The huts were tidy, dirt floors swept and spread with straw, clay pots empty, water skins dry. The hearths were cold, the coals scattered. He found old bread, wrapped and moldy, and signs that mice had gnawed at sacks of musty grain.
In one of the huts, the blankets of a bed—little more than a straw mat in the corner—had been shoved away, the bed torn apart. It was the first sign of violence rather than abandonment. He picked up the blanket, thinking perhaps to find blood, some sure sign that ill had happened.
A cross dropped away from the folds of the cloth. It had been wrapped and hidden away, unable to protect its owner. The thought saddened him.
Perhaps the villagers had fled. He went out a little ways to try to find tracks, to determine what direction the villagers might have gone. Behind the church, he found a narrow path in the grass, like a shepherd might use leading sheep or goats into the hills. Ricardo followed it. He shuttered the lantern and allowed his vision to adjust to the moonlight, to better see into the distance.
He was partway across the valley, the village and its church a hundred paces behind him, when he saw a figure sitting at the foot of a juniper. A piece of clothing, the tail of a shirt perhaps, fluttered in the slight breeze that hushed through the valley.
“Hola,” Ricardo called quietly. He got no answer and approached cautiously, hand on his sword.
The body of a child, a boy, lay against the tree. Telling his age was impossible because his body had desiccated. The skin was blackened and stretched over the bones. His face was gaunt, a leathery mask drawn over a skull, and chipped teeth grinned. Dark pits marked the eye sockets. It might have been part of the roots and branches. Ricardo might have walked right by it and not noticed, if not for the piece of rotted cloth that had moved.
The child had dried out, baked in the desert like pottery.
It looked like something ancient. Moreover, he could not tell what had killed it. Perhaps only hunger.
But his instincts told him something terrible had happened here. Fray Juan had to know something of what had killed this boy, and the entire village. Ricardo must find out what, then report this to the governor, then get word to the bishop in Mexico City. This land and its people must be brought under proper jurisdiction, if for no other reason than to protect them from people like Fray Juan.
He rushed back to the village, went to the church, and marched inside, shouting, “Fray Juan! Talk to me! Tell me what’s happened here! Explain yourself!”
But no one answered. The chapel echoed, and no doors cracked open even a little to greet him. Softly now, he went through the strange decrepit chapel with no cross. The door to the friar’s chamber was unlocked, but the room was empty. Not even a lamp was lit. The whole place seemed abandoned. He tried the trapdoor, lifting the iron ring—the door didn’t move. Locked from the other side. He pounded on the door with his boot heel, a useless gesture. So, Fray Juan was hiding. No matter. He’d report to the governor, and Ricardo would return with a squad to burn the place to the ground to flush the man out. He wouldn’t even wait until daylight to set out. He didn’t want to sleep out the night in this haunted valley.
When he went to retrieve his horse, a man stood in
his way.
In the moonlight, he was a shadow, but Ricardo could see the smile on his face: Diego Ruiz.
“Amigo,” the man called, his voice light, amused. “You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Diego, what’s happened here? What’s this about?”
“I told you, Ricardo. This land is rich. We are looking for men to help us reap those riches.”
“I see nothing here but a wasted village,” Ricardo said.
A new voice spoke, “You need to see with different eyes.”
Ricardo turned, for the voice had come from behind him. He had not heard the man approach—he must have been hiding in one of the huts. Two more came with him, so that together the four circled Ricardo. He could not flee without confronting them. He turned, looking back and forth, trying to keep them all in view, unwilling to turn his back on any of them.
The four were very much like Ricardo—young men with pure Spanish features, wearing the clothing of gentlemen. Others who had swarmed to New Spain seeking fortunes, failing, and turning dissolute.
Ricardo drew his sword. One of them he could fight. But not four. Not when they had every advantage. How had they taken him by surprise? He should have heard them coming. “You’ve turned bandit. You think to recruit more to run wild with you? No, Diego. I have no reason to join you.”
“You do not have a choice, amigo. I brought you here because we can use a man like you. Someone with connections.”
Ricardo smiled wryly. “No one will pay my ransom.”
They laughed, four caballeros in high spirits. “He thinks we’ll ask for ransom,” another said.
Ricardo swallowed back panic and remained calm. Whatever they planned for him, he would not make it easy. He’d fight.
“Señor, be at ease,” spoke a third. “We won’t hold you for ransom. We have a gift for you.”
Ricardo chuckled. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yes. We’ll bring you to serve our Master. It’s a great honor.”