Free Scorpion by Kerry Newcomb Page B

windows of the hacienda. The flooring beneath the overhang was a layer of crushed stone that crunched beneath Zion’s boots as he approached the man with the shotgun. “Hey!” Ben called out, to no avail. He turned and found the three women staring at him. Elena appraised him with measured concern.
    “And who is this?” the housekeeper said.
    “A friend who helped us,” Josefina replied.
    “His name is Alacron. That’s the name we gave him,” Isabella interjected. She shook her head and sighed. “He doesn’t know his real name.”
    “Ma’am,” Ben said, reaching up to touch the brim of his sombrero as he faced the housekeeper. The chain fastened to the black iron links about his wrists rattled as he raised his hands. Elena’s eyebrows arched, her gaze fixed on the manacles.
    “A friend?” she asked incredulously. Then the housekeeper’s expression changed and she moved past Ben to stand alongside the wagon. Oddly enough, Elena did not seem surprised by the presence of the coffin and what it implied. “Then it is true,” she said. The housekeeper reached out and gripped the iron wheel rim for support. When she turned to face the newly widowed mistress of Ventana, her eyes were moist with tears.
    “You knew? How?” Josefina asked.
    “Father Rudolfo came to dinner two days ago and told us the terrible news. The cousin of Juan Medrano, the blacksmith, came through Saltillo on his way. He came from Linares and brought word of the accident. Juan told the padre and the padre told us.” The housekeeper blessed herself with the sign of the cross. “I prayed to Our Lady that the good padre was mistaken. Yet I knew in my heart he spoke the truth.”
    Zion, after a brief interchange with Pedro, stalked away from the hacienda and headed for the barn. Ben rounded the wagon and tried to head him off. His long-legged stride quickly brought him abreast of the black man.
    “You forgetting something?” Ben asked.
    “I’m not forgetting anything,” Zion growled. “You can bet on it!” His eyes blazed with anger. He reached the side of the barn where someone had leaned a pair of shovels, a spade, and a pickax against the weathered wall. “C’mon.” He tossed a shovel to Ben and selected one for himself.
    “Not till you take this iron off,” Ben snapped. “Get your vaqueros to dig the grave.”
    “Not a man on the place,” Zion said. “General Najera’s taken every rider for his army. Left a bunch of worthless damn vouchers for over a hundred head of cattle, too. And said he’d be back for more.” Zion retraced his steps to the wagon. “You’ll help me with the burying or by heaven I’ll toss the keys to those shackles down the well.” The segundo spoke without slowing his stride. He was furious at this turn of events. Ben supposed he couldn’t blame the man. After all, from what McQueen had seen of Ventana and heard Zion tell, a twenty-man crew would have their hands full running the spread. A man alone was in a bad way.
    But Ben reckoned it was none of his concern. All that mattered now was Don Sebastien’s grave. Then the man called Alacron would be on his way, to his own journey’s end.
    They buried Don Sebastien beneath a purple sky. While the sun teetered on the crest of the Sierra Oriental, faint wisps of clouds fine as angel breath gleamed an incandescent gold. Soon would come the bats to dive and dart and sweep through the fading light, feasting on insects and nightcrawlers. But for now, the mourners at the gravesite had Ventana to themselves.
    Josefina read from Psalms over an ever-increasing mound of fresh earth. Ben and Zion shoveled the last of the soil into place, closing the final chapter in the life of Don Sebastien Quintero.
    “The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. The Lord is good to all and His compassion is over all that He has made.” Josefina spoke the words with care. The newly widowed woman struggled with “gracious and