“Yes. Gaspar Alvarez de Quevedo.”
Her voice was no more than a whisper.
The bandit drew a gust of evil-smelling smoke from his cheap cigarette.
“Such a man was a guest of mine about two years ago,” he said slowly. “I remember him best because of the ring, which I gave to a girl in Matamoros, and because he was the only guest I have had here who left without my consent.”
“He escaped?”
The words came from the girl’s lips with a weariness that was too deep for feeling.
“He tried to,” said El Rojo. “But it was very dark, and these mountains are not friendly to those who do not know them well.”
He stretched out his arm, toward the black emptiness beyond the rock wall that guarded the niche where they sat.
“I buried him where he fell. It was difficult to reach him, but I could not risk his body being seen by any goatherds going up the valley. In the morning, if you like, I will point you out his grave. It is below the path we followed to come here — more than a hundred meters down... The señora may go on without fear to the happiness that life has kept waiting for her.”
It was very dark, but Simon could see the tears rise in the girl’s eyes before she hid her face in her hands.