# Myths and Legends Beyond Our Borders/Why Valdez Bought Prayers

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WHY VALDEZ BOUGHT PRAYERS
BEFORE the railroad days Juan Valdez was the engineer of a mule-train that plied between Monterey and Guadalajara. It was rough travel, with steep grades, and, with to-morrow always ahead of one, why should a freighter expect to cover more than four or five miles in a day? Coming o' this easy fashion to Saltillo, on one journey, Valdez went to the cathedral to give thanks that he had, so far, been preserved from brigands and broken harness, and perhaps to pray in secret that he might have a few worthy temptations thrown in his way during the next week. Returning toward his wagons in the light of a young moon, he passed an old adobe house, large, though a single story high, whose ruin was so particularly mournful that he paused before it and waited to hear a night-bird's call, as if he were sure it would come out of the rank trees that had grown up in the patio and leaned over the skeleton roof. There was no hurry, so he loitered about ​the place, held by a sort of fascination, and finally entered the court, stirring dust out of the rotting timbers that he kicked, evolving melancholy smells of decay, and bringing at last the startling quaver that he had expected from the trees,—a bird's protest. Over an old well in the middle of the patio dangled a rope, swinging in the breeze. Pshaw! It was too saddening. He would go up to the plaza where all the people were, and hear the band play. Yet—look! He is not alone.
In a little space of light, so phosphorescent that he seems to carry it, stands a child, looking from the door of the hall. It is a poor, misshapen little thing, hump-backed, hollow-chested, with one short leg, and it holds its hands out to feel its way, as though its eyes were poor. Great, sad eyes they are, and the face is that of a being who has never known love or tenderness. Valdez's heart goes out to it. With a simple gesture the boy beckons to the teamster and limps through a gap in what had been the stable, as if expecting the man to follow. This he does, for his curiosity is now keen, though he stops to mutter an ave when the boy swings open a rickety door and descends into a cellar,—an unusual adjunct of a Mexican house. But it is not a cellar: it is a vault, through which flows the water that supplies the well. Where the light comes from now Valdez does not know; yet there is light in the place, at least enough to see that two other figures ​have come down the stair behind him. He can hear his own heart going like a hammer. Why has he been lured down here? The two others have not seen him, and he stands breathless. The boy is looking into the water and has not seen them either. Heaven! What creatures! One is a man with a purple face and a neck marked by a rope. His head swings loosely on his shoulders, as if he could not raise it. The other is a woman with streaks of blue in her flesh. Corruption has set in. Both look with hate at the child, then smile meaningly. They steal forward. The woman clutches the boy. The man pulls out a knife. Once—twice—it falls. A splash is heard. The two exchange a look, half fright, half joy. Then it is very dark. Nearly crazed with terror, Valdez stumbles up the stairs, rips and crashes through the weeds and rotting beams, and regains the quiet street. Pistol in hand, he waits to see if he is followed. No: it is all still in there. He goes back to the cathedral, rouses a sleepy priest, and counts a dozen silver reals into his hand. "Pray out of purgatory," he says, "the soul of a little cripple who has been murdered by his parents."
"In this city?"
"In this city."
"When?"
"Alas, father, I cannot tell. Perhaps it was years ago. But I saw the murder done—to-night."