Dating : The Return of El Fantasma

Episode 2 of the El Fantasma series

“He does not look stupid!” Don Emilio continued stuffing straw into the roughly stitched mannequin on the stables’ floor. It was dressed in the same black clothes the Ghost was last seen wearing. “He looks like me!”

His gray stallion, Sombra, nickered.

Don Emilio straightened up and glared at the horse.

“That was cruel.” He broke into a laugh.

Don Emilio jammed four more handfuls of straw into the mannequin’s chest and slung it astride Sombra’s saddle “You must keep him on your back. Sabes?”

Sombra pricked his ears forward.

Don Emilio nodded. “Yes. He should lean over.” Don Emilio considered for a moment, scratching his cheek. He tied the mannequin’s torso to the saddle with four pieces of twine and cinched them down the ties at its neck.

The horse snorted and swished his tail.

“They would not recognize me without you, nor you without me.” Don Emilio patted Sombra on the neck. “You are still angry at Captain Harlow for shooting you.”

Sombra swished his tail again.

“Yes, but I forgave him for shooting me. How many grudges can you carry against one man?” He held up a burlap sack the size of a man’s head. “One or two strings for the ashes? One?”

The stallion stomped his hoof and nickered.

“I never did this either.” Don Emilio said. “I worry the string dragging the ashes behind will not break if it catches. You must keep running if it does.”

Sombra turned his head and rolled his eyes at the mannequin tied to his saddle. He snorted.

“If it comes off too early?” Don Emilio del Castillo, recently from Spain, formerly known as Carlos Gutierrez, and sometimes as the Ghost, scratched his cheek again. “Run faster than their bullets.”

~♞~

“Excuse me, Don del Castillo, I apologize for the late hour. I am Miguel Salas. I come from Captain Harlow’s home.”

The old man at his door after midnight reminded Don Emilio del Castillo of his abuelo. Gray hair, withered brown skin from working under the sun, and his hands, gnarled and misshapen from the arthritis that curses the old.

His clothing, though! Clean and unpatched. The weave of his serape more refined than the normal homespun shawl. Strange for a field hand.

Don Emilio waved off the apology. “One cannot apologize for the clock, señor. Time continues whether we wish it or not.” He opened the door wide. “Por favor!”

The old man shuffled in. Don Emilio caught the clean fragrance of lemons, something unexpected in a field hand working up layers of perspiration each day. Don Emilio offered his visitor a seat in the parlor and Miguel Salas gratefully accepted.

“May I get you something? Fruit juice? A small glass of wine?”

“Gracias, but you allow me to rest. That is kindness enough to an old man.”

“Why has Captain Harlow sent you?”

“I did not explain. I have come of my own accord.”

“I have no work for you, señor.”

“I did not come to work.” Miguel Salas shook his head. “I think you do not remember me. You caught my eye this evening because you were familiar to me.”

Don Emilio Del Castillo sat in the chair opposite the old man and studied him carefully.

“I have that appearance,” Don Emilio said, fanning his finger and allowing the ruffles on his sleeve to flutter with the movement.

“I watched you. You acted very drunk and told Captain Harlow’s daughter that her charms were as broad as her bottom.” The old man chuckled. “Captain Harlow was not pleased, and I think his daughter will not ask you back.”

“Do you require an apology?”

“Apologize, do not apologize. That is your business. I said this because I wondered why this person was pretending to be drunk. I served wine and only poured you one glass.”

“Perhaps you miscounted.”

Miguel Salas, leaned forward, planted his hands firmly on his knees and shook his head. “No. I saw what I saw, Don Emilio.” The old man leaned back. “Also, you seemed familiar, so I watched.”

“It is presumptuous to admit this,” Don Emilio said.

“I am old. I no longer concern myself with niceties.”

“Well then, I shall pour myself some wine.” Don Emilio stood and without taking his eye off Miguel, poured two glasses of wine. He set one on the table aside the old man’s chair and the other on the table aside his own, but before sitting down, he removed a short-barreled Derringer from his waistband and set it in clear sight next to his wineglass. “Please, a good story deserves a tribute. Pray continue, Señor Salas.” Don Emilio held up his wineglass, nodded and took a sip.

“It was humorous, knowing you were not drunk, yet watching Captain Harlow argue that you go outside for ‘fresh air’, as he called it. You did eventually.”

“I was there,” Don Emilio said.

“And once he returned to the table, you slipped back inside and carved the skull on the study door,” Miguel Salas said.

“As I explained to Captain Harlow, the skull was already there.” Don Emilio placed the wineglass on the table and moved his hand onto the pistol’s handle. “I saw it after the thief accosted me.”

“Perhaps I did not see what I saw.”

“Perhaps.”

“And perhaps I did not recognize the skull from before when the Ghost carved them into walls.”

“We all make mistakes, señor.”

“And perhaps you did not sneak back outside, yell ‘thief’ and slap a gray stallion to make him run off.”

“I yelled ‘thief’ because there was a thief. He fled on horseback.”

“And once Captain Harlow and his other guests rushed outside and saw the horse and rider disappear in a strange cloud, it was you who quietly crept behind them and murmured that it was the Ghost.”

“You are mistaken, sir.” Don Emilio’s fingers slid around the pistol grip.

“Ah, I am old. I often make mistakes.” The old man shrugged. “But I recognized you. I might have a taste of this wine.” He picked up the glass and took a sip. “Long ago I knew your grandfather.”

“You have been to Spain?”

“Spain? No.” He replaced the wine glass. “I recognized you when you stopped acting drunk. You walk like him, your grandfather.“ He reached under his serape. “I have something for you.”

Don Emilio instantly leveled the pistol at the old man’s chest and cocked the hammer back.

Miguel Salas froze.

“You will move very carefully, señor.”

The old man slowly pulled a dusty burlap sack rolled up in twine from under his serape.

“I found this on my way here. It is important you not leave things like this lying around.”

Don Emilio smiled and said evenly, “Place it on the table.”

Miguel Salas gently placed the dusty burlap sack beside his wineglass on the polished wood table.

Don Emilio uncocked his pistol and lowered it onto his lap.

“Continue.”

“The horse ran off with a strange cloud of dust following him. That was the bag of ashes, no?”

Don Emilio said nothing.

“When Captain Harlow and the others chased after the Ghost, you stayed back.”

Don Emilio’s brow furrowed. “I did not give chase.”

“You searched the study,” the old man said.

“Are you accusing me of theft?”

“Theft? No, you did not take anything. I will have another taste of wine. Do not shoot me, por favor.” The old man reached over. “I like this wine.”

“It is from my parent’s winery in Andalusia.”

“As you say, then. Where was I?”

“You almost accused me of theft.”

“Yes. But you did not find what you were after. Or rather, what I hope you were after.”

“And what did I hope to find?”

The old man glanced at the pistol and seemed to consider his next words carefully. He leaned forward and said, “The reason Captain Harlow wants to purchase the land eight days ride west of here.” He sat back again. “He keeps everything locked in a chest under his bed, since the last visit by the Ghost.”

“Perhaps the thief will be better prepared next time.”

Miguel shook his head. “It will be too late. He will move the chest somewhere else.”

“Then Captain Harlow’s plans, whatever they may be, are safe from the Ghost’s nighttime adventures.”

Miguel Salas shook his head again. “I am an old man. I said I knew your grandfather. Back when you called him abuelo, back when you and your grandfather walked past my fields holding hands on your way to town. I mourned for your grandfather at his funeral and I watched the Padre escort you back to the mission. Back when you were still called Carlos Gutierrez and before you became a thief.”

Don Emilio del Castillo, formerly Carlos Gutierrez, frowned but said nothing and waited for the old man to continue.

“When the slaughter in the northern district happened, I lost everything and the only work was at Captain Harlow’s,” Miguel said. “I can not say exactly what his plans are, but they have something to do with the town downriver. You must go and see the land.”

Don Emilio breathed in deeply. “Señor Salas. Did you have a burro named Dulce Flor?”

Miguel Salas smiled and nodded. “Yes. You would sneak him sugar lumps while your grandfather and I talked.”

Don Emilio smiled. “You have been watching me closely for many years.”

The two men spoke deep into the night. Miguel told how the posse chasing them were sure the Ghost disappeared into the eerie cloud that trailed him, and Don Emilio roared with glee when he learned how enraged Captain Harlow became after asking if the Ghost had robbed him, and Don Emilio held up his hand and said “No, I still have all my fingers.”

The old man refused to accept offers of money or employment from Don Emilio. His life was nearing the end, but whatever secrets he knew of the Ghost would follow him to the grave.

Upon Miguel Salas’s departure, Don Emilio walked back to his stable.

“Viego amigo, you caused quite a stir,” he said to the gray stallion. “Rest now. Tomorrow morning we leave on a long trip.”