“You say Maldonado, himself, sells liquor to the Indians?”
“Ssh, señor!” Some one might hear him! She looked over a terrified shoulder. Maldonado had told her he would kill her if she ever told—it came to her, as a shock, what she was doing, what she had done. It meant ruin for them all—for the muchachos. That had slipped out, the selling of the liquor. She could have told her story without that; she wanted to deny it. Relentlessly Rickard made her repeat it, acknowledge the truth.
“Ssh, señor, it has been so for many years, since I went there, oh, years ago. No one knows, who would suspect a rurale, a rurale who does his duty? He would kill me—”
“Stop shaking. No one is listening.” Rickard forced a tone of brutality. The poor wretch, he suspected, had been trained by the whip; he threatened to send for Maldonado.
“No, I will tell you, will tell you everything, señor. It is an easy trick, señor. No one would take the word of an Indian against Maldonado, a rurale. And the drink makes the men crazy, or stupid. Afterward, he does not remember where he got the tequila. Maldonado whips him, the Indian does not know it is the same hand, and when he is turned loose, he would kiss his feet— Or perhaps, Maldonado sends him to Ensenada—who believes him when he swears the rurale who arrested him made him drunk, señor? Twice, three times, Maldonado’s life was in danger—but the law made quick work of an Indian who tried to kill a rurale. He would kill me, señor—would Maldonado.”
“Go on,” drove Rickard.
Her bony fingers worked restlessly. She was shaking with terror.
“Is it known that he keeps liquors there?” Rickard saw he would have to help her.
“Oh, no, señor. Not even the Indians. They come, by accident. If they have no money, they are sent on. If they have—” Her curving, black-shrouded shoulders shrugged. “The walls are thick. They leave their money and their wits behind them. Sometimes, they wake a mile down the river, under the willows. They have come back to tell their wrongs to their friend, Maldonado, who promises to help them, to find the thief who has wrung those cotton pockets. It would make you laugh, señor, but if he finds it out, he will kill me.”
“What makes you tell me, now?” Rickard hunted for the ulcer. He knew there was a personal wrong. “What has Maldonado been doing to you? Has he left you?”