The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [217]
Billy-Jack Trew was a deputy. Val Dodson, his boss, the Doña Ana sheriff, sat a seat away from him with his elbows on the pine boards. They had come down from Tularosa, stopping for a drink before going on to Mesilla.
Billy-Jack Trew said in Spanish, “Ofelio, how does it go?”
The old man nodded. “It passes well,” he said, and smiled, because Billy-Jack was a man you smiled at even though you knew him slightly and saw him less than once in a month.
“Up there at that horse pasture,” the deputy said, “I hear Joe Slidell’s got some mounts of his own.”
Ofelio nodded. “I think so. Señor Stam does not own all of them.”
“I’m going to take me a ride up there pretty soon,” Billy-Jack said, “and see what kind of money Joe’s askin’. Way the sheriff keeps me going I need two horses, and that’s a fact.”
Ofelio could feel Spainhower looking at him, Val Dodson glancing now and then. One or the other would soon ask about his nights in the hills. He could feel this also. Everyone seemed to know about his going into the hills and everyone continued to question him about it, as if it were a foolish thing to do. Only Billy-Jack Trew would talk about it seriously.
AT FIRST, OFELIO had tried to explain the things he thought about: life and death and a man’s place, the temptations of the devil and man’s obligation to God—all those things men begin to think about when there is little time left. And from the beginning Ofelio saw that they were laughing at him. Serious faces straining to hold back smiles. Pseudosincere questions that were only to lead him on. So after the first few times he stopped telling them what occurred to him in the loneliness of the night and would tell them whatever entered his mind, though much of it was still fact.
Billy-Jack Trew listened, and in a way he understood the old man. He knew that legends were part of a Mexican peon’s life. He knew that Ofelio had been a vaquero for something like fifty years, with lots of lonesome time for imagining things. Anything the old man said was good listening, and a lot of it made sense after you thought about it awhile—so Billy-Jack Trew didn’t laugh.
With a cigar stub clamped in the corner of his mouth, Spainhower’s puffy face was dead serious looking at the old man. “Ofelio,” he said, “this morning there was a mist ring over the gate. Now, I heard what that meant, so I kept my eyes open and sure’n hell here come a gang of elves through the gate dancin’ and carryin’ on. They marched right in here and hauled themselves up on that table.”
Val Dodson said dryly, “Now, that’s funny, just this morning coming down from Tularosa me and Billy-Jack looked up to see this be-ootiful she-devil running like hell for a cholla clump.” He paused, glancing at Ofelio. “Billy-Jack took one look and was half out his saddle when I grabbed him.”
Billy-Jack Trew shook his head. “Ofelio, don’t mind that talk.”
The old man smiled, saying nothing.
“You seen any more devils?” Spainhower asked him.
Ofelio hesitated, then nodded, saying, “Yes, I saw two devils this morning. Just at dawn.”
Spainhower said, “What’d they look like?”
“I know,” Val Dodson said quickly.
“Aw, Val,” Billy-Jack said. “Leave him alone.” He glanced at Ofelio, who was looking at Dodson intently, as if afraid of what he would say next.
“I’ll bet,” Dodson went on, “they had horns and hairy forked tails like that one me and Billy-Jack saw out on the sands.” Spainhower laughed, then Dodson winked at him and laughed too.
BILLY-JACK TREW WAS watching Ofelio and he saw the tense expression on the old man’s face relax. He saw the half-frightened look change to a smile of relief, and Billy-Jack was thinking that maybe a man ought to listen even a little closer to what Ofelio said. Like maybe there were double meanings to the things he said. “Listen,” Ofelio