A Thousand Falling Crows (20 page)

The larger crow lifted off into the air, holding its bounty as tight as it could. Others would come and try and take the meal away. The crow was sure of it. Just as sure as it was that there was more blood to follow. Today was going to be an easy day to make a living.

CHAPTER 19

Sonny turned left onto the farm-to-market road, just like Betty Maxwell had told him to. The first house was abandoned and looked like it had been that way for a while. Shredded curtains fluttered through open windows. The barren yard was littered with glass shards, shining in the sun like ice that would never melt, and not much else. Even weeds refused to grow there.

He looked past the first house to the second. It wasn't in much better shape than the first, except that there was glass in the windows and all of the curtains were drawn tight. It was a single story house in serious need of paint and maintenance, but that cost money and didn't look to be in the plans anytime soon. An old Model T truck sat behind the house, rusting away slowly. All of the good parts had been filched, probably traded, sold, or stolen. It was a metal skeleton, sinking into the ground one wheel at a time. There was no one to be seen, man or animal, around the house, and Sonny had to wonder whether it was occupied or not. It was hard to tell these days.

There was no question that the third house was occupied. Sonny slowed the truck, turned, and came to an easy stop. “This should be it,” he said to Blue. The dog's ears perked up. He had sat next to the passenger door the whole trip, head out the window, licking at the wind, enjoying the ride.

Aldo's house sat off the road farther than the other two houses. It was two stories and had probably been built late in the last century, around the time Sonny had been born, by an optimistic farmer or land owner. An old barn sat out back, and what had once been a pasture was still fenced in. There were long brown blades of buffalo grass waving in the wind, long dead, but not brittle enough to break off. The pasture was empty, mostly hard dirt that couldn't feed anything, and the barn's roof was starting to collapse. A few relaxed pigeons bobbed about near a boulder-sized hole at the peak.

A tall oak tree stood next to the house. It was so close a squirrel could have skipped over to the roof and hidden an acorn under a shingle—if the tree was healthy enough to bear fruit—without any effort at all. The leaves were sparse, and the tree looked like a palsied fairy tale giant standing guard over a decaying fortress.

“Stay here,” Sonny commanded Blue as he angled out of the truck. The dog didn't move. Nor did it take its eyes off Sonny. “I‘m glad you're an old dog so I don't have to teach you everything.” Of course, there was little worry that Blue would dart out of the truck. It was difficult for the dog to walk with the splinted leg, more less break into a run. Regardless, the mutt seemed content to just stay and wait.

Sonny headed down the narrow lane that led to the house, eyeing three goats carefully. They looked to be tied to long iron stakes driven deep into the ground, bound by a collar of the same metal. The collars looked uncomfortable, but goats had a mind of their own and liked to wander. A big buck stood guard atop a pile of rusted barrels, while the two does lay on the bare ground in the shadows. The goats noted Sonny's presence, but they weren't guard dogs and did nothing to announce his arrival. Still, he gave them a wide swath. He'd seen the power and cleverness of a goat before.

Along with the goats, there were two white chickens pecking about the dirt in front of the house's porch. There was surely a coop around somewhere, but Sonny didn't see one.

Instinctively, he looked up to the sky in search of a soaring chicken hawk, but didn't see one. The sky was as clear as a crystal blue lake that went on for miles and miles. Yesterday's rain was just a memory for Sonny and the dirt.

Aldo appeared as Sonny walked up to the house. The Mexican eased out the front door, dressed in his janitor's uniform, like he had been every other time Sonny had seen him, and stood in wait at the top of the rickety porch stairs.

“I went up to the hospital. Figured you'd be there,” Sonny said, as he came to a stop at the freshly swept stoop.

Aldo's house was in no better repair than the one next to it, but it was tidier upon closer inspection.

“
Hola
,
Señor
Burton.” Aldo spoke in Spanish, and there was a sparkle in his eyes, even though he looked tense in the shoulders.

“
Hola
,” Sonny replied, a little flustered.

A brief smiled flashed across Aldo's weathered face. “One of the
cabras
chewed its rope and wandered off. They are too valuable to not chase after.”

“Those are some fine looking goats,” Sonny said. He looked over his shoulder. It must have been a special goat to have had a rope lead when all of the others were bound with a metal chain. It was just a thought, and he decided it didn't matter. Just curious that one of them could have gotten away. Of course, an errant goat could explain the need for metal over rope.

“Tasty, too.” Aldo smiled, flashing a mouth full of uneven teeth.

Sonny nodded. He'd had
birria
, a traditional goat dish served in tortillas more times than he could count when he had been a boy.

The air was already thick and hot, even under the sparse shade of the oak tree. Sonny looked over his shoulder again, this time to check on Blue. The dog was sitting in the truck where he'd been left.

Two old hitching posts stood off to the left of the porch steps, and the sight of them darkened Sonny's mood almost immediately. His days on horseback were most likely over, and that was a loss he had yet to accept. He was not sure he ever would.

The smell of something cooking caught Sonny's nose, and he suddenly felt like he was intruding. “I‘m sorry. I guess I could have asked Nurse Betty for your phone number and called to warn you I was coming by. I just thought after your visit last night, you'd be interested in what I had to say.” Sonny started to back up, intending to leave.

“No, no, stop,
por favor
. I have no phone,
señor
, so it would have done you no good. It is fine that you are here. I was hoping to see you today. Have you had
desayuno
?”

Sonny shrugged. “I had a bit of breakfast before I left the house. I was thinking maybe we could go into town to the Rangers' office and see if we can't get ahold of Frank Hamer, one way or another. It's the least I can do.”

“I appreciate that, though I believe my fears have come true. I am certain Carmen is with the Clever, Clever boys, and they are on a fierce ride.”

“You've heard about the robbery in Drummond Station, then?”

Aldo nodded. The weight of sadness and defeat forced his neck to bend forward, so he was staring directly at the ground. “I have failed her.”

Sonny shifted his weight. “Do you really think she's with them on her own accord?”

Aldo didn't answer straight away. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glazed with tears yet to fall, and he nodded. “I do,
señor
. I do. And I am certain that it is my own fault. I have spoken some harsh words to Carmen that I wish I could take back, but that is impossible. She is angry with me and now that anger has put her in the company of men who do not wish her goodwill. They will destroy her. She was such a sweet, innocent
chica
when she was small.” He shook his head in disappointment.

“I‘m sorry, Aldo. We all say things to our children that we come to regret.”

Aldo looked up, took a deep breath, and said, “I fear Carmen, she is already dead. You listen to the news. You saw firsthand the power of the newspapers, making Bonnie and Clyde heroes so all of the boys and girls want to be like them. You saw how that turned out. She will be dead or in prison for a long time. Either way, my dreams for her are gone now. Poof. Like that, she is
mala
forever.”

“I can help,” Sonny said. A goat bleated behind him, but he paid it no mind. “You can't give up hope. Maybe we can find a way to save her. I‘ve been face-to-face with those boys, and I don't think they're so clever. If I‘d been better prepared, if I had both of my . . .” He stopped before he said arms, gathered himself, then continued speaking. “If I‘d had my wits about me, I could have taken them both. Maybe Tom would still be alive and your girl would be home where she belongs.”

“One Ranger . . .”

“Something like that.” He wanted to get even with the Clever, Clever boys one way or another. Justice needed to be served for the murder of Tom Turnell, even if he had no power to serve it.

Aldo exhaled and looked over his shoulder. “Would you like a cup of
café
before we go?”

“Yes, sure, I would like that.”

It had been a long time since Sonny had been in a Mexican kitchen. The floor was covered with red terra cotta tiles, and the walls were painted yellow. At one time, the walls had been bright yellow, but they had faded over the years. Two windows let in a good amount of light, warming the room. A simple pan sat on the two-burner stove, with remnants of uneaten porridge in the bottom of it.

“Sit,
señor
, I‘ll be happy to get you a hot cup of
café
,” Aldo said.

Sonny sat down at a long wood table, cut from an oak tree, with seats for eight. The chairs were all in various states of repair but functional. From what Sonny could see and hear, Aldo was the only person in the house. It was quiet beyond the kitchen, and there was no sign anyone else had been at the table.

There were smells and utensils in the kitchen that Sonny hadn't been exposed to in a long time. Once he'd married Martha, his diet had consisted mostly of German-influenced food—potatoes, boiled meat, cabbage in a variety of forms but mostly fermented into sauerkraut. It had taken him a long time to adjust to the digestion of such food. Of late, before the loss of his arm, Sonny had been trying to recall more of Maria Perza's recipes. Bad thing was, he'd never spent much time at her apron as she had gone about her duties of the day, cooking and providing for him and his father. He wished he'd paid closer attention now to what she had been doing and how she had been doing it.

Aldo set out to make coffee, and Sonny sat back and tried to relax. The stub of his arm itched even though he had washed it roughly and covered it with a half a sock to keep the tender skin from rubbing on the inside of his shirt. Doc Meyers had told him it would take a couple of years to toughen up, sooner if he wore the prosthetic.

He noticed a clay
comal
, a flat plate for making tortillas, roasting and charring chilies, and toasting other vegetables and spices, sitting off to the side of the stove. Maria had used one nearly every day. It had come from Mexico with her
abuela
. It was a treasure. Aldo's looked nearly as old.

Other utensils jarred Sonny's memories, things he had forgotten about over the years, as he'd moved farther and farther away from the Spanish way of living and eating. A
molcajete
, a gray mortar and pestle made of basalt volcanic rock, sat on the counter, just under a strand of
poblano
chilies that dangled from the ceiling. The
molcajete
was used for grinding corn, garlic, rice, or whatever else was called for in a recipe.

But the thing that really caught Sonny's attention and warmed him the most was the
molinillo
. It was a short wood whisk with a bulb at the end, marked by several deep indentations. It was used to make the froth for hot chocolate. Just the thought of the warm drink made by Maria Perza's thick, knowledgeable, brown hands, brought a smile to Sonny's face. The happy feeling, though, was quickly followed by a flash of sadness. He had not mourned the woman properly. He knew that now.

“Is something the matter?” Aldo asked, as he began to grind coffee in the
molcajete
.

“I was admiring the
molinillo
.”

Aldo cast a glance at the whisk. “Carmen always enjoyed a good cup of hot chocolate.”

“With cinnamon and ground almonds?”

“
Sì
, of course. I will make some for you one day, if you like?”

“I would enjoy that,” Sonny said, as he settled back in the chair. He felt more comfortable than he had in a long time, and the memories that Aldo's kitchen had brought him were a welcome surprise.