “Except possibly their Andalusian stallions”

  Clint listened intently but said nothing.

  “To meet the eyes of a California señora or señorita to whom you have not been introduced,” Alfonso continued, is not considered polite, even if you are a Californio. To stare is an insult. To speak is considered an affront of the worst kind”

  Clint did not reply, even when the old vaquero paused to give him the opportunity.

  “If you do not repeat the offense, I am sure the matter is settled.”

  Clint mopped the last of his plate with a tortilla, then sat back in the seat and shoved the empty plate away. “I don’t mean to be rude, Señor Diego. As you say, I am a stranger. I had only seen a California señorita from a distance before Señorita Padilla walked in front of me in the pueblo. She was looking directly at me, and where I come from, it would have been rude not to speak. I meant no offense when I addressed her, as any gentleman would do on the streets of Mystic or Boston or New York.”

  Clint rose from his seat and walked to the window. “Where I come from, we cut strangers a little slack, I was unaware of my mistake, and if it had been pointed out to me, I would have offered an apology.” Clint turned away from the window to face the two vaqueros. “Inocente Ruiz and I have an appointment—face-to-face this time. I intend to teach him some tolerance if I have to do it with my knuckles, the heel of my boot, or, if he prefers, with the blade of my knife. If he wishes the blade, then God will judge him. And that’s no brag, just fact. It’s a foolish man who writes a draft with his mouth that his abilities can’t cash.”

  “Inocente’s skill with the blade is renowned,” Alfonso warned.

  A loaf of bread rested on a table across the room; behind it a thick hardwood cutting board leaned against the wall—eight paces away. Almost before Alfonso had finished his statement, Clint’s blade appeared in his hand and flashed across the room, pinning the loaf to the cutting board with a quivering thump.

  Alfonso’s and Ramon’s eyes widened.

  “And mine,” Clint offered quietly, “has come from a thousand ports in a hundred countries, full of hard, skilled men who fancy themselves and their abilities. Men who will face a man, not attack him from the rear.”

  “He will not back down,” Alfonso said.

  “Nor will I. I learned long ago that no one respects a man with retreat in his heart.”

  There was a long silence.

  Finally, Alfonso rose. “Well, mi amigo, you are a friend of Ramón’s, and that is enough for me. I will get you two some blankets and some coffee, tortillas, and frijoles, then you must be on your way.”

  “Tonight?” Ramón asked.

  “Yes, tonight, I am afraid. Don Estoban may return even yet, and it would be best if you were gone.”

  “As you wish, mi padre,” Ramón said. Only when they were mounted and riding away did Ramón return his hat to his head. In the darkness they walked the horses, not risking a faster pace on a trail that was not much more than carreta tracks.

  “It is obvious you think a great deal of your father, Ramón. I respect that. I never had much chance to know mine, nor my mother.”

  “Alfonso Diego was once the finest horseman I’ve ever known, He is seventy now, and prides himself only on what he teaches the young men. He can only do that now by telling what he once demonstrated. He still rides, but is cautious.”

  “The bones become brittle, and he is wise to respect that.”

  “He will have a home with Don Padilla for as long as he lives, and I pray that is a long time. He loves his horses, and he reveres Señorita Juana as he would a granddaughter. I was glad you explained to him.”

  “And I’m glad you heard it. I hope you understand.”

  They rode until they were off the rancho then made a dry camp at the first open spot with good grass, hobbling the horses. To the accompaniment of the mournful songs of a lone wolf and an owl, they rolled in their blankets.

  Clint took a long time to fall asleep, tired as he was. He knew that somewhere Inocente Ruiz believed him a coward, and the thought gnawed at him like a gut full of maggots. With the thought that he would soon have the opportunity to right that mistaken belief, he finally drifted off.