“And the bare feet?”
“Huh?”
Pendergast shone his light at the man’s filthy toes.
“Shoes are expensive.” He rummaged in a pocket, pulled out the chaw of tobacco, screwed off another piece, and shoved it in his cheek. “What’s an FBI man doing out here?” he asked, poking his cheek with a finger, adjusting the chaw to his satisfaction.
“I imagine you could guess the answer to that question, Mr. Gasparilla.”
The man gave him a sidelong glance but did not reply.
“She was digging up in the Mounds, wasn’t she?” Pendergast asked at last.
Gasparilla spat. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did she find anything?”
He shrugged. “It ain’t the first time there’s been digging in the Mounds. I don’t pay much attention to it. When I’m here I only go up there to hunt. I don’t mess around with the dead.”
“Are there burials in the Mounds?”
“So they say. There was also a massacre up there once. That’s all I know and all I want to know. The place gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t go up there except that’s where all the squirrels are.”
“I’ve heard talk of some legend associated with the place. The ‘curse of the Forty-Fives,’ I believe.”
Gasparilla said nothing, and for a long time the camp was quiet. He stirred the pot with a stick, occasionally darting glances at Pendergast.
“The murder occurred three nights ago, during the new moon. Did you see or hear anything?”
Gasparilla spat again. “Nothing.”
“What were your movements that evening, Mr. Gasparilla?”
Gasparilla kept stirring. “If you’re hinting that I killed that woman, then I just about figure this conversation’s over, mister.”
“I’d say it’s just begun.”
“Don’t get snippy with me. I never killed nobody in my life.”
“Then you should have no objection to detailing your movements that day.”
“That was my second day here at Medicine Creek. I hunted up at the Mounds late that afternoon. She was there, digging. I came back here at sunset, spent the night in camp.”
“Did she see you?”
“Did
“Where was she digging, exactly?”
“All over. I gave her a wide berth. I know trouble when I see it.” Gasparilla gave the stewpot a brisk stir, brought out an enameled tin bowl and a battered spoon, ladled some stew into it. He scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, took a bite, dug the spoon in again. Then he stopped.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a bowl.”
“I would not object.”
Wordlessly, he brought out a second bowl, held it up before Pendergast.
“Thank you.” Pendergast helped himself to the pot, took a taste of the stew. “Burgoo, I believe?”
Gasparilla nodded and stuffed a goodly amount in his mouth, juice dribbling down into his tangled black beard. He chewed loudly, spat out a few bones, swallowed. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then wiped his hand on his beard.
They finished their stew in silence. Gasparilla stacked the bowls, leaned back, took out the plug of tobacco. “And now, mister, if you got what you’re looking for, I hope you’ll be about your business. I like a quiet evening.”
Pendergast rose. “Mr. Gasparilla, I will leave you in peace. But first, if there’s anything you’d care to add, I would advise you to tell it to me now, rather than waiting for me to discover it myself.”
Gasparilla spat a brown rope of saliva in the direction of the creek. “I don’t particularly care to get involved.”
“You’re already involved. Either you are the murderer, Mr. Gasparilla, or your continued presence here puts you in grave danger. One or the other.”
Gasparilla grunted, bit off another plug, spat again. Then he asked, “Do you believe in the devil?”
Pendergast regarded the man, his pale eyes glinting in the firelight. “Why do you ask, Mr. Gasparilla?”
“Because I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, the devil’s a lot of preacher bullshit. But there
