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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..47e7e54 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63159 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63159) diff --git a/old/63159-8.txt b/old/63159-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 71a0b25..0000000 --- a/old/63159-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7011 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Treasure of the Brasada, by Les Savage - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Treasure of the Brasada - -Author: Les Savage - -Release Date: September 9, 2020 [EBook #63159] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREASURE OF THE BRASADA *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - TREASURE OF THE BRASADA - - PERIL AND INTRIGUE ON THE BORDER - - By LES SAVAGE, JR. - - DELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. - - George T. Delacorte, Jr. - _President_ - - Albert P. Delacorte - _Vice-President_ - - Helen Meyer - _Vice-President_ - - 261 Fifth Avenue - New York 16, N. Y. - - Printed in U.S.A. - - DESIGNED AND PRODUCED BY WESTERN PRINTING & LITHOGRAPHING COMPANY - - Copyright, 1947, by Les Savage, Jr. Reprinted by arrangement - with Simon and Schuster, Inc., New York, N. Y. - - [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence - that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - - - -Persons this _Story_ is about-- - -GLENN CRAWFORD, whose pallor and feverishly glowing eyes mark the three -months he has just spent in a hospital as the result of an accident -he suspects was planned, has the restless animal lines of body and -negligible hips of one who has been much in the saddle. Hotheaded, once -fearless, he is presently trying to overcome an unreasoning panic and -pain which rack his body whenever he goes near a horse. - -MERIDA LOPEZ, whose presence at the Big O ranch is surrounded by -mystery, has a faintly exotic beauty and slumberous, provocative eyes -which both irritate Crawford and stir something primal in him. He -isn't sure of her game, but he knows a woman like Merida doesn't trail -through the wild brush country just for the scenery. - -DR. FELIZ HUERTA, who looks as though he's in the process of -disintegration, has strongly arched brows and a graying peak of hair -which gives him a satanic cast. His eyes hold a dull, jaded lackluster, -and even the slightest movement seems to cost him infinite effort. For -his own reasons, he is extremely interested in Crawford's symptoms. - -QUARTEL, come to wind up affairs at the Big O, is a huge hunk of thick -brown flesh with sensual lips and shoulders like sides of beef. He -boasts he can rope better, ride farther, drink more and cuss dirtier -than any hombre between Texas and Mexico City. - -OTIS ROCKLAND, whom Crawford makes no bones about hating, is the -owner of the Big O. As Crawford looks at it, Rockland's dealings with -Crawford's pal, old Delcazar, were no less dirty for being legal. - -DELCAZAR, who fears his friend Crawford is mixed up in the most -dangerous thing that ever hit the wild brush country, is an aged, -gnarled, and skinny Mexican who lives alone in the back country. He has -rheumy eyes in a face seamed as an old satchel. - -CABEZABLANCA, so-called for his head of pure white hair, is one of the -Big O crew. He has a reputation for being deadly dangerous, but for -some reason Huerta seems to have him under his thumb. - -JACINTO (LITTLE HYACINTH) DEL RIO, the big, fat, grumbling cook, -listened to his father when he told him there were two sins in the -world, working and fighting, and if he avoided both of them he would -surely go to heaven. - -BUENO BAILEY, a tough bronc-buster, gaunt as an alley cat, has milky -eyes, and parts his long yellow hair in the middle, slicking it down -with bacon grease. Crawford suspects him of being responsible for his -"accident." - -AFORISMO, who has a sinister proverb for every occasion, is a thin, -stooped man whose eyebrows, slanting toward the middle of his forehead, -give him a mournful expression. His favorite motto, cut into his -razor-sharp knife, is _Tripe is sweet but bowels are better_. - -WALLACE TARANT, Otis Rockland's lawyer, has a broad-shouldered, -narrow-hipped frame, a square brow and a wide, thin-lipped mouth -which should have held a palpable strength. But his eyes won't meet -Crawford's, and his voice is small for such a large man. - -SHERIFF ED KENMARE, weary lawman of San Antonio, whose duties hang -heavy upon him, has a bulbous nose prominent among heavy, weathered -features. - -FORD INNES, Cabezablanca's saddlemate, is a red-bearded redhead with -shrewd little eyes and a short square body which holds all the lethal -threat of a snub-nosed derringer. - -AFRICANO, a big black devil of a horse, is a killer nobody has been -able to break. Just the thought of him drives Crawford into a trembling -frenzy of fear, but he knows he must conquer Africano or go crazy. - - - - -What this _Story_ is about-- - -Being caught, bloody gun in hand, leaning over the body of the man he -had threatened to kill forces bronc-buster Glenn Crawford to turn up at -the Big O ranch, a weary, footsore fugitive with more than one score to -settle. - -Even the murder of the ranch owner in San Antonio had not prepared -Crawford for the state of affairs he finds at the ranch. His sudden -presence there seems to scare some of the crew half to death and lead -others to try to kill him every chance they get. - -For the moment, however, Crawford is more interested in the state of -affairs in his own body than in those of the Big O and the murderer he -is sure the ranch harbors. A veteran of the saddle, Crawford discovers -that since an accident which he suspects was planned, he goes into a -frenzy of pain and trembling panic whenever he gets near a horse. But -in spite of the torture it costs him, Crawford stays on at the ranch. -He knows he cannot be a free man until he finds the murderer of Otis -Rockland. Nor can he be a whole man until he conquers the black devil -of a killer horse, Africano. After he meets Merida Lopez, an exotic -beauty whose presence at the Big O is surrounded by mystery, he has a -third motive for staying around, although he stands to lose his reason -if not his life. - -Trapped by forces which he cannot understand, and half-crazed by the -torturing pain and panic which he tries desperately both to overcome -and to hide, Crawford gets himself more and more hopelessly entangled -in what, as old Delcazar points out, looks like the most dangerous -thing that ever hit the wild brush country. Crawford is offered a -strange proposition by sinister Dr. Huerta; he listens to Merida's -spellbinding tale of Santa Anna's chests--and as he listens, the jagged -third of a map he possesses, plus a dying man's painfully gasped -out words, take on a new and important meaning; he waits, trapped, -weaponless, for a killer to come nearer, nearer--And he delivers to -his other pursuers the body of one sent out to kill him--only to -become more deeply enmeshed in new and still more terrifying trouble. -Crawford's irritation at being stirred by Merida, whom he alternately -respects and suspects of playing him for a fool, doesn't prevent him -from riding secretly with her in the night in search of a place so -malicious few men have ever stepped foot in it. Nor does it later -prevent him from risking an agonizing death to follow her into it. - -Before the true murderer reveals himself, and before Crawford can again -call himself a whole man, much violent action takes place. Set against -the exciting background of the untamed Texas border country, this is a -thrilling brew of suspense, quick death, adventure, and love. - - - - -[Illustration: Map] - - - - - List of Chapters-- - - - I. Circumstantial Evidence - - II. Santa Anna's Chests - - III. Huerta Was Right! - - IV. Unreasoning Fear - - V. Huerta Makes a Proposition - - VI. "Tell Us What Happened." - - VII. Sunday Celebration - - VIII. Best Roper in the World - - IX. Still in the Throes of Fear - - X. Flight From Snake Thickets - - XI. Old Friends Reunited - - XII. Conqueror and Conquered - - XIII. Violence in the Bunkhouse - - XIV. Challenging Snake Thickets - - XV. Treasure Hunt Climax - - - - - Treasure of the Brasada - - - - - _Chapter One_ - - CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE - - -Crossing Alamo Plaza, Glenn Crawford was almost to the Manger Hotel -when he became aware of Sheriff Ed Kenmare standing in the entrance -to the patio. Crawford felt the hesitant break to his stride. Then, -deliberately, he went on, feeling for the first time the sweat -glistening on his unshaven upper lip and forming dark blue spots in the -armpits of his faded ducking jacket. It might have been the sun. It was -a hot spring for San Antonio. - -"How about the riding, Glenn?" asked the sheriff, casually. - -"My legs are all right, Ed," said Crawford, halting momentarily. - -"I noticed you still limped a bit," Kenmare told him. "You got off -easy, I guess. Horse mashed my cousin's legs rolling on him that way up -in Deaf Smith. He never did heal so he could ride any more." - -"My legs are all right," said Crawford, turning to go past him and -through the patio gate. - -"You got other things to heal besides your legs," said Kenmare, -shifting his dusty, tobacco-odored bulk in front of Crawford. "Why -don't you think things out a bit longer before you see Otis Rockland -again?" - -"This isn't my idea," said Crawford. "Otis sent me word he was here and -wanted to talk." - -Kenmare's watery gray eyes met Crawford's, and he put a gnarled hand on -the younger man's arm. "Then give me your gun, Glenn, before you go up." - -A strange, defiant withdrawal drew Crawford's body up, accentuating -for the first time its restless, animal lines. In his brass-studded -levis, he had the lean catty legs and negligible hips of a man whose -work had been much in the saddle, and though his shoulders were narrow, -their muscularity was apparent beneath the denim jacket. His forehead -was high and bony and pale below the short curling black hair; and, -set deep within their sockets, his eyes held a sunken, almost feverish -glow, which could have come from the recent sickness, or something -else. His rope-marked fingers tightened about the brass receiver of his -old Henry. - -"I'll keep the rifle, Ed," he said. "Now let me by." - -Kenmare did not release Crawford's arm. He dropped his gaze to one -side, reaching up to rub the sweat exuding from the large, greasy pores -of his rather bulbous nose. - -"Something I never did get straight, Glenn," he said, looking at the -worn boot he was scuffing in the earth. "This whole thing between you -and Rockland seems to have started with the way Rockland got hold of -Delcazar's land." - -"Del was--" - -"I know, Glenn, I know." Kenmare's fingers tightened momentarily on -Crawford's arm. "You and Delcazar was pretty close friends. And you -think Rockland gave Delcazar a raw deal." - -"You know he did," said Crawford. "Del had a small spread, but it had -the best water in that section of the brush. Rockland had to have that -water. And he got it." - -"But he did it all legal, Glenn." - -"Legal." Crawford's voice was bitter. "He knew Del only held his spread -with one of those old Spanish grants they call a _sitio_. His lawyers -found out that this one was so mixed up through the years that Del -couldn't prove ownership. He petitioned the state, had it declared -public domain, and got it for a song. Yes, it was legal all right." - -"Those things happen," said Kenmare wearily. "It wasn't your spread, -Glenn." - -"No. But Del was my friend. I was busting broncs for Otis Rockland at -the time. I went to him and told--" - -That hand tightened again. "I know what you told him, Glenn. Maybe -you were right. Maybe Rockland even had that cinch cut on the black -killer so it would roll you. But listen, Glenn--" Kenmare took a weary, -wheezing breath--"this ain't the way." - -"What isn't the way?" said Crawford with growing heat. "I told you -Rockland sent for me, Ed." - -"There must have been half a dozen Big O hands heard you threaten to -kill Rockland after that bronc rolled you under," Kenmare told him -heavily. - -"Don't you think three months in the hospital cools a man off some, -Ed?" said Crawford. "Now get out of my way. It's too hot for an -argument. I'll buy you a beer on the way out." - -He shoved past the sheriff and into the tiled patio. The alamo tree -dropped its deep, dappled shade over the cattlemen sitting tilted back -in the line of peeling cane chairs against the adobe wall. Their lazy, -sporadic conversation died abruptly, and the only sound was the hard -beat of Crawford's heels against the tiles. His lips formed a thin, -bitter line against his teeth as he passed the speculation in their -lifted gazes and entered the foyer. The cool, inner chill struck him -with a distinct physical force, after the stifling heat of the day -without, and caused him to draw in a quick breath. He skirted a potted -palm and went up the broad, carpeted stairs to 211, the room Otis -Rockland always took when he came to San Antonio. - -He had lifted his hand to knock, when the sound came from inside. It -was muffled and dim at first, rising to a thumping crescendo, with -someone calling something, the whole thing ceasing then, abruptly. -After a moment of silence, Crawford seemed to hear heavy breathing. He -let his knuckles strike the pine panel of the door. It rattled mutedly. -That was his only answer. - -"Otis?" he called. - -He waited a moment longer, then turned the knob. The door opened into -the sumptuous parlor of the suite. The wine overhangings were drawn -across the windows against the sun, casting into semi-gloom the spidery -pattern of white and gilt furniture in the room. He heard a shutter -clack in the bedroom and knocked his knee against a low marquetry table -in front of the sofa as he headed for the door. He took his Henry in -both hands and shoved open the door with its tip. The first thing he -saw was a pile of blue chintz on the floor. It was the hanging, torn -off the tester of the four-poster, and Otis Rockland must have clutched -it when falling, for his hand was still gripping it in terrifying -desperation. The portieres had been pulled back by an opened shutter, -and the avenue of bright light, splashing across the rich Brussels -carpet, touched Rockland's feet and led Crawford to turn momentarily -toward the window. - -"No--Crawford--" - -He wheeled back to see Rockland's eyes open. The man made some feeble -effort to rise. Crawford dropped to one knee beside him, laying the -rifle down. - -"Delcazar?" he said. - -Rockland's lips twisted in what could have been a smile. - -"Like you, to think of that." - -"I guess more than one has good cause to want you dead, Otis," said -Crawford. - -"Yes." It came out of the man in a hoarse, strained way. But there was -a look of macabre humor or malice, or both, in his face as he spoke. -"They'll think it was Delcazar, won't they? Or you, Glenn." - -"I'll get someone--" - -"No. No." Rockland reached up to grab at his shirt as Crawford started -to rise. "Won't do any good. Too late." He fought for breath for a -moment, then went on, slowly. "Reach--inside--coat." - -Crawford could see the thick, viscid blood forming beneath the back -of Rockland's iron-gray head now. There was a brutal slash across the -man's face, slicing deep into the bridge of his dominating, avaricious -nose. Even as Crawford watched, the eyes closed and the breathing grew -stertorous. The man was obviously beyond help. With a swift movement -Crawford reached beneath Rockland's expensive steel pen, drawing a -wallet from the inner pocket. He was starting to go through it, when -Rockland's eyes opened. - -"Rip lining, Glenn," he whispered. "What he was after--you scared him -off--'fore he could find it." - -Crawford fumbled with the soft doeskin flap of the wallet, finally -managing to rip it out, revealing a piece of faded, yellowed paper. He -pulled this out. Unfolded, it formed a triangle, the bottom straight, -the other two sides jagged and torn. "Looks like some kind of a map," -he said. - -"Yes," said Rockland, feebly. "_Derrotero._ Santa Anna's chests." - -"Whose chests? What are you talking about, Otis?" - -Rockland's lip drew back over his teeth, more a grimace than a smile. -"Don't lie, Crawford," he murmured. "Why else were you so het-up when I -got Delcazar's spread? You knew about this _derrotero_ then." - -"About what?" said Crawford hotly, clutching him. "How is Del mixed up -in this?" - -But Rockland's head had fallen back once more; and for a moment -Crawford thought he was gone. Suddenly he found himself shaking -Rockland in a fever of impatience. "Otis," he cried, "Otis, did Del -give you this? Where did you get this map?" - -Once more Rockland's eyes opened, but a glaze was on them. "Mexico," he -whispered. "Mexico City." - -Suddenly Crawford knew. The Delcazars had come from Mexico City -originally. And their family papers must have been in the hands of a -lawyer there. When Rockland got Delcazar's spread, he had sent his own -lawyer down there to make sure there was nothing to obscure his title -to the land. Evidently Tarant had found this part of the _derrotero_ -among the papers. But this was only a third of it. Where was the rest -of it? The light grew brighter. So this was why Rockland had sent for -him. He thought that he, Crawford, knew about the map--knew, perhaps, -who held the missing pieces. Santa Anna's chests, Rockland had said, -Santa Anna's chests. All at once he found himself muttering the words -aloud, "Santa Anna's chests--" - -As though the words were a magic Sesame, Rockland opened his eyes. -Drawing on some hidden reservoir of strength, he pulled himself to a -sitting position. "Where's the rest of it, Glenn?" he gasped. "Does -Delcazar know? Glenn, Glenn, where's the rest--" - -Crawford caught at the man as Rockland sank back. "Otis?" - -It was the muted footsteps, then, coming across the Brussels carpet -in the outer room. Crawford had allowed Rockland to drop back when -Ed Kenmare's bulk filled the doorway. A vague pain moved over the -sheriff's heavy weathered features. - -"The manager heard a ruckus up here," he said. "I guess he was right. -No, Glenn--" - -"Yes, Ed," said Glenn, violently, scooping up his Henry and whirling -back toward the man. Kenmare had his own six-shooter only half out of -its holster. He stopped that way, staring at the .44. There were other -men behind the sheriff now, several of the cowmen from the patio and -lobby, the hotel manager in a white morning coat. - -"I guess there's no use denying it, is there?" said Crawford, through -his teeth. - -Kenmare let his eyes drop to the Henry's wooden butt. Crawford felt it -then, sticky against his fingers, and realized the wood must have been -lying in the blood from Rockland's head. A nausea swept him. - -"Ed," he said, unable to keep from it, "I didn't, I didn't--" - -His bitter voice trailed off as he saw resignation in Kenmare's faded -eyes. "Listen, son," the man told him. "It won't do you no good this -way. Give me that gun now." - -"No." The finger lever made a sharp click, cocking, and with his hand -holding it down, Crawford started backing toward the window. "Think -I'd have a chance? It's all here, isn't it? All right here, cinched up -tighter'n a bucking rig. No loose lashings even. Everything to hang me. -I'm not going to be taken for that, Ed." - -"Glenn," said Kenmare, with that same weighty reluctance, "for once, -don't be a hothead. You go off half-cocked like this and bugger your -bronc every time. This just won't do you any good--" - -"Don't do it, Jason," Crawford shouted, turning his gun toward one of -the cattlemen behind Kenmare. Harry Jason stopped trying to shift back -of Kenmare where Crawford wouldn't see him draw his gun, and moved his -hand carefully away from the wooden butt of the weapon. There was no -intelligent reasoning in Crawford now. Only a terrible consciousness of -that dead body on the floor, and a blind, animal urge to escape this. -He lifted his leg over the iron railing of the balcony onto the ledge -outside. There was the first violent movement among the men in the room -as he crouched down to drop off the ledge, and he heard someone shout. -Then he jumped. - -It was not a long fall, and he broke it by catching the edge of -the balcony with his free hand and hanging there till his arm was -stretched out with his weight, then letting go. One of his high heels -turned under him as he struck the flagstones below, and he let himself -go down on his knees and then roll it off to keep from spraining an -ankle. As he leaped to his feet, Kenmare appeared on the balcony, gun -out. Crawford was already running toward the front entrance, past the -line of cane chairs. There were still half a dozen cattlemen sitting -there, and two of them were standing at the end, and Kenmare was -apparently fearful of hitting them if he shot. - -"Stop him," shouted the lawman. "Crawford. He killed Rockland. Get him, -you fools--" - -The men standing made an abortive shift to block Crawford's passage, -but he was already opposite them, and surprise held the other men in -their chairs till he was almost to the door. He saw several pulling at -their guns, but Mexicans and cowhands were passing by outside in the -street, or stopping farther beyond in the Plaza to gape curiously, and -a bullet might have struck one of them. There were half a dozen cow -ponies at a cottonwood rack in front of the Manger, and as Crawford -reached them he noticed that the reins of the first were tied in a -hitch that could be knocked free. He did it with the tip of his gun, -throwing the ribbons over the animal's neck. Excited by Crawford's -running up like that, the hairy little black started to whirl inward. -Crawford jumped for the stirrup with one foot, letting the centrifugal -force slap him into the saddle as the horse whirled on around. - -"Hey," shouted one of the cattlemen, streaming out of the patio behind -him. "Get off that horse, Crawford, he's mine--" - -But Crawford was already turning the animal into Blum Street. Halfway -down the block he cut through an alley onto Commerce and turned at -the corner of Commerce and Alamo, wheeling into another alley that -led directly down to the river. He crashed through a line of washing -hung behind a squalid Mexican hovel and scattered a bunch of cackling -hens, tearing a white _camisa_ off his head, his hat going with it. A -Mexican woman ran from the hut, waving her arms and squealing at him, -and behind that he could hear the dim sounds of running horses. He had -gone down Blum to make them think he was heading west out of town, and -hoped they would not discover his true direction till he had left by -the south. He slid the pony down the stone coping banking the river, -letting the current carry him beneath the Market Street bridge before -trying to reach the opposite bank. He got out of town following back -alleys and side streets, and then broke into South Flores Street. And -now, as he pushed the laboring pony toward the twin spires of Mission -Concepción, it began to come. - -There had been no room for it in the violent excitement of those first -few minutes, with all his concentration on escape. But now, with the -steady beat of running hoofs beneath him, it began to grow in him. -First, perhaps, it was a consciousness of that steady shuddering -pound of hoofs beneath him. Then, the constant, heated movement of -the horse's muscles, the dim sense of its flanks, rising and falling -with the heavy breathing, the feel of its shoulders beneath the saddle -moving back and forth. And finally, more than the movement and the -sound outside him. Something within. He did not know where it started. -In his legs, perhaps. Or his groin. Somewhere down there. A strange, -thin, hollow sensation. - -"No--" - -He didn't know whether it had been in his mind or whether he had said -it. He turned in the saddle, staring down the road behind, trying -to blot it from his consciousness. He was past the fields of white -niggerheads about Concepción, and was approaching the second mission, -San José de Aguayo, which had been established by the Spaniards here in -1720. But it was growing in him. He was sweating beneath the armpits -now. It was recognizable now. Pain. More than that--hollow, nebulous -sickness at the pit of his stomach. Pain. Pinpricks of it, shooting up -his legs. A hoarse, strained sob escaped him. How could it be? They had -told him, no. He was healed. How can it be? _I'm healed, damn you, I'm -healed._ - -The roof of San Aguayo had fallen in, and only a few windows were left -in the south wall, protected by the remains of delicate iron _rejas_, -their tarnished panes flashing dully in the sun as Crawford passed -by. He was barely conscious of this. He was sweating now, his fists -gripping the reins so desperately the knuckles gleamed translucently -through the skin. The pain seemed to have sound now. His head was -roaring with it. He was shaking violently now, and the horse felt it -and began reflecting his lack of control, breaking its stride, shifting -from side to side down the road. - -The stepped belfries of San Francisco de la Espade rose into view. -The last ruins of the _baluarte_ built for the defense of the mission ran -parallel to the road, sections of this bastion crumbling off into the -ruts of the highway. The horse changed leads to side-step some of the -adobe fallen onto the road, and Crawford lurched out of the saddle, -barely recovering himself. He heard someone making hoarse, guttural -sounds, and realized it was himself. And now, more than the pain, -something else was rising in him. The hot, sweaty fetor of the horse -filled him with a violent nausea. He had a wild impulse to escape it. -He caught himself actually stiffening up to throw himself free of the -running horse. - -"No!" - -Again, he did not know if it was in his head, or if he had shouted -it. The very sound of the running horse seemed to fill his brain now. -Each thundering hoofbeat was a separate note of agony. And more than -the agony which filled him, that other something he could not define, -or would not, so confused with the pain now he could not tell the -two apart. Finally he could stand it no longer. Brutally, he reined -in the horse. The animal brought himself to a series of stiff-legged -halts that almost jolted him over its head. He swung off the lathered, -heaving animal, and then, standing with his face toward its hairy wet -hide, he was filled with that nausea again. He wheeled away from the -horse, stumbling across the road to a pile of rubble that marked the -remains of the aqueduct. With a hoarse exhalation, he lowered himself -weakly to the adobe, dropping his head forward into his hands, so that -the black hair fell through his grimy fingers in dank, sweaty tendrils. - -"I _can_ ride," he said aloud, in a desperate voice, "I _can_ ride!" - - - - - _Chapter Two_ - - SANTA ANNA'S CHESTS - - -It had a million faces. At dawn it was a dim, foggy mask. At noon it -leered in brassy, burning malignance. At night it was a cunning visage, -sometimes filled with bizarre mutations by the caprice of moonlight, -sometimes cloaked in the unrelieved sin of utter blackness. This was -the _brasada_. - -Glenn Crawford did not know how many weeks of weary travel lay behind -him since he had left that cow pony by the mission and had struck out -on foot for this borderland which had provided sanctuary for so many -fugitives. Now, crouched in a thicket of black chaparral, with the -late afternoon sun falling through the branches to cast a weird shadow -pattern across his back, Crawford was filled with an oppressive sense -of its infinite mystery. It was a Spanish word, _brasada_, and there -was no English equivalent. For it was not brushland in the ordinary -sense. Not scattered clumps of mesquite dotting an arid prairie, -or small thickets of sage in a sandy plain. It was a jungle. A dry -jungle, as vast and unexplored as the Amazon jungles, stretching -through southern Texas between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande -for uncounted miles, in many places so thick as to be impossible of -penetration. - -Until he had reached its safety, Crawford's primary instinct had been -the simple animal urge of escape. But once within its borders, a desire -to get at the root of this thing, and to clear himself, began to grow -in him. And though he knew the dangers involved, it had inevitably -drawn him to the Big O, where the whole thing had started. - -Otis Rockland's father had established the spread here in the _brasada_ -just before the Texas Revolution, shipping lumber for his house from -New Orleans. It was a strange building, in a land where most structures -were low adobe hovels. Its two stories rose gaunt and lonely against -the dark horizon of brush, the flat gambrel roof supporting a pair of -glassed-in cupolas over the front. Crawford had been here since noon, -watching it, not yet knowing what he had meant to do when he reached -the spread. The sun had burned bronze streaks through his shaggy mane -of black hair, and a scrubby, matted beard grew up into the hungry -hollows beneath his high cheek-bones, rendering his face gaunt and -wolfish. His whole body jerked with the sudden crackle of brush behind -him, and he started to whirl and rise from his hunkers and pull his gun -around all in the same violent movement. - -"Never mind, Glenn, you'd never do it in time," said the man standing -there. He waited a moment, grinning, and then spoke again with a -deliberate, slow irony. "If you'll drop that Henry, we'll be able to -talk comfortably." - -Crawford let the rifle slip reluctantly from stiff fingers, and then -straightened his legs out until he was standing, faced toward the man -they called Cabezablanca for his head of pure white hair. His face -was as smooth and unlined as a coffee bean, and he wore a pair of -tight buckskin leggings they called _chivarras_ this near the border, -and a blue cotton shirt, and Crawford had never seen him without the -Winchester he carried now. - -"It's been a long time since you busted broncs for the Big O, Glenn," -said Cabezablanca. "Ain't you going to say something? _Buenos días_, -for an old _amigo_, or how are things?" He waited a moment, the smile -slipping from his thin, beardless lips. "You better be civil to me, -Glenn. I'm a very dangerous man." He halted again, and when he realized -Crawford would not answer, a sullen anger tightened his lips. "Very -well, let us go and see what they want to do with you." - -Crawford turned around, moving from the screen of brush in stiff, catty -steps, the tense forward thrust of his shoulders giving them that -narrow appearance. He was aware that Cabezablanca stooped to pick up -the Henry as he followed. Crawford had been watching the crew working a -bunch of horses in the corrals, and now, as he drew near, he saw that -they had pulled a new animal into the tight chute between the smaller -pen where the animals were held and the larger one where they were -worked. It was a big black animal the Mexicans called a _puro negro_, -throwing itself crazily against the bars of the chute, the whole -structure shuddering with its violent struggles. Crawford was not aware -that he had stopped till Cabezablanca came up beside him. - -"Yeah, Crawford," said the white-headed man, watching him narrowly. -"Africano. Sort of brings back things, doesn't it? That black devil's -still rolling them, and nobody's broke it yet." - -A man threw a dally rope over the top of the chute, noosing the black -animal's neck and pulling it tight against the bars. The beast fought -wildly a moment, banging its skull against the cedar poles. The corrals -shook again, and yellow dust rose about that section, obscuring the -horse. When the dust settled, the _puro negro_ had quit battling, and -stood with its forelegs stiff, breathing heavily through its nose. A -tall, slat-limbed Mexican climbed to the top of the chute, and the -men below handed him up a double-rigged Porter. He dropped the heavy -saddle on the horse, and a man below reached through the bars to get -the front girth, pulling the latigo through the cinch rings and yanking -the girth tight. Africano squealed shrilly, trying to jerk away again. -Then another Mexican climbed up the bars of the chute and stood at -the top, pulling his belt up. He was so broad he appeared short, -his close-cropped hair beginning to gray at the temples. His great -shoulders bunched like sides of beef beneath the strained wool of a -faded _charro_ jacket with a few tattered remnants of what might have -been gold embroidery on its lapels. He wore a pair of tight rawhide -leggings, and the rolling muscles of his thighs had burst the seams in -several places between hip and knee. - -Crawford licked dry lips. "Who is it?" - -"Quartel," said Cabezablanca. "When you killed Rockland in San Antonio, -a lot of the Big O crew drifted. Bueno Bailey and me are about the -only ones left of the old bunch. Rockland didn't have no heirs. So -his lawyer was given the job of cleaning up the estate. There's a lot -of cattle to be choused out of that brush and Tarant had to get a new -ramrod. And Quartel's him." - -"But--" Crawford moved his hand vaguely toward the horse--"Africano--" - -"The nigger sort of fascinates Quartel, I guess," grinned the other. -"He's been trying to break it ever since he got here. That black devil -almost stove him up a couple of times." - -Quartel was straddling the bars of the chute with his feet, leaning -down to tug at the saddle a couple of times and test the cinches. They -finally got the bit in and pulled the rawhide reins up to where Quartel -could take hold of them. He waved his free hand, and the man below -pulled out the drop bar which held the door of the chute closed. Then -they untied the rope from the black's neck and swung open the door. As -the beast lunged forward, Quartel dropped into the saddle. - -Africano was larger than most brush horses, though not any taller, -standing maybe fifteen hands, with a prodigiously muscled rump that -indicated more than a little quarter blood, and a savage, vicious -action to its every movement. The animal boiled over almost before it -had left the chute. Quartel had not found his right stirrup as the -beast erupted, but by the time Africano hit the top of its first buck, -the man's foot was in the oxbow, and when the black stiff-legged down -into the ground, Quartel was set for it. - -Even then, his broad, heavy body trembled to the awful jar of it. -Crawford's face twisted, and his hands were gripping the bars of the -corral with a strange desperation. - -The black raced down the corral with a high, collected action and then -stopped abruptly with its forelegs jamming the ground like ramrods, -pin-wheeling in its own billow of dust. It was all balance with -Quartel. Crawford did not think he had ever seen such a relaxed seat on -a bucker. The man shifted his weight back and forth almost delicately, -gauging each violent movement of the horse to perfection. - -"There it goes," said Cabezablanca. - -Crawford rose up on his toes against the bars. Africano had started to -roll. Quartel stepped off with an incredibly lithe movement for his -heavy body, as the horse went down. The black rolled completely over, -and Quartel was there ready to swing onto its back again as the animal -came up, jamming his feet into the stirrups and raking the animal's -dusty, lathered flanks with great Mexican cart-wheel spurs. The black -screamed in a frenzied, crazy way as it realized the man was still -on its back. With a shrill whinny, it began rolling again, madly, -cleverly, devilishly, watching Quartel out of its glassy eyes, heavy -chest briny with lather. Crawford watched with a terrible fascination, -unaware of how tightly he was hanging onto the bars or how loud and -harsh his heavy, labored breathing was. - -On its fourth roll, Africano twisted while still on its back and -switched ends before coming up, kicking at Quartel with its hind feet. -Quartel dodged the kick, shouting something, and slapped the animal's -rump to come up over the legs as they struck the ground, hitting the -saddle with a jar that drew a gasp from Crawford. Africano raced -forward, halted abruptly, pivoted on one hind foot. Quartel was thrown -off balance by the spin, and while his weight was still on the off -side, the black reared up and fell back deliberately. Quartel had to -kick free and jump to keep from being mashed beneath twelve hundred -pounds of vicious black demon, and he lost control completely. - -The animal came up with a triumphant whinny, whirling toward Quartel. -The dust billowed up about the dim shouting movement filling the corral -then, and Crawford could see only dimly what happened. A red-bearded -hand was galloping in on one of the cutting horses to try and reach the -black before it trampled Quartel. But the rider spun the big loop over -his head once before throwing it, and the wily black saw it coming and -wheeled away. - -"Damn you, Innes, why don't you go back to snagging fence posts," -shouted Quartel, stumbling to his feet and lurching for the rope. He -caught that end and jerked it violently, almost unhorsing Innes as the -rope was torn from his hands. Then Quartel whirled around, snaking -in the rope with quick, skillful flirts until he had the other end. -The red-bearded rider had wheeled and was trying to run into Africano -broadside now to force it away from Quartel. But Africano leaped ahead, -dodging the man, and wheeled toward Quartel again, that maniacal intent -plain in its bloodshot eyes. "Get out of the way," Quartel roared -hoarsely at Innes. "I swear you don't know any more about handling -horses than a woman. Get out of the way----" - -The Mexicans called it a _mangana_, and not many men could have done -it in such a position. The black horse had outmaneuvered Innes, and -was racing a dead run at Quartel. Quartel stood there with the rope -in both hands, not even spinning it, a confident grin on his face. -When the black was so near it looked certain to run Quartel down, the -man made his toss. It was a California throw, down low without a spin -so the horse could not spot it until the loop was actually in the -air. Quartel snapped the rope behind him at his hip, then dragged it -forward with a swift flirt of his wrist, hand pointed down and the -loop swinging out so that it practically stood on edge. It was timed -perfectly. Quartel took one step away like a bullfighter, and the _puro -negro_ thundered past him, so close its lathered shoulder twitched -his _charro_ jacket, and ran headlong into that loop standing there. -Quartel turned away with the rope across his hip, and his thick body -jerked hard as the horse snapped the rope taut and fell headlong. Then -he casually dropped the rope to the ground and walked away, while other -hands ran in with the short tie ropes they called peales, to hog-tie -the vicious beast while it was still down. - -Crawford realized only then how his fingers ached. He released them -from the cedar-post bar. His shirt was sticking to his back with -sweat, and he heard that heavy, labored breathing. Him? And something -else. The same thing he had known on that cow pony up by San Antonio. -Not pain exactly, though there were those little spasms twitching at -his legs. But something more insidious than that, down in his belly -somewhere, a thin, nauseating consciousness. His eyes went to the -black horse, still kicking and squealing as they hog-tied it within -the corral, and a new wave of it swept him. He turned away, clenching -his teeth, trying to drown it with anger. Then he became aware of how -Cabezablanca was looking at him. - -"What's the matter, Crawford? You look like it was you riding the -African instead of Quartel." The white-headed man waited, that sly -grin fading as he saw Crawford was not going to speak. He indicated -the house, finally, with the tip of his Winchester. "Let's go. Maybe -Huerta will want to see you." - -"But I've already seen him," said a heavy, jaded voice from behind -them. "I've been watching him for some time now." - - * * * * * - -The overdrapes of green striped satin had been pulled aside from the -front windows of the dining-room to let the last shafts of afternoon -sunlight cross the dark Empire Aubusson and gleam brazenly on the -brass-headed nails which studded the green morocco upholstering of the -chairs. The man who had stood behind Crawford and Cabezablanca at the -corrals was Doctor Feliz Huerta, and he followed Crawford into the -dining-room now. - -Crawford did not think he had ever seen such infinite dissolution in -a face. The minute pattern of blood vessels was faintly visible in -Huerta's heavy lids, giving them a bluish cast. His eyes, when they -were visible behind these lids, held a dull, jaded lackluster in their -black pupils, and his flesh was smooth and soft-looking, lined about -the mouth and eyes like an old satchel. His black hair was parted in -the middle, graying at the temples and receding there to form a peak -down his forehead which, added to the strong arch of his brows, gave -his features a satanic cast. - -"You may go now, Whitehead," he said. - -Cabezablanca shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, you don't seem to -understand. This is Glenn Crawford----" - -It seemed to cause Huerta infinite effort to turn toward the man. For -a moment, their eyes met. Whitehead's mouth was still open from his -words, and he drew a small, surprised breath through it. Then he began -to back out of the room. - -Huerta moved his glance around to Crawford when Cabezablanca had left. -"They say he is a very dangerous man," he murmured, moving languidly -to the old English sideboard. Lifting one of the brass rings on the top -drawer, he pulled it open, taking a silver plate out and putting it on -top. There was a small pile of reddish beans, and he selected one from -this, popping it into his mouth. "You'll excuse me. An old complaint." - -Crawford could retain it no longer. "What kind of horse you on?" - -Huerta's face revealed some small surprise. "I thought you might like -to have dinner with us. Jacinto will bring it in a few moments." - -"No," said Crawford, moving his hand viciously. "Something else. What -is it, Huerta? What are you doing here?" - -One of Huerta's sardonic black brows lifted quizzically. "You are such -a suspicious man, Crawford. I have known Otis Rockland for some time. -He invited me to visit him. I arrived to find him murdered in San -Antonio. It was quite a shock. Ah--" his glance had passed Crawford and -was focused on the doorway--"Merida, Wallace, I'm glad you've come. We -have a dinner guest." - -Crawford turned around. Wallace Tarant had been Otis Rockland's lawyer -a long time, and Crawford knew him well enough. But it was the woman -who commanded his attention. Her beauty struck him with such an impact -that he felt a distinct physical reaction pass through his body. Not -many women could have worn their hair in such a severe coif without -detracting from their allure. It was so black it looked blue, parted -in the center and drawn back to a shimmering bun at the nape of her -neck. It gave accent to the faintly exotic planes of her face. Her only -jewelry was a large cabochon emerald in an onyx brooch that rode the -mature swell of her breasts just below the low-cut top of her black -silk dress. - -Her slightly oblique eyes held a candid interest, meeting his. The -blood thickened in his throat. A vague irritation swept Crawford that -she should affect him so strongly. - -"This is Merida Lopez, Crawford," said Huerta. "She came with me from -Mexico City." - -"Crawford." It escaped her on a throaty breath, and those large black -eyes took in the tense line of his body, and a faint smile stirred her -rich lips. "I imagined you, somewhat--like this." - -Wallace Tarant took a step that placed him at the woman's side. He -had a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame that looked good in -his tailored town coat. His face, with its square brow and wide, -thin-lipped mouth, should have held a palpable strength. But his eyes -would not meet Crawford's. His voice was small for such a large man. - -"What's the idea, Huerta?" he said. - -"Whitehead found him in the brush watching the house," said Huerta. -"I thought perhaps we might like a little talk with him. You, as -Rockland's lawyer, should appreciate the value of that." - -"Isn't it a little dangerous," said Tarant. - -"I think Crawford knows how little chance there is of escape," said -Huerta. "By whatever door a man leaves this house, he has to cross -several hundred yards of open compound before reaching the protection -of the brush. At the present moment, there are half a dozen men out -there, just waiting for the chance. As for his presence among us, you -aren't afraid of him, are you, Wallace?" - -Tarant flushed, moved stiffly to pull out a chair for Merida. Crawford -could not tell if it was deliberate, but in passing him the woman's -body touched his hip. His whole frame stiffened with the momentary, -warm, silken pressure, and he could not help the sharp breath he drew. -Then she was by, and he saw the faint, ironic smile twitch at Huerta's -lips. Crawford turned angrily toward the table, but before he could -reach a chair, the whole room began to tremble. He knew who was coming -before the man appeared. Jacinto del Rio had cooked for the Rocklands -as long as anyone in the brush could remember. The three dominating -factors of his life were apparent enough as he rumbled into the -doorway from the entrance hall. His prodigious belly was a remarkable -edifice to _tortillas_ and frijoles. The blue network of broken -veins patterning his flushed jowls indicated a singular capacity for -tequila and pulque. The reluctance of his every movement reflected his -veritable passion for the national pastime of siesta. He held a great -silver tureen of soup on a tray high before his face, and it prevented -him from seeing Crawford at first. - -"_Trabajo, trabajo_," he grumbled, "always work. First it's breakfast -in the bunkhouse. 'Hyacinth cook some more eggs.' 'Hyacinth this coffee -tastes like alkali.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Then breakfast for -the big house. 'Hyacinth you're late.' 'Hyacinth you didn't put enough -clabber in the biscuits.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Me, who was -made for nothing but wassail and song and laughter, sweating like an -_esclavo_ all my life. You know what my father he tell me?" - -"Yes, yes," said Huerta wearily. "If you don't set that tray down soon -we'll be eating breakfast instead of dinner." - -"He tell me, 'Hyacinth, there are two sins in the world--working and -fighting, working and fighting--and if you avoid both of them, you will -surely go to heaven.'" Jacinto set the tray down, his eyes rolling -upward in a fat face. "Por Dios! it looks like I'll never get there -now. My poor _padre_ must be turning over in his grave to see how I -have desecrated his wishes. To think of me, little Hyacinth of the -River, meant for nothing but----" - -His eyes had focused on Crawford for the first time, and his words -ended in a bleat. He held up a fat hand, trying to say something, but -nothing would come out. He turned toward Huerta, sweat rolling down -his face with his effort to speak. He whirled back to Crawford, his -whole body twitching. Then he looked to Huerta again. - -"_Por Dios!_" he croaked. "Doctor. Please. Crawford. That's him. I -was born for laughter and wassail and song. You aren't going to do -anything. How did he get here? No _violencia_. Please. My delicate -sensibilities would revolt. You won't--" - -"My dear Hyacinth," said Huerta. "There won't, I assure you, be any -violence. Now please go and bring the rest of the meal." Jacinto backed -out of the room, sputtering, and Huerta's sardonic glance slipped -around to Crawford. "Won't you sit down? You make me nervous." - -Crawford moved across to pull out a chair across from the woman, -feeling her eyes on him, and lowered his tense body onto the green -morocco leather. They were all watching him now. - -"Would you serve, Wallace?" said Huerta, leaning back in his chair. -He surveyed Crawford for a moment. "You know," he said finally, "most -people think your motive for killing Otis Rockland was revenge. But -somehow, that doesn't satisfy us." - -"Doesn't it?" said Crawford. - -The woman's laugh was as throaty as her voice. It caused his glance to -shift to her face with a jerk. She sat there with that smile, making no -effort to explain her amusement. It drew a reasonless anger from him. -He gripped his knees with his hands, beneath the linen cloth. - -"Did you ever hear the story of Santa Anna's chests, Mr. Crawford?" -Merida Lopez asked, finally, a strange, obscure mockery coloring her -voice. - -"No," answered Crawford stiffly. - -She tasted her soup, eyes still on him. "In April of 1826, at the close -of the Texas Revolution, General Santa Anna had led his Mexican army -halfway across Texas after General Houston's forces, finally catching -him at San Jacinto. There were two major political parties in Mexico -at that time, the Federalists and the Centralists. The Centralists -had been trying for some time to break Santa Anna's growing power in -politics. For four or five months they had managed to have the army -pay withheld, but Santa Anna finally got a pay train sent from Mexico -City. The battle of San Jacinto was in progress when this mule train -arrived, and a party of Texans cut it off before it could reach the -Mexican army, chasing it westward into the brush somewhere south of the -Nueces. The Texans finally caught the Mexicans, and in the battle that -followed the greater part of the Mexicans were killed. But the mules -had disappeared. They have not been found since." - -"Neither has the Lost Nigger Mine, or Steinheimer's millions," said -Crawford. "I been listening to windies like that since I was a button." - -"Ah, a skeptic." Again that mockery, more palpable this time. She toyed -with her soupspoon. The faint movement of her wrist drew his glance, -and he found himself wondering how the soft white skin would feel. -"And still, Crawford, doesn't it intrigue you?" Her voice penetrated -his attention, and he raised his gaze self-consciously. Just her hand. -Just the movement of her hand like that. What the hell? "Five months' -pay for an army, Crawford. Does a man like you have any conception -of that kind of money? Men would kill for it. Even governments. And -there is more than just the story. There is what the Mexicans call a -_derrotero_." - -She let her eyes lift momentarily from the spoon, but he had kept his -face carefully blank. He was beginning to notice her enunciation now. -The accent was discernible sometimes. Her careful precision seemed an -effort to hide it. - -"This _derrotero_," she said. "Literally a map, a chart. It was made -by the captain of the mule train. When he realized the Texans would -inevitably catch him, he secreted the pay chests somewhere in the -brush, making the chart. Fearing that, if he entrusted the whole of the -chart to one man, that man might be captured, he divided it into three -portions. Thus, if one or even two of the men were caught, the chests -would still be safe, for the hiding place could not be located without -all three portions. One section he sent with an Indian to Santa Anna -himself at San Jacinto. The second part he gave to his lieutenant, to -carry to the Federalists in Mexico City. The third he kept himself." - -"Yeah?" said Crawford. - -"Yes," she said, smiling in dim amusement at his acrid reticence. For -a moment, her eyes were half-closed, studying him, and they held a -slumberous, provocative temptation. It stirred something primal within -him. He had felt it before. But not this way. Not just looking in a -woman's eyes. - -"The captain of that mule train was the uncle of your friend Pio -Delcazar!" - -It went through him with a palpable shock, and it was not till after -she had finished speaking that Crawford realized what she had been -doing, with those eyes. They had turned hard and speculative, now, and -with the spell broken, Crawford felt the twisted expression her words -had drawn to his face. He tried to regain that inscrutability, but knew -it was too late. There was a certain triumphant satisfaction in the way -Merida allowed her gaze to drop to the table as she began eating the -soup again. And now the two men were watching him. He felt the sweat -break out on his palms. - -"_Carne adobada, carne adobada?_" said Jacinto, waddling in. "You don't -know how long I pickled it in brine. I fry the spices and chile till -the juices stream out of the pork, and--" he trailed off, seeing how -they were all watching Crawford. He turned to Huerta, wringing his -fingers. "Doctor, please, I beseech you--" - -"The coffee, Hyacinth, the coffee," murmured Huerta, waving a languid -hand at the cook without looking away from Crawford. - -Jacinto almost choked on the breath he took, and backed out, staring -wide-eyed at Crawford. "_Sí._ The _café_. _Sí._" - -Tarant began to serve the meat dish Jacinto had brought. "When you had -that ruckus with Rockland in the living-room here, Bueno Bailey said it -was over Delcazar," he said. - -"You know what it was over," said Crawford. "You got Del's land for -Rockland that way." - -Huerta leaned forward slightly. "Was it just the land?" - -"Del's my _compadre_," said Crawford. "You're Mexican. You know what -the word is." - -"Crawford," said Huerta, bending farther forward, "we should, of -course, send you back to San Antonio. But there are other things which -could be done." - -"You're riding a muddy creek." - -"A colloquialism," murmured the woman. "How quaint." - -Crawford's narrow, dark head turned toward her with an angry jerk. -She was watching him from beneath her brows in that mocking way, chin -tucked in, and it formed a small crease in the rich flesh beneath her -jaw. There was something concupiscent about it. - -"We think your quarrel with Rockland was over more than the way he -acquired Delcazar's land," said Huerta. - -Crawford found it difficult to take his eyes off Merida. "Do you?" - -"Oh, Huerta," the woman muttered petulantly, "can't you see you'll -never get anywhere beating about the bush with him--" - -"You'll never get anywhere with him anyway," said Wallace Tarant. "I -know Glenn Crawford, Huerta. We'd better send him back to San Antonio -right now." - -"Oh, no," said Huerta, leaning back. "Not at all. I think if we kept -him here long enough, we would find a way of convincing him that it -is to his advantage to--ah--" he moved his hand, as if seeking the -word--"cooperate, with us. Yes. Co-operate. Don't you, Merida?" - -The woman's laugh held a husky sensuality. "Perhaps. Even if not--it -would be interesting." - -Wallace Tarant put down his fork angrily. "Don't be a fool, Huerta. -Having Crawford here is like sitting on a keg of powder with a lighted -match. What would Kenmare do if he found we'd caught Crawford and -hadn't notified the authorities?" - -"Kenmare won't find out," said Huerta, turning toward the man, "unless -someone tells him. Ah, our coffee." - -Jacinto set the urn down hesitantly, glaring about at them. He started -to speak, then caught Huerta's eye, and backed out of the room, -muttering to himself. Smiling faintly, Huerta indicated that Tarant -should pour. Then he held out a cup. - -"Mexican style, Crawford. Perhaps you'll like it. Boiled in milk and -water and sweetened in the pot with _poloncillo_, our brown sugar. I -was surprised to find how few of the hands here drank it like this. I -know Quartel sweetens it with molasses sometimes." His eyes dropped to -his own cup, and he stirred it absently. "Speaking of Quartel, that was -quite an exhibition this afternoon, wasn't it? I don't think I've ever -seen such a vicious horse. And what a magnificent beast a man would -have if he could break it." He looked up abruptly. "Oh, excuse me, -Crawford, I--" he moved his hand in an apologetic gesture--"I wasn't -thinking--" - -The woman frowned at him. "Hm?" - -"The horse," said Huerta, looking at Merida, "the horse." - -"What about the horse?" she said. - -"I don't mean that," said Huerta. "I--" - -"Never mind," said Crawford. "My legs are all right." - -"Oh?" Huerta's arched brows rose. "I got a different impression. You -weren't riding." - -"I lost my horse on the Flores Road." - -"It was hit?" - -"I lost it, that's all," said Crawford. - -"Oh." Huerta took out a jade cigarette holder, fitting a smoke into it. -He leaned back, looking at Crawford. "You were watching Africano out in -the corral, that way." - -"What about the way I was watching it?" - -Huerta's eyes dropped meditatively to the coffee cup, and he allowed -twin streamers of smoke to leave his nostrils. "I guess I got the wrong -impression, Crawford. You'll have to pardon me." - -"Impression about what, Huerta?" said Tarant. - -Huerta seemed to rouse himself with an effort. "Ah, nothing. Nothing, -Tarant. You're not drinking your coffee, Crawford. Is it too sweet -for you? Pour him another cup, Tarant." The woman was watching him -narrowly now, and Huerta let his eyes meet hers momentarily before he -leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. He took a sip of his own -coffee, looking down the middle of the table in that meditation again. -"They say a man is getting old when he starts reminiscing, but I can't -help being reminded of an instance I ran across in Monterrey some years -ago. After the war I chanced to be employed by a Mexican firm with -interests in a mine north of the city. I had been company doctor some -months when one of the lower shafts caved in, killing half a dozen of -the men. I managed to patch up most of those who escaped with minor -injuries. There was one miner, a huge giant of a fellow, whose legs had -been crushed somewhat beneath the slide. My operations were singularly -successful, and within five or six months he was as good as new, the -bones knit perfectly and the muscles gave no sign of the damage. During -his convalescence, there had been no pain. Yet, the very first day he -went back to work, he experienced the most acute agony in his legs." - -The little muscles jumped out all along Crawford's jaw suddenly. Huerta -looked up, smiled faintly. "Yes--the most acute agony. I could find -nothing organically wrong with him, absolutely nothing. In my office, -he did not feel the pain. I took him back to the mine. As he approached -the mouth of the shaft in which he had worked, the agony returned. All -the symptoms of genuine pain. Sweating, trembling, tears in the eyes. I -could not account for it. There was utterly no reason for him to feel -the pain. I administered drugs, enough to deaden the greatest agony. It -had no effect. Then I took him away from the mine. As soon as it was -out of sight, the pain receded, disappeared." - -Merida's face had lifted as he spoke, a tight furrow appearing between -her brows. "You mean--his mind--" - -"_Sí_," said Huerta. He was adjusting a fresh cigarette carefully in -its holder. "I came to that conclusion finally. The mind plays funny -tricks on us sometimes. That cave-in had been such a ghastly experience -that he actually felt pain when he returned to the scene. And worse -than the pain. Fear. He could never work at his trade again; he could -never get near a mine without feeling that pain. And that fear. He -tried to fight it. He had been a brave man once. He tried to force -himself back into the mines. But in the shaft he became a sniveling, -gibbering coward, crying and puking like a baby, unable to speak -coherently even. Yes, the mind does play funny tricks on us--" Huerta -held his cigarette holder out abruptly. "Crawford, you've spilled your -coffee!" - - - - - _Chapter Three_ - - HUERTA WAS RIGHT! - - -The bunkhouse and cookshack stood a few hundred yards south of the -house, two adobe structures connected by a covered dog-run. Rockland's -father had put them up to live in while his large dwelling was being -built, constructing their walls not with mud bricks but by the older -Indian method of making forms out of willow shoots and cotton sheeting, -pouring the mud into these forms, and peeling off the cotton after the -adobe had dried. Unless these walls were replastered every six months -or so, they began to crack, and the inside of the cookshack was already -beginning to show a network of minute fissures across its whitewashed -surface. It was here Crawford had spent the night, an oppressive sense -of the hostility which surrounded him keeping him from much sleep. -After breakfast, all the crew had left the bunkhouse but Bueno Bailey. - -He was gaunt as an alley cat, and he parted his long yellow hair in -the middle and slicked it down with bacon grease, and he sat in the -stilling morning heat of the shack, idly spinning the cylinder of his -six-shooter. - -"Will you stop that, Bueno?" snapped Crawford. - -Bailey looked up at Crawford, who had been standing against the -doorpost, staring outside. "I've seen cattle look out between the bars -of a pen that same way, Glenn," he said, putting his long forefinger -against the cylinder of his gun to give it another, deliberate whirl. -"You don't need to get ideas. Why do you think they left me here?" - -"I'll bite," said Crawford. "Why?" - -"They haven't decided what to do with you yet," murmured Bailey. -"Tarant was for taking you right back to San Antonio, but Huerta didn't -want that, for some reason. Either way, it's a cinch they don't want -you to get away. _Sabe?_" - -"What's Huerta got to say about it?" said Crawford. - -"He's some friend of Rockland's," Bueno told him. - -"That doesn't seem to me enough reason for the way he assumes authority -around here," Crawford muttered. "I thought Quartel was the ramrod." - -"There's some kind of deal between Huerta and Tarant," Bailey answered, -giving the cylinder another spin. "Quartel's tried to buck Huerta a -couple of times and Tarant stood behind the doctor. Quartel almost lost -his job the second time. Tarant gave us the idea we'd better do what -Huerta liked if we wanted to keep on working here." - -Crawford glanced at the gun. "I asked you to stop that." - -Bueno leaned forward on the three-legged stool, placing his elbows on -his knees to look up at Crawford. "So you had to come back, Glenn," he -said. "Why?" - -"Maybe I came back to pay a few debts," said Crawford thinly. - -The oily click of the cylinder stopped abruptly. "You owe somebody -something?" - -"Still snipping cinches, Bueno?" - -The stool crashed to the floor, and Crawford whirled from where he -had been standing in the doorway to meet Bailey as the man came up -against him. The only thing that prevented their bodies from meeting -was the gun Bailey held against Crawford's body. The man's milky eyes -were slitted, and the smell of that bacon grease in his hair nauseated -Crawford. - -"Chew that a little finer," said Bueno, through his teeth. - -"Africano never could have rolled me under if that rigging hadn't -come apart," Crawford said thinly. "I saw the cinch on that saddle -afterward. It hadn't pulled loose by itself." - -"Glenn--" Bailey let it out on a hissing breath--"I think you better -change your mind about that." - -"I know who did Rockland's stable jobs for him," said Crawford. - -The gun dug into his belly. "Glenn--" - -"Yes?" said Crawford. "Make it a better job than that first time, -Bueno." - -Bueno stood there a moment longer, his breath hot and fetid against -Crawford's face. Then his weight settled back onto his heels. He turned -around and set the stool upright and lowered himself onto it once more. -He began twirling the cylinder again with his forefinger. Crawford saw -it tremble against the blued steel. - -"When the time comes, Crawford," said Bueno, not looking up, "I will -make it a better job, you can depend on that. I'll finish the job." - -The harsh laugh from the doorway caused Crawford to turn back that way. -He wondered how long Quartel had stood there. The man moved on into the -room, a pawky smile on his sensuous lips. The pores of his cheeks and -nostrils were large enough to be clearly discernible, and they exuded -a heavy sweat, lending a greasy look to the thick brown flesh of his -face. He stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his dirty _chivarras_, -leaning back slightly. - -"It seems that you haven't got one friend left on the Rockland -_estancia_, doesn't it, _Señor_ Crawford?" he said. - -"_En la cárcel y en la cama se conocen los amigos_," said the man who -had come in with Quartel. - -"Did I ask for any of your stupid proverbs, Aforismo?" said Quartel. - -"It is just a saying they have in Durango," said Aforismo. "In jail and -in bed we know our friends." - -He was a thin, stooped man, Aforismo, his white cotton shirt soiled -with dirt and horse-droppings, his eyebrows slanting upward toward the -middle of his forehead to give him a habitual expression of mournful -complaint. - -"Maybe you got a proverb that tells how to find out where a man pins -his badge," said Quartel, looking at Crawford. - -"I know one about a stitch in time--" - -"Knew a Texas Ranger once who pinned it to his undershirt," said -Quartel. - -Bueno Bailey had looked up. "What saddle you in now?" - -"It would be a good reason," said Quartel. "He had to have some reason." - -"Listen," said Bueno. "That's Glenn Crawford. Sure he had some reason. -A lot of reasons. But not that. He's--" - -"I know who he is," said Quartel. - -"Then why--" - -"Innes took Tarant back to San Antonio last night," said Quartel. -"Innes heard a lot of talk. There's rumor of a government marshal in -the _brasada_." - -"If that's so, it's because of Crawford," said Bueno. "Kenmare couldn't -get him. I wouldn't doubt they'd send a marshal after him." - -"Maybe you got it inside your boot," said Quartel. - -"What makes you so touchy about a badge-packer?" said Crawford. - -Bailey had stood up. "Listen, Quartel, can't you get it through your -thick skull, whatever Crawford is, he ain't a lawman." - -"Isn't he?" Quartel studied Crawford a moment. Then he threw back -his head to emit that short, harsh laugh, so loud it seemed to rock -the room. It died as swiftly as it had come. His glance dropped to -Crawford's legs. "So you got reasons to come back. Africano, maybe?" - -"_You_ haven't broken him," said Crawford. - -Quartel flushed. "I will. There isn't any horse I can't break." - -"He would have rolled you if you'd been a second later with that -_mangana_ yesterday." - -"Well, I wasn't a second later," said Quartel. "Did you see that -_mangana_? Nobody else could have done it so close." He thumped his -barrel chest with a hairy fist. "I'm the best damn roper in the world, -Crawford. I can rope better and ride farther and drink more and cuss -dirtier than any _hombre_ from here to Mexico City. Now let's go. I got -a lot of cattle to clean out of that brush and I'm not wasting a man -here to guard you." - -Jacinto had come through the covered dog-run from the kitchen in time -to hear Quartel. "The _señorita_ will not like that," he said. - -Quartel turned angrily toward him. "You in Merida's _corrida_ or mine." - -"Yours, Quartel, _madre de Dios_, yours," said Jacinto. "Still she -won't like that. Only last night I heard her say--" - -"_Punta en boca_," said Quartel. "Shut your mouth. All right, Crawford. -We got the horses saddled." - -Crawford's boots made a hesitant scrape on the hard-packed adobe floor; -then he took a breath, and walked toward the door. Jacinto waddled -after him, sweat glistening in the wrinkles between the rolls of fat -forming his face. He caught Crawford's arm, trying to stop him. - -"Listen, _señor_," he said breathlessly. "Don't let them take you out -there. Merida is against it. I heard her and Huerta arguing about it. -Just wait till I tell her and she'll stop Quartel. Don't let them get -you out there." Quartel had moved outside to let Crawford through -the door. The heat of the sun struck him like a blow on the face as -he stepped out with Jacinto still tugging at him. "I'm telling you, -_señor_, don't be a fool. If they get you--" - -"Dammittohell!" screamed Quartel, and stepped in to spin around with -his arm held out. The backhand blow caught Jacinto squarely in the -face. Jacinto's hand clutched Crawford's arm spasmodically as the blow -knocked him backward, jerking Crawford off balance. Then Jacinto's -three hundred pounds of sweating brown flesh struck the wall of the -bunkhouse. The building shuddered, and a shower of pale adobe flakes -descended on the huge Mexican as he slid to the ground. - -Quartel stood there a moment, his face diffused with blood till it -looked positively negroid, his whole body shaking with rage. For the -first time, the utter, primal violence of the man struck Crawford. -Without a word, Quartel turned and walked across the compound. - -The true suffocation in all this heat seemed to close in on Crawford -as he moved to follow Quartel. He found himself breathing with a heavy -effort. Cabezablanca was standing by the group of horses near the -corral. The white-headed man held his Winchester tenderly. - -"How are you, Crawford?" he said softly. Crawford glanced at him -without answering, and Cabezablanca's eyes narrowed and he ran one -finger up and down the gleaming barrel of his carbine. "You still -refuse to be civil with me. That is unfortunate. I am a very dangerous -man, Crawford." - -"That's your horse." Quartel nodded at a ewe-necked old paint standing -near the corral fence. It had rheumy eyes and rope scars all over its -gaunt shoulders and a saddleback the shape of hickory bow and the -weediest legs Crawford had ever laid eyes on. Yet, standing even this -near the animal, Crawford could feel that nebulous excitation begin to -rise in him. Or was it excitation? The sweat broke out on his palms. In -a sudden burst of anger, he clamped his fists shut. - -"What kind of crowbait is this?" he said. - -Quartel shrugged. "I thought--I mean your legs--" - -"I told you that was over." Crawford did not know whether the anger was -at himself or at Quartel. He might not have said it under more control. -"I can ride anything you can!" - -"Africano?" said Quartel. He saw Crawford stiffen and grow pale, and -his laugh had a scraping sound. "Never mind, Crawford, never mind. You -won't have to fork the _puro negro_. He ain't broke yet. You saw that -yesterday." Then the laughter left Quartel. He jerked a thumb at the -paint. "Get on." - -"The hell." Crawford had bent forward slightly, his whole body rigid. -That bitter intensity had drawn the flesh taut across his cheeks -beneath his scrubby beard. He turned abruptly toward the corral. - -"Where you going?" shouted Quartel. - -"To get a decent horse," said Crawford, without turning back. "You want -to try and stop me?" - - * * * * * - -He was sweating again. It was a little sorrel pony with a running walk -so relaxed Crawford could hear the teeth pop at every step like a -Tennessee walker, and a rocking-chair would have been harder on a man. -Yet he was sweating again. - -"They say the _hombres_ who curse the _brasada_ most love it the best," -said Aforismo. "You must love it like a woman." - -Crawford turned his head sharply toward the man. He hadn't realized -he had been swearing out loud. It hadn't been at the brush. It was so -confused now, inside and out. It was hard to breathe, and the muscles -across his stomach were tight as a stretched dally, and he could feel -the pain spreading from his hips. _All the symptoms of genuine pain._ -Was that what Huerta had said? _Sweating, trembling, tears in the -eyes._ The doctor's voice was in his ears, suave, insidious. _The mind -plays funny tricks sometimes._ It couldn't be. Not his mind. Not _my_ -mind, Huerta, not _my_ mind. - -"Yeah," grinned Bueno Bailey, forking a big dun on Crawford's other -side. "There never was a man could cuss the brush like Crawford. I'd -rather listen to him talking his way through a _mogote_ of chaparral -than hear music." - -Crawford hardly heard him. The perspiration was sticky beneath his -armpits, his shirt clung to his back with it. And now it was that -other, stirring in him, so confused with the pain at first he could -not define it, or would not--the same thing he had felt there at the -corral, watching Africano. _And worse than the pain._ No. He wasn't -afraid. _I'm not afraid, Huerta._ How could he be? _How could I be? -Living with horses all my life. How could I be?_ - -"Take it easy," snapped Bueno. "What's the matter?" - -Crawford jerked the reins against his horse, realizing he had allowed -it to sidle into the dun. The sorrel shifted uncertainly the other way, -thumping into Aforismo's animal. This time Crawford's reining was even -more violent and it caused the sorrel to shy. - -Crawford was clenching his teeth now with the effort at control. His -knees were like vises against the animal's sides. Just a trot, and his -knees were like vises. _Oh, damn you, Crawford. Just a trot, and you're -bouncing like a satchel in a spring buggy._ He felt a desperate relief -sweep him as Quartel drew up ahead of them, running a finger around the -inside of the red bandanna he wore. - -"God, it's like a furnace," he said. - -"The drier the spring the more mesquite beans in the summer," said -Aforismo. - -Quartel glanced keenly at Crawford, then waved his hand at a big -thicket of black chaparral starting a few yards away. "That _mogote_ -covers two or three miles. We been through once, but it's so thick -a lot of the _cimarrónes_ got away from us. Crawford is riding with -Bailey and me. Whitehead, you take a line through the north flank of -the _mogote_. Meet us at Rio Diablo about sundown." - -Cabezablanca looked at Crawford before he wheeled his horse and trotted -off into the brush, followed by Aforismo. Quartel forked a big brown -animal with white hairs in its tail; they called it a _pelicano_. He -reined the horse violently around, flapping his stirrups out wide. He -did not have to kick the animal. As soon as the _pelicano_ saw those -feet fly out, it bolted into a wild gallop straight for the thicket. -Crawford nudged the sorrel with a heel and followed, stiffening in the -saddle as he broke into a trot. Quartel made a great ripping sound -tearing through the first thin fringe of mesquite. Then they were in -the dry heat of the thicket. - -There was no more wily animal in the world than the _ladino_ of the -_brasada_. These outlaw cattle made nests for themselves in the -thickest _mogoles_, lying there for days at a time when hunted, their -food the very thicket that surrounded them. They ate off the prickly -pear and other brush within the _mogote_ until it formed a veritable -room, with the walls and roof of entangled chaparral and mesquite so -dense that they were invisible from without. This larger thicket the -men rode through was in reality formed by many smaller thickets, with -game trails and open patches throughout the thinner brush surrounding -the minor _mogotes_. Quartel followed one of these game trails for -some time without any apparent effort to find sign. Then, abruptly, he -pulled up on his reins. The heavy _pelicano_ reared to an instant's -stop, head jerking up to the brutal jerk on its cruel spade bit. -Quartel leaned toward the _mogote_ of black chaparral and Crawford was -close enough now to see the man's thick nostrils flutter. - -"_Cimarrónes_ in here," whispered the Mexican, finally. "Outlaws. You -go around to the other side, Bueno. You'll get the first chance at -whatever Crawford and I scare out from here." - -Bailey pulled his dun around and cut through an opening between this -smaller _mogote_ and another, disappearing. Quartel wiped sweat off his -face with the back of his hand. He grinned pawkily at Crawford. - -"How's the sorrel?" he said. - -"Good enough," said Crawford. He tried to relax. But he knew what was -coming. It would be fast now. If there were _ladinos_ in there, it -would be fast. - -"Hola!" - -Quartel's hoarse shout startled the sorrel so much it almost pitched -Crawford off. Grabbing wildly with his legs, Crawford saw the Mexican's -stirrups flapped out that way. The _pelicano_ bolted into a headlong -gallop and crashed bodily into that dense mass of chaparral, ripping -a great hole in the _mogote_. Crawford knew a moment's painful -hesitation, fighting his spooked sorrel, then he gave the animal its -head and booted it in the flanks. - -The horse went through the hole Quartel had left. The brush formed -but a thin wall, and the sorrel burst into the opening beyond with a -startling abruptness. In these first few moments Crawford felt nothing -but a blurred impression of externals. He saw Quartel's _pelicano_ -ahead, trailing white brush from its scarred hide and dripping mesquite -berries in its wake. He had a vivid picture of three gaunt cattle -leaping to their feet beyond, and knew a faint, transitory surprise -that he should notice such an insignificant detail as the hair rubbed -off the knees of the white heifer, showing that she had been crawling -the brush instead of walking, in order to remain hidden from the recent -roundup. Then the trio of _cimarrónes_ had wheeled away from Quartel's -horse and crashed through the opposite wall. The deafening sound and -the swift, blinding movement stunned Crawford's senses as he went -through after Quartel. - -"_Bueno!_" screamed Bailey, appearing from somewhere beyond with his -dally rope spinning in a California throw, coming up from underneath -so it would not catch on the overhanging brush, "_bueno_," the loop -snaking about the forefeet of the lead steer. The ground shook as the -steer went down and Bailey's horse was stiff-legging to a stop, Bailey -swinging down to run for the kicking steer with a peal. He had done the -whole thing with such incredible speed that before Crawford had passed, -Bailey had the steer's hind legs hog-tied with the short rawhide peal -and was dragging him to a coma tree, where he would leave him hitched -until they were ready to take him back to the spread. Then Bailey was -behind, and Quartel and Crawford were smashing through a thin stretch -of mesquite after the other two. - -No riding in the world could compare with popping the brush. A -_brasadero_ might easily take a job on a spread outside the brush and -make good, but a hand used to the prairies seldom succeeded in becoming -a brush hand. It took consummate skill to ride at a dead run through -the brush after cattle like this. And Quartel had that skill. Ahead -of Crawford, he made a bobbing swaying figure on that big _pelicano_, -rarely holding his seat on top of the saddle, incessantly swinging off -to the side or ducking down forward or jerking back and forth. The -two _ladinos_ raced beneath a post oak branch so low it scraped hide -off their backs, and Crawford expected to see Quartel rein violently -around it. But the Mexican merely swung one leg off and hung down the -side of his horse like an Indian, his thick right arm hooked over the -_pelicano's_ neck. The oak branch knocked Quartel's sombrero off his -head--he would have lost it but for the tie-thong--and tore at the -cantle of the saddle so violently the whole rigging shrieked. There was -a great mass of thorny junco just beyond the tree, growing as high as -the _pelicano's_ head, and a less skillful man would have been ripped -to bloody shreds before he got back onto the saddle. Crawford could -hear Quartel's violent grunt and thought sure the man was swinging up -too soon and would be knocked back down by that branch. But Quartel had -gauged it to a nicety. His spasmodic lurch upward took him back into -the saddle just in time. The junco merely scraped his left leg as he -thundered by. - -"Hola," he shouted wildly, "hola, you crazy _cimarrónes_, I'm right on -your tail, hola!" - -Something within Crawford rebelled as he neared that spot Quartel had -passed through. He felt his hands tugging on the reins, and the sorrel -lost all its collection, thrown off balance as it tried to pull out of -its mad gallop into a trot. Crawford was panting in a heavy, frustrated -way as he shifted through the spot beneath the post oak branch and past -the junco bush. And now it was strong enough in him to have a palpable -grip, like a great hand squeezing his vitals. The first action had been -violent enough to carry him along with it, but now that was over, and -slowing like that had been the final error. - -The muscles across his stomach were knotting with nervous tension, and -his legs quivered against the side of the sorrel. He leaned forward, -and the horse gathered itself to break into a gallop ahead. But somehow -he could not move his feet against the animal's side. Somehow his hands -would not relax their hold on the reins. - -"What's the matter, Crawford?" - -It was Bueno Bailey, tearing in from behind, and Crawford realized -he had been sobbing to himself, huddled over his horse that way. -"Nothing, damn you, nothing," he shouted and booted the sorrel so hard -it whinnied in surprise and pain, rearing up and then bolting headlong -after Quartel. Crawford had one more glimpse of the Mexican before he -disappeared from sight, chousing after those two animals. A malignant -branch of chaparral reached out for Quartel's head, and he dodged that -and then swayed back the other way in time to miss being blinded by a -clump of mesquite berries. Then he reined his horse around a growth of -prickly pear and swung down off the flank as the animal burst through a -last dense growth of chaparral with branches so low the _ladinos_ had -found trouble going through, and then he was out of sight. - -_Keep your eyes open, keep your eyes open._ It kept spinning through -Crawford's head like that, the fundamental dictum of brush-popping. If -a man closed his eyes once he was lost. Crawford had seen more than one -hand knocked from his horse because a branch appearing suddenly out of -nowhere had caused him to shut his eyes and dodge blindly. - -The sorrel was going at a frenzied, headlong pace now, caught up in -the wild excitement of the chase, with the drumming pound of Bueno -Bailey's dun off to the flank and the deafening crash of mesquite and -chaparral echoing about them. All he could do was dodge and duck. He -found himself gripping the horn with one white-knuckled hand. Cursing -bitterly, he tore it off, jerking violently aside just in time to miss -being raked by a thick mat of mesquite. And all the time it was going -through him, _keep your eyes open_, and he couldn't. - -A branch of chaparro _prieto_ loomed before his face and he jerked -aside and blackness blotted out sight. He heard someone yelling and did -not know it was himself till he had opened his eyes again. It could not -have been from pain because he had missed the chaparro. But the instant -he opened his eyes, leaning off to one side that way, junco and retama -were clawing at his face. With his eyes open he would have been able to -see them in time to dodge. As it was, the myriad claws of the allthorn -raked his flesh like the stroke of a jaguar's paw. Again his eyes -clamped shut, and he tore himself out of the tangle. If it had been a -post oak it would have knocked him off. - -He did not know whether the screams were inside his head now or whether -he actually voiced them. He felt his hands jerking desperately on the -reins, but the sorrel was running wild, and he had lost control of the -horse as well as himself. He was swept with violent, spasmodic waves of -virulent anger at himself and pain that grew more knifing each time it -struck from his loins and fear that turned his mind to a kaleidoscope -of uncontrolled sensations. He was clinging with both hands to the horn -now, his eyes closed, sobbing and screaming. The sorrel sideswiped -a post oak. A low branch knocked Crawford backward with the blow. -He reeled back to an upright position, swimming in a stunned agony. -Somewhere, dimly, in what was left of his consciousness he realized -there was only one thing to do. If he tried to keep on the horse any -longer this way he would be battered into pulp. Yet, knowing it, there -was no will left in him to act. Even that swift thought of it caused a -new spasm of awful fear. - -Reeling, swaying, his eyes clamped shut, his ducking jacket ripped -and torn, he rode on madly through the thicket. He crashed through a -mesquite thicket, and the brush clawed his cheeks to shreds. Chaparral -beat him aside time and time again. His screams were hoarse and -incoherent now, hardly human. The lathered, frothing wild-eyed horse -was in a frenzy, its hoofs drumming the ground in a dim tattoo beneath -the deafening, incessant crash of brush. Then that last blow caught -him, square across the belly. It must have been a low branch. His -desperate grip was torn from the saddle horn, and he was swept over -the cantle and off the sorrel's rump, doubled over. He had one lucid -thought before his head struck the ground, blotting out all thought. - -Huerta was right! - - - - - _Chapter Four_ - - UNREASONING FEAR - - -Dusk held its own singular aspect. There was something hushed about the -brush at this time. Not the dead oppressive silence of noon. There were -many small sounds, but the bizarre, velvety clutch of twilight seemed -to subdue them. A hooty owl called tentatively from a hackberry down in -some yonder draw. An invisible jack rabbit made a dim, staccato thump -hopping through a distant clearing, then halted. Nearer by a lizard -rustled sibilantly through the foot-deep layer of decaying brush, which -for eons had been dropping from the bushes to pile up on the ground. - -It was these sounds, one by one, which impinged on Glenn Crawford's -consciousness. Then the fetid odor of the mold beneath him. His face -felt stiff and painful. It caused him a great effort to reach up to his -cheek. The rips and tears made great gaps in his beard and his whole -face was covered with dried blood. Finally he sat up, shaking his head -dully. Three hours? Four hours? What time had it been? It was hard to -think. He shook his head again. Early afternoon anyway. And this was-- - -That brought him up straight. They hadn't found him? It was strange. -It was wrong, somehow. They hadn't found him. Wrong. They were better -trackers than that. All of them. If Quartel could ride like that he -could track like that. - -He got up with great difficulty and fell down again. His head was -spinning. When he got to his knees once more, the shreds of his ducking -jacket bound his arms, and when he fell that second time, he went full -on his face, unable to get his hands in front of him. In a fit of -anger he tore the remains of the jacket off. The third time he managed -to remain upright. As he stood there, the first thought of the horse -came to him. He felt that pain begin in his loins. Just the thought of -it! - -With a sobbing curse he broke into a stumbling run at the first thicket -of brush. He halted himself before he had reached the _mogote_. He -was breathing heavily and his lips were pinched. He held out his -hand before him. It shook visibly. He closed his eyes a moment, face -twisted. Then he took a deep breath and opened them again, staring -about the clearing. There was a great torn place in one thicket on the -other side. He moved over there at a deliberate walk. The hole in the -brush was big enough to walk through; beyond that was another open -patch and then a second small thicket torn asunder by the passage of a -heavy body. It was full night by the time he found the sorrel that way, -following the trail it had made bursting through the brush. The animal -stood in a clearing, head hanging wearily, dried lather forming dirty -yellow patterns on its freshly scarred hide. - -Crawford was about to step into the open when he caught himself. There -was a dim rustling in the brush to his left. His face turned that way -sharply. The noise ceased after a moment. He shook his head and went -out to get the horse. - -"Stand still, you crazy fool," he said, "stand still now, I'm not going -to hurt you, just stand still, that's it, hold it." - -The animal had started to shift away, but his soothing voice quieted -it. He moved in close and ran his hand reassuringly along its rump -and down its side. Then, as he stood with his face toward it that -way, close enough so that the heat of its body reached his belly, it -began to come again. That insidious, stirring, prickling sensation -deep in his loins. That hollow sickness growing in his stomach till it -approached nausea; the sweat breaking out on his face and beneath his -armpits. - -The curse had a strangled sound in his throat, as he bent to get the -trailing reins. He wouldn't walk back to the spread. No matter what -else, he wouldn't give them that satisfaction. He stopped, with his -hand not yet touching the end of the reins. Even in the dark, bending -over like that, he could see the footprints. The sorrel's hoofs had -made their dim impression all over the decaying vegetation covering -the gound. But here and there, where the horse had not blotted it out, -was a smaller, deeper imprint, like that of a boot heel. He remained -stooped over it for a moment that way. Then, slowly, he started to lift -the reins. They were caught on something. He reached down and found -the ends tied about a long stake of wood embedded deeply beneath the -rotting brush. - -Crawford slipped the reins off the stick and rose beside the horse. -Slowly he put his weight against its neck. His breath had a small, -swift sound. The horse gradually shifted around under that pressure -until it stood broadside between Crawford and the direction that small -rustling had come from when he first entered the thicket. - -"Now." He spoke to the horse softly, sliding his hands up the reins -till they were directly beneath the bit, and pulling gently forward. -"Let's go. Let's go. Take it easy. Let's go." - -The animal moved toward the fringe of brush surrounding the clearing. -Crawford walked close in by its side, tugging incessantly forward on -the reins, talking in that soft low tone. The animal's hoofs crackled -in the brush underfoot. It snorted once, pulling peevishly at his tight -grip on the shanks of the bit. He twisted them upward slightly and the -horse responded to the bit against its roof, quieting. They had almost -reached the edge of the _mogote_ when the shot crashed. - -The horse was jerked over against Crawford by the force of the bullet -going through its body. Then it reared into the air, screaming. -Desperately Crawford tried to retain his hold on the reins, yanking -the horse on ahead, throwing the whole weight of his body into it. -He managed to fight the plunging, rearing animal a couple more steps -toward the brush. Then the beast's violent spasms tore his grip loose -of the reins. With the animal still forming a shield in that last -instant, he threw himself in a headlong dive for the thicket. Another -shot roared behind him, and the horse screamed again, and then Crawford -was rolling into the crackling, tearing mesquite thicket. He came to -his feet, pawing a cluster of berries out of his face, and plunged -blindly on into the _mogote_. - -For a long, blind run, the only sound was that incessant deafening -crash of brush all about him. He burst through that first thicket -and crossed a game trail and clattered into another _mogote_. Black -chaparral this time, and stabbing junco and maddening prickly pear. -Then an open patch. And another _ramadero_. White brush and golden -huisache that filled the air with a vague, viscid odor of honey. Then -that was gone and the spines of the agarita tore at his face. He broke -through the agarita into a game trail that wound its secretive way -through the _mogotes_, and he stumbled down that till it petered out -into more mesquite. Halfway through, the spread of mesquite became -entwined with chaparro _prieto_ and Spanish dagger that met his -every movement with a vicious stab of its dirklike growth. He found -himself fighting a frantic, useless battle to penetrate this thicket -farther; it had brought him to a complete stop and, standing there, -chest heaving, face dripping sweat, he could see that the impenetrable -_mogote_ was on the rim of a draw, and that it grew on down into the -bottom of the draw, choking it full. Even if he could manage to fight -his way through the thicket, he would be exposed, crossing that draw. -The realization came to him in a dim, spasmodic way, with no true -reasoning behind it, for he was still filled with that animal panic. - -He whirled back and fought his way out of the mesquite. And then, -crossing the comparatively open space of the game trail, it came to -him. He stopped there. Tears squeezed from his eyes with the effort -it caused him to control his breath so he could hear more clearly. It -came again, small, distant, yet distinct enough. The faint rattle of -mesquite berries, brushed by a passing body. The soft snap of decaying -vegetation beneath a careless foot. Again it was no reasoning process. -Just a wave of instinctive, animal realization of how he was trapped. -Face twisting with frustrated rage, Crawford backed slowly, almost -involuntarily, across the game trail into the mesquite thicket again. -He moved as far back as he could, upright, and then he got down on his -belly and crawled in until the roots and trunks and foliage became too -thick even for that, and then he stopped. - -His shirt was drenched with sweat and the perspiration dripped into -his eyes, blinding and stinging. Gnats began to float in, attracted -by the sweat and the blood of his scratches. At first he fought them. -He rubbed his palms viciously against his face, mashing the maddening -insects. He slapped wildly, gasping virulent curses. It only seemed to -draw more. With a myriad of the gnats mashed wetly against the cut, -bleeding, stinging, itching flesh of his face, and with a veritable -cloud of them buzzing about his upper body, he put his head at last -into his arms, and a bitter, hoarse sobbing arose mutedly from him. - -At last he stopped even that. He lay there in utter, hopeless defeat. -His crashing passage through the brush had frightened all the small -animals into silence, but now the sounds of them began again. A hooty -owl started to call, somewhere far out in the brush. Then, a coyote -mourning in some distant draw. The singing of a mockingbird that had -stayed awake to welcome the rising moon. The rustle of lizards through -the decay. And that other sound. That desultory, intermittent sound of -someone moving out there. - -A thin scream rang out with terrifying abruptness, jerking Crawford's -head up. He lay that way a moment, up on his hands, rigid, trembling -with strain. Then he lowered himself again. Only an ocelot, somewhere, -out there, a big cat down from the mountains across the Rio maybe. And -now, lying there, with the first awful sense of defeat losing its edge, -the other began to come. They thought they had him? Damn them. Whoever -it was, damn them. The anger grew in him till it struggled with the -defeat. It thickened the blood in his throat till he almost choked. -Had him trapped? The hell. Kill him like that? Without a gun, without -anything. Think he'd just wait? _Try it. Come on, try it. I'm here. Try -it._ - -It was going through his head while he squirmed about beneath the low -overhanging branches of chaparral, scratching his face and hands anew -on barbed nopal and the harsh mesquite. Finally he found a maguey -plant, close to the trail. He had no knife, and he had to tear at it -with his fingers. They were ripped and bleeding by the time he had torn -the first strip of the leathery plant. - -The Mexicans cured the strips in brine and in the sun to supple -it for their ropes. Crawford could do nothing but braid the stiff -lengths together. And all the time, out there, approaching with the -deliberateness of a man knowing the confidence of complete advantage, -those sounds, rising with deadly intermittence over the other sounds. -The soft crunch of a boot heel driving through the layer of rotting -vegetation that covered the ground. The sibilant harshness of mesquite -scraping leather. Crawford worked with swift desperation till he had -a line long enough; then he knotted a hondo into one end and formed -a loop. It took him half a dozen throws across the game trail to snag -one of the low chaparral branches in a _mogote_ over there. Then he -hooked the line beneath a root on the opposite side of the trail so -that it crossed the trail itself on the ground. He moved back into his -own thicket as far as the line would permit. Then it was the waiting. -Working with the rope that way, there had been no time to think. But -now it had begun to come. - -_En la cárcel y en la cama se conocen los amigos._ - -Crawford felt his whole body grow rigid with a palpable jerk. He almost -turned his head to see who had spoken. A muffled sound escaped him as -he realized it had only been in his mind. The _brasada_ could do that -to a man, this way. In bed and in jail we know our friends? Sure. Maybe -it was Aforismo. What did it matter. - -The hooty owl stopped for a while, and there were only small rustlings -in the underbrush. Then the sound again, returning. A sibilant, -crushed, snapping sound. - -_I am a very dangerous man, Crawford._ - -This time he did not stiffen. It jumped through his brain so vividly he -could have sworn it was spoken. Yet he did not stiffen. All right. So -maybe it was Whitehead. All right. - -Moonlight spilled through his thicket suddenly, and he realized how -long he had lain there. The rising moon made skeletal monsters of the -chaparral bushes across the yellow river of the game trail, only adding -to the haunted tension filling Crawford. Thoughts moved uncontrollably -through his head now. - -_Please, no violence. I was born for laughter and wassail and song--_ - -No. Not Jacinto. Anybody else. Even Wallace Tarant. But not big, fat, -grumbling Hyacinth of the River. The gnats had found Crawford again. -He dared not move as they buzzed fitfully about his face, stinging, -maddening. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Then he opened them -again. That would not do. - -He thought he would go crazy. His hands twitched with the impulse to -slap at them. His body cried out for movement to escape their insane -buzzing. Each sting made him jerk spasmodically. - -_Bueno--_ - -Sure, Bailey. Sure. Crawford could imagine Bailey doing that sort of -thing. All right, Bailey. Come on, Bailey. Let's get it over with, -Bailey. - -He tried to stop thinking like that. There were so many possibilities. -He tried to stop considering them. A man could go loco that way. He -could go loco and jump right up out of the thicket and run screaming -down the game trail right into the arms of that bushwhacker, whoever it -was. A man could go loco anyway. The ocelot screamed out there again, -filling the night with a thin feral madness. It was all madness. The -gnats and the screaming cat and the howling coyote and the crackling -mesquite and the thoughts Crawford couldn't stop whirling faster and -faster through his head till he wanted to beat it against the ground. - -_You'll excuse me. An old complaint._ - -Huerta? Sure, why not? It could be him. It could be any of them. - -_I knew a Ranger once that pinned it to his undershirt._ - -Yeah. Even Quartel. The ocelot or Quartel or the hooty owl or any of -them. - -He lay there, wanting to cry, his fists clenched around the rope till -they hurt, his eyes squeezed tight with the terrible effort he made to -control himself. Finally he opened them again, staring down the trail. -It would be getting him, too, out there. If it was getting Crawford -it would get the other man just as much. The _brasada_. That's what -it was. The _brasada_. Enough to drive any man loco like this. And it -would be getting him, too, out there. - -The ocelot screamed. Crawford's lips pulled off his teeth in a wolfish -grin. That get you, Bailey? That get you, Whitehead? Like it got me? -The hooty owl began to talk. Crawford's grin spread. That get you? -Huerta? Sort of scary, isn't it? Jacinto? Stop maybe, and look around. -Sweat maybe. Like me. Aforismo? Sure. Sure it got them. They were as -nervous as hell. Whoever it was, he was as nervous as hell. Crawford -wanted to laugh suddenly. He was bathed suddenly in a cold sweat. Then -heat flooded up from his loins. It was like a fever. - -Or was it the waiting? Or the _brasada_. Sure, the _brasada_. He'd felt -this way before out in it. At night. Not so much, maybe. But then he -hadn't been waiting for a man with a gun to come and kill him either. - -The decay was damp from his sweat beneath his belly and legs. His -eyes ached from peering into the brush all about him. The gnats kept -clouding his vision. But now the man was closer. Each minute sibilance -crashed through Crawford's head like thunder. He could tell when the -man's clothing brushed a clump of mesquite berries and knocked some to -the ground. There was a peculiar rattling quality to that. He could -tell when the man stepped on a prickly pear. It had a squashing sound. -And when he shoved aside some chaparral. That held a hollow thump. And -pulled aside some huisache. Sighing, like the wind. - -_I'm a very dangerous man, Crawford._ Sure. Sure you are, Whitehead. -Come on. I'll show you who's dangerous. I knew a man once who pinned -it to his undershirt. All right. One more time, Quartel. One more -time around and I'll show you who's dangerous. Made for laughter and -wassail and song? Come on. I'm waiting. An old complaint? You'll have a -complaint, Huerta. In bed and in jail-- - -Then it was the shadowy figure moving out of the darkness down the -trail, and Crawford yanked on the maguey and it slipped off the branch -and the branch snapped up with a soft crackle and caused the figure to -whirl that way, his gun crashing, his back toward the thicket in which -Crawford lay. - -"Maybe you're a dangerous man," screamed Crawford in a terrible -release, leaping to his feet and throwing himself bodily at the man, -who was still firing wildly into the opposite thicket, "but this is one -bronc you'll wish to hell you never climbed on." - - - - - _Chapter Five_ - - HUERTA MAKES A PROPOSITION - - -At dawn, it was the birds, mostly, during the spring months, like -this. They filled the dim undulations of brush with a constant, shrill -twittering. Bobwhites shrieked from a draw full of white brush, and -blue quail cooed beneath the _cejas_ of green brazil, and turkeys -gobbled down in a dry creek bed where they were fattening on elm mast. - -Through all this treble cacophony, Glenn Crawford walked heavily up -the road leading the shaggy black cow pony. It was Jacinto who saw him -first. Though the sun had not yet risen, smoke curled from the kitchen, -and the gross Mexican was just outside the door filling the coffeepot -from the water butt. It cost him some effort to straighten up when he -caught sight of Crawford. He stared blankly. Then he dropped the big -coffeepot with a clang and began running his way, grunting as each -foot struck the ground, his short, bandy legs looking as if they would -collapse every time the prodigious weight of his torso descended on -them in a step. - -"_Dios_, Crawford," he shouted. "_Válgame Dios._ What happened? _Que -hace?_ Who is it? Are you all right? What happened?" - -He was halfway to Crawford by the time Aforismo stumbled into view at -the bunkhouse door, pulling bare brown legs into his stiff, greasy -_chivarras_ and blinking sleepily. Someone must have asked him what -it was, for he grunted something over his shoulder and came on out. -Jacinto had reached Crawford by the time he got to the front of the -house, and it was there Crawford halted the horse. The tremendous -Mexican stood with his great belly heaving from the run, staring -blankly at Whitehead. He started to reach out and touch the man, then -dropped his hand. - -"Is--is he--" - -"Yes," said Crawford, watching Aforismo come from the bunkhouse and -Quartel step out the door now, yawning and cursing. The shutter on an -upstairs window clattered against the dilapidated weatherboarding, and -Huerta leaned out to look down a moment. Then he withdrew his head, and -Crawford could hear movement from within his room. Quartel came across -the compound after Aforismo, slipping a dirty cotton shirt over his -head. - -"What happened?" he said. He looked at the body slung across the horse -without much expression in his face. What lay in his eyes was not -apparent till he got closer. They were narrowed, and the pupils held a -strange oblong felinity. - -"_Es muerto_," said Jacinto stupidly. - -"I know he's dead," said Quartel. "What happened?" - -"Out in the brush," said Crawford, watching Quartel. - -The Mexican looked at him, then glanced at the horse. He reached out to -pull the Winchester from beneath the stirrup leather, opening the front -end of the magazine and tilting the gun down. Two copper rim-fires -clinked into his calloused palm. - -"Looks like he did a lot of shooting," said Quartel. - -"He always carried that gun in one hand when he rode," said Jacinto. "I -told him he'd fall and break his neck sometime." - -"Did you?" said Quartel. He was studying Crawford, shaking the two .44 -shells up and down in his closed hand. "You still haven't told us what -happened." - -"His neck's broken," said Jacinto hopefully. - -Quartel allowed his narrowed eyes to observe the odd way Cabezablanca's -head hung, twisted around from the line of his shoulders. "That's what -it looks like. Where did you find him?" - -"Yes," said Doctor Huerta, from the door. "Where did you find him, -Crawford?" - -He had on a gaudy black-and-gold dressing-gown with satin lapels and -slippers of red leather. His face had never looked more dissolute. The -dim light seemed to draw out the singular, jaundiced corruption of his -sallow flesh. His heavy lids were almost closed over his eyes, veined -and pouched, and one of them twitched visibly. He had both hands in -the pockets of his bathrobe, and they were visibly closed into fists. -Merida stood behind him. She had on a house gown of blue cashmere, -evidently donned hurriedly. There was something Indian about her dark, -aquiline face; her black hair hanging long and straight about her -shoulders. - -"I told you," said Crawford. "Out in the brush." - -"You didn't tell me," said Huerta. - -"I told Quartel," said Crawford. - -"He didn't tell me what happened," said Quartel. - -"To Crawford," said Merida, "or Whitehead?" - -"Yes," said Doctor Huerta, moving tiredly across the porch. "What did -happen to you, Crawford?" - -"We ain't interested in that now," said Quartel. "I'd like to know what -happened to Whitehead first." - -"You seemed interested yesterday," said Merida. "You were quite upset -that you had lost Crawford in the brush." - -"What have you got in your hand?" said Huerta. - -"A gun," Quartel told him. - -"Don't be obtuse," said Huerta. "I mean the other hand." - -Quartel opened his fingers. The two shells glinted dully in the growing -light. Somewhere out back of the bunkhouse a rooster crowed. Both -Huerta and Merida looked for a long moment at the two cartridges. -Slowly, Huerta's jaded eyes moved to Crawford, and the heavy, blue -lids were lifted farther open. - -"You say his neck is broken?" Huerta asked nobody in particular. - -"Jacinto said his neck was broken," said Quartel. - -"Well," said the woman impatiently, "is it?" - -Huerta drew a weary breath and came slowly down the sagging steps and -around the horse. "Yes," he nodded, without taking his hands from his -pockets. "Broken." - -"Like in a fall?" That pathetic hope was in Jacinto's voice again. - -Huerta took one of his hands out. His long, pale fingers moved slightly -across Cabezablanca's head and face, sifting the dense white hair and -testing the skull with a professional casualness. "No contusions about -the head or face." - -Huerta was running his forefinger delicately across the back of -Cabezablanca's shirt now, flattening it over the resilient planes of -the man's back. Then he moved around to the other side of the shaggy -horse, tugging at the man's pants legs. "No other wounds either," he -said at last. His head turned slowly till he was looking at Crawford. -Something had begun to dissipate the jaded glaze from those eyes, -something that grew in them as he watched Crawford. He spoke, however, -to Quartel. "How many shots does that Winchester hold?" - -"It's an 1866 with King's improvements," said Quartel. "Thirteen." - -"Oh." It was a soft, hissing intonation. Then Huerta motioned toward -the bunkhouse with the hand he had out. "Better take him down and bury -him out back of the bunkhouse." - -Quartel jerked the Winchester at Crawford. "Let's go." - -"No," said Huerta, putting that hand back in his pocket and walking up -the steps to the porch. "I think Crawford had better stay here at the -house for breakfast. You did such a poor job of keeping tabs on him -yesterday." - -Quartel's face darkened and he took a quick breath before he spoke the -word. "Huerta--" - -"Yes?" said Huerta, turning around at the top of the steps to face -Quartel. He leaned forward slightly, his satanic brows arched upward, -those heavy lids slipping down across his eyes. There was a faint, -inquiring smile on his thin, bloodless lips. For a moment Quartel stood -there staring at him, mouth still open a little. The rooster crowed -again. A chachalaca started scolding his mate out in the thicket. With -an abrupt jerk, Quartel turned to catch up the trailing reins of the -pony and started off toward the bunkhouse in that stiff-legged walk of -his, wooden boot heels thumping in a swift, hard tattoo against the -ground. Aforismo watched him go a moment, scratching his bare stomach -absently. - -"You can't tell a man's been picking tunas just because he has nopal -thorns all over his coat," he said. - - * * * * * - -Crawford's boots made a soft muffled sound across the Aubusson rug of -the living-room. He lowered himself heavily into the Turkish toweling -which upholstered the movable cushions of the willow chairs by the -front windows. For the first time he felt fully the toll the preceding -night had exacted from him. His black beard failed to hide the gaunt, -driven hollows beneath his cheeks, and there was something feverish -in the glow of his eyes. He stared absently about the spacious, cool -room. Rockland had refurnished this chamber not two years ago, and as -many times as Crawford had been in it, he could never get used to such -luxury in this harsh, barren land. Huerta had followed him into the -house, halting in the entrance hall for a word with Merida, and now the -doctor stepped into the living-room, closing the door behind him. He -stood there a moment, studying Crawford. - -"Merida will dress and be down for breakfast," he said, absently. He -moved to the pier table of rich, figured British oak at one side of -the room, opening one of the doors to lift out a cut-glass decanter. -"Perhaps you would like a drink--after what happened, no?" His face -managed to convey the effort the slightest physical exertion seemed to -cause him, as he poured the liquor. Then his red Chinese slippers slid -over the Aubusson's thick nap to Crawford. As he bent forward to hand -Crawford the drink, their glances met. Perhaps it was a trick of the -illumination from the window. The pupils of Huerta's eyes seemed to -dilate and contract and dilate again, small pin points of glittering -light flaring and dying and flaring once more beneath the jet-black -surface. It filled Crawford with a vague dizziness. "Why did you bring -Whitehead back, Crawford?" murmured the doctor. "It seems to me you -were rather in a position to escape, out there." He waited a moment, -but Crawford did not answer. "When you first came, I considered it -necessary to guard you," said Huerta, finally. "Perhaps I was taking -undue precautions. It seems you would have stayed anyway. Why, -Crawford? Do you still maintain you didn't murder Rockland?" - -"That's right." It came from Crawford in a flat defiance. - -"Then the only way you could prove your innocence would be to find who -really did murder Rockland," said Huerta. "Do you think the murderer is -here?" - -"I have no doubt of it," said Crawford. - -"Just what did happen out there?" Huerta said softly, bending toward -Crawford with the liquor. - -Crawford took the drink, downed it neat before answering. "What do you -think?" - -"I think you surprised a lot of people," said Huerta. "And gave them a -different estimation of you than they had possessed before." He leaned -backward slightly. "Why should Whitehead want to kill you?" - -"Who said he did?" - -"I never knew such a secretive man," said Huerta. "You refuse to give -one inch, don't you? Very well. Let us assume that Whitehead wanted to -kill you. Why should he?" - -"Whitehead was Quartel's man?" said Crawford. - -"Quartel is the foreman here," Huerta's agile mind had connected -that even while he spoke, and his head tilted forward in a faint -acquiescence. "All right. Why should Quartel want you killed?" - -"He seemed to think I was a lawman," Crawford muttered. - -"Is that sufficient reason?" - -"You haven't been in the _brasada_ long, have you?" said Crawford. -"It's a good form of suicide for a lawman to show up in here." - -Huerta nodded that way again, studying Crawford. "It is interesting," -he murmured, "to watch it." - -That took Crawford off guard. "What?" - -"The way it works in you," said Huerta. "You're conscious of it all the -time, Crawford, whether in the proximity of horses or not." - -"I don't know what you're talking about," said Crawford, getting up -from the chair with such violence that he pulled one of the rich blue -pillows off with him. He paced across the room in swift, inhibited -strides. Huerta watched him a moment, putting the jade holder languidly -to his lips. He did not smile, but the heavy blue lids, narrowing -across his eyes with a feline torpidity, managed to convey a certain -condescending amusement. His pale, pinched nostrils fluttered, emitting -twin streamers of smoke. - -"Did it ever occur to you," he said, "that the legs might not really be -completely healed?" - -Crawford turned to look at him a moment. "Sure," he said, finally. -"Sure it occurred to me. I went to more than one doctor. They all said -I was okay." - -"It's not like an ordinary fracture, you realize," said Huerta. "Not -like you'd take a stick and snap it, or a leg. Mashed. Not a clean -severance. Crushed, Crawford, like you'd take a handful of meal and -grind it beneath--" - -"All right. Mashed. Crushed. All right." - -Huerta allowed him to finish, then inclined his head apologetically. -"It does things to the nerves. Physically, I mean. They get crushed -too. Displaced. Pinched. All manner of derangement. Your bones may -knit--the flesh, the skin. But the nerves. That's different. It would, -ah, take a man skilled in that type of work, now, a man with experience -in such things--" - -"You've had a vast experience, I suppose." - -Huerta shrugged. "Why don't you let me look at them. Maybe we do you an -injustice. Perhaps you have sound reason for feeling the pain." - -Crawford studied the man's dissolute face, trying to read what lay -in the ironic twist of the lips, the narrow occultation of the eyes, -wondering if this was just another variation in the game. Yet, the -possibility of sincerity-- - -"Shall we go into the kitchen?" said Huerta. "The parlor is not exactly -the place for such an examination." - -Crawford knew a hesitation. Then, with a decisive abruptness he -turned out into the entrance way and down the hall past the stairs. -The fireplace was of stone rather than the adobe found in the Mexican -dwellings; it ran almost the length of one wall. Jacinto had left a -pot of soup simmering over one of the smaller pot fires to one side of -the main spit. There was a plain Gothic dining-set, and Huerta pulled -one of the butternut chairs from beneath the bare table, indicating -that Crawford should remove his pants. That wary inhibition was in -Crawford's movements. - -"You might sit on the table," said Huerta. When Crawford was seated, -the doctor moved closer and bent slightly, reaching out one pale -hand. It was like a woman's hand, satiny, boneless. "Can't you relax, -Crawford? What's the matter? Feel any pain?" - -Crawford stared in a strange fascination at the slender, spatulated -fingers spidering his hairy calves. "No. No pain." - -"Then why so stiff?" Huerta pressed a spot just below his knee. The -strength of his grip was surprising. Then, still holding the kneecap -between thumb and forefinger, he looked up. It was the same thing, -again, those eyes. The pupils took on an oblique felinity, and the -odd little lights flaring beneath the surface. And he began to talk, -in that soft, bored, insinuating tone. "Nerve ends, you understand. -Pressures. As I said, deranged. Nucleus. So on. Hm? Pain?" - -"No--no--" - -Perhaps it was the gusty vehemence in Crawford's voice which caused -Huerta to look up. For a moment their glances met. Huerta's pupils -seemed to dilate slightly. _Sure_, thought Crawford, _go ahead, make -it good_, and he tried to feel the sarcasm, but somehow he couldn't, -because the effect of those eyes was real, distinct, eerie. - -"No pain? - -"No. No pain. No!" - -Those eyes again. Contracting. Little lights flaring and dying. Just -for an instant. The probing fingers. That sibilant, insistent voice. - -"Here, perhaps? The flesh looks rather badly healed. Feel that? Pain?" - -"No!" - -"Take it easy, Crawford. I'm trying to help. Here?" - -"No. I told you. I don't feel pain, damn it, I told you--" - -"Here then. Pain?" - -"No--" - -"Here?" - -"No, damn you, no, I--" - -"Pain?" Huerta's head raised abruptly. "What's the matter, Crawford?" - -Crawford stood where he had stepped off the table, pulling on his faded -old levis with swift, tense jerks. "Nothing. Forget it." - -Huerta leaned back against the table, studying Crawford through the -twin streamers of smoke he emitted. "Why does it disturb you so much, -Crawford, if you feel no pain?" he asked softly. - -Crawford stood there facing him, breathing heavily. "What are you -trying to do, Huerta?" - -"Give you, shall we say, an illustration," said Huerta. "Don't you -think I know what is the matter with you, Crawford? Ever since I first -saw you watching Africano out in the corral. Perhaps the others are -still groping. They sense something not quite right in you, Crawford. -But they don't know for sure, yet. I know, Crawford." He said the last -softly, positively, watching Crawford. He took a drag on the cigarette. -"It must be a terrible thing to live with constantly. It makes two -personalities out of you, really, Crawford. In these flashes of bitter -defiance, I see what you must have been before. The strength. The -courage. But the other is always there, isn't it, working beneath, -stirring in you, weakening you, tearing at you. The pain that comes -whenever you get near a horse. And the fear, Crawford. And more and -more, not just when you're near a horse. All the time. That lack of -confidence, that constant indecision. It won't lessen. It will grow, -Crawford, until you are that way completely, until these flashes -of your former self cease to come. I told you about that miner in -Monterrey--" - -"You told me!" Crawford choked off the shout, staring sullenly at -Huerta. He spoke finally, again, controlling it with hoarse effort. -"Think I don't know." - -"You _do_ know," said Huerta. "However, it is not hopeless. For most -diseases, there is a cure, even for those of the mind. Doctors are only -human beings. They can only cure what they have the knowledge to cure. -If the men you went to were not experienced in this type of thing, it -does not mean there is no hope." - -"Are you suggesting--that you--" - -"Why not?" shrugged Huerta. "I've had experience in such cases. Is it -inconceivable to you?" - -"Why?" said Crawford. - -Huerta studied his cigarette. "I don't quite understand." - -"I mean why should you do it," said Crawford. - -"I am no altruist," said Huerta. "A doctor usually gets paid." - -"You know I haven't got any money," Crawford said. Huerta did not -answer, leaning against the table and studying Crawford through -narrowed eyes. "You're offering me some kind of proposition?" Crawford -asked him. - -"You might call it that," said Huerta. "As I said before, we think your -quarrel with Rockland was over more than the way he acquired Delcazar's -land." - -"Was it?" - -"You know what I mean," said Huerta. - -"Maybe I haven't got what you want." - -"I think you have," said Huerta. - -"Have you got a license?" said Crawford. - -It was the first time he had ever seen Huerta taken off guard. There -was no change of expression in the doctor's face. Just that moment's -hesitation. It was enough to give Crawford a certain satisfaction. - -"License?" - -"M.D.," said Crawford. "Every doctor I've seen had it pinned on his -wall. Two or three, some of them. How about yours?" - -Huerta drew a heavy breath. "I won't dignify that with an answer." - -"I didn't think so," said Crawford. "That's one reason I won't take -your proposition. I don't think you could cure me of the stomach-ache. -I don't think you're a doctor. I don't think you ever were." - -"My dear fellow, I spent fourteen years in the Mexican army--" - -"So did a lot of butchers. If you operated on anybody, I'll bet a pink -cow to a blind hoot owl it was with a machete right up in the ranks." - -"Crawford, my medical reputation has never been ques--" It had come out -of Huerta involuntarily, and he stopped himself with a distinct effort. -He stood there a moment, the anger flushing his sallow face dully as -he must have realized how far he had let himself go. Deliberately, he -allowed himself to settle back against the table. He closed his eyes -when he took a drag on the cigarette, did not open them as he exhaled, -and spoke. "Let us consider the negative side of my proposition, then. -Your condition can be used against you, Crawford. You could be driven -quite mad. Not obvious crudities. Not the type of thing Quartel would -use. Not making you ride a horse or letting you watch Africano. Not -anything as simple to get away from. Merely suggestion, Crawford. Your -mind will do the rest. Little things. Insidious things. - -"Like the story of a miner who got crushed in a cave-in down at -Monterrey. Did that stay with you a long time, Crawford? At night, -perhaps, you'd wake up. Remembering. Wondering. Innuendoes, Crawford. -Insinuations. Things for the mind to retain and savor. Because it -_is_ your mind. I showed you that with the examination. It isn't your -legs. That doesn't give you the fear. It's what a man could work with, -Crawford, a doctor, who knew every stimulus, every reaction." He took -the butt of his cigarette from the jade holder, tossing it absently -into the fireplace. Then, still watching the holder, he spoke again, -sibilantly. "Do you doubt my ability to do it, Crawford, if necessary?" - -Crawford had been watching the doctor with a taut, bleak expression on -his gaunt face, and he answered in a hollow, resigned way. "No." - -"Then perhaps you will reconsider my proposition." - -"No," said Crawford, in that same hollow tone. - -Huerta reached beneath his coat for his silver cigarette case, taking a -smoke from this to fit it in the holder. He did not raise his eyes to -Crawford again as he moved across the room toward the door. He pulled -open the portal, and only then, turning toward Crawford, did his glance -rise. Again Crawford was swept with that strange, hypnotic dizziness, -as he stared into the man's eyes. It struck him as childishly -melodramatic, and he wanted to laugh, and could not. - -"I think you will regret coming back this morning," said Huerta, in a -barely audible voice, before he turned to go out. "I think you will -regret it exceedingly." - - - - - _Chapter Six_ - - "TELL US WHAT HAPPENED." - - -An adobe banco ran down one side of the cookshack on the inside, -forming a bench, and it was upon this that Jacinto had deposited his -generous bulk. He was bent in childish concentration over a block of -wax from which he carefully peeled thin strips, depositing these with -much care into a clay bowl. Small, intimate mutters rumbled up from him -with each process. - -"Ah, so," he mumbled, slicing off a piece, "ah _sí_," and sliced off -another, and then jumped erect in startled surprise, dropping the block -of wax. "Ah, Crawford!" - -Crawford stepped on in through the door, sniffing. "Smells like -bayberry." - -"How--how did you get out?" quavered Jacinto, grunting painfully with -the effort it cost him to stoop over and retrieve the wax. - -"Nobody stopped me," said Crawford. "They gave me that upstairs -bedroom, but I couldn't sleep." - -"You better not come in here, Crawford," said the gross cook. "Maybe -they're not watching you like they did, but you better get out of here. -Why do you think Huerta kept you up at the house this morning? Didn't -you see how Quartel looked at you? You're just lucky he didn't get you -down here." - -There was a dish of cracklings on the table, and Crawford took one, -pulling a three-legged stool out to sit on it. "Quartel and the others -are out chousing cattle. Making candles?" - -"_Sí_," mumbled Jacinto, lowering himself back on the bench. "Nobody -can make them like me. That was bayberry you smelled all right. I -didn't have enough sheep tallow. First I make it into blocks and then -cut it into small scraps so it melts quick without burning. I put the -wax in hot water and scoop the grease off as it comes to the top. Then -I strain it through a horsehair cloth to remove whatever dirt I missed -in skimming. I am now heating the wax to pour in the molds. Did you -ever see such fine molds? My father owned that brass one in El Paso. It -holds two dozen candles at one pouring. If you came here to find out -what's going on, I can't tell you." - -The abrupt transition brought Crawford's head up in surprise. Jacinto -set the mold end up in a dishpan, chuckling. - -"I am not as stupid as I am corpulent, Crawford. You didn't come here -just to eat my cracklings." His great bloodshot eyes slid upward in -their pouches till they met Crawford's. "But I can't tell you anything, -Crawford. I know something is going on. Huerta and that woman. -Something not quite right. Tarant too, somehow. Maybe you can tell me." - -"Hyacinth, what did you think of that story about Santa Anna's chests?" - -"I--Santa Maria, that wax is hot." Jacinto sat shaking his finger a -moment. Then he put it into his mouth. "If Santa Anna lost some chests -up here, I guess he lost them, that's all. Mm, you ought to taste that -bayberry. I think I'll season my _chiles rollenos_ with it some time." - -"You heard the one about the map?" said Crawford. - -"The _derrotero_? _Sí_, I guess there was supposed to be a map. Isn't -there always, with something like that?" - -"Ever stop to think of Santa Anna's full name?" - -"_Ciertamente._ Everybody knows it. Antonio Lopez de San--" Jacinto -stopped, staring at Crawford. Wax dripped from the tin ladle onto the -floor. Crawford popped a last crackling into his mouth. - -"Would that give her a connection?" he said. - -"Lopez is a common name," said Jacinto, almost defensively. - -"A woman like that don't trail through this kind of country just for -the scenery," said Crawford. He closed his eyes, rolling the name -meditatively off his tongue. "Merida Lopez." - -It must have been about then the first sound floated in from outside, -the creak of saddle leather, a man's hoarse cough. Jacinto jumped -across the room, jerking Crawford up out of the chair. "They're back, -Crawford, you got to go, you got to get out of here, if Quartel ever -gets you alone after Whitehead, he'll--" - -He stopped shoving Crawford toward the doorway, and his voice faded -into a series of small, choked sounds. Aforismo stood there, sweat -streaking the dust in his smooth brown face, holding a belduque in his -hands. - -"_El amante fiel_," he said, running his finger down the keen edge, -"the Loyal Lover. Did you ever see my knife, Crawford? Truly a -remarkable weapon. Handed down in my family for generations. The hilt -was once studded with precious stones, but they have long since been -picked out by various members of my illustrious house who were in -temporary financial destitution." He took a shuffling step toward them. -"Look at the _bravos_ on the blade. See this one. _Nothing compares -with my kiss._ Isn't that a delectable motto?" - -Jacinto shrank back, staring in fascinated horror at the words cut into -that side of the gleaming blade. Through the dog-run, Crawford could -hear the thump of a chair in the bunkhouse, the clatter of spoons on -the table. - -"Please, Aforismo, please," quavered Jacinto. "Let him go. _Madre de -Dios!_ let him go out the door before they find him in here. You know -what will happen. Quartel would--" - -"And this one," Aforismo said, turning the blade over and pointing -to another motto cut into that side. "This is my favorite _bravo_ I -think. _Tripe is sweet but bowels are better._ Don't you like that -one, Jacinto?" He took another shuffling step toward them with the -point almost touching Crawford's belly. "Don't you like that _bravo_, -Crawford? Tell me you like it. It is my favorite, I think." - -"Please, please." Jacinto was cringing behind Crawford, wringing his -hands, sweat dribbling down his coarse face. "_En el nombre de Dios_, -Aforismo, let him go, he never did anything to you, he never harmed one -little hair of your head, I hate violence so, oh, I do hate violence -so, my father he always tell me there are two sins in the world, work -and fighting, and--oh, _por Dios_, Aforismo, _Santa Maria, nombre de mi -madre_, let him go, let him go--" - -"They say down in Durango a coyote always howls loudest in the trap," -said Aforismo, nudging Crawford gently back with that needle point. -"I think maybe we better all go in the bunkhouse, eh? The hands are -getting hungry. Tripe is sweet but bowels are better, eh?" Crawford -did not step back quickly enough, and that needle point went through -his shirt with a soft ripping sound. The stinging bite of steel in the -hard muscle of his belly caused his move back to be involuntary. His -breath left him in a hoarse gust and he bent forward with the impulse -driving through him. That was as far as it went. Aforismo's boots made -that bland shuffle on the hard-packed earth, moving forward. His face -twisted with frustrated anger, Crawford shifted back into the dog-run, -shoving the cringing cook behind him. - -"_Dios_, Aforismo, _por Dios_, no violence, please, I could not stand -the sight of blood, it would make me regurgitate, please--" - -Jacinto knocked over a chair backing from the dog-run into the -bunkhouse. It made a loud clatter. Then Crawford was in the bunkhouse, -still bent forward that way, his breath coming out harsh and swift, -and he could see them. Bueno Bailey was seated at the table. - -"I was just showing Crawford the _bravos_ on my belduque," said -Aforismo. "In Durango they say it is an ignorant man who cannot tell -his sons at least one _bravo_." - -"_Bueno._" Bailey trailed the word out in a pleased, nasal twang, -shoving the bench back from the table. "Siddown, Crawford. We was just -about to eat." - -"I guess you never met Ford Innes, did you, Crawford," said Quartel. -"This is Crawford, Ford. He is the one who brought your _amigo_ back -this morning." - -The redheaded man in the doorway emitted a flat, harsh grunt. He must -have just stepped in, for he held his saddle under one arm. The short, -square lines of his body held all the lethal threat of a snub-nosed -derringer. He had a flat-topped hat set squarely on his head. The -bottom of his red beard was dirty from rubbing against the grease daubs -on the chest of a buckskin ducking jacket with square tails that hung -outside his _chivarras_ and which were caught up on one side by the -wooden handle of his Remington. - -"Ford just got back from taking Wallace Tarant into San Antonio," said -Quartel. "As many times as that shyster's been back and forth between -here and town, he still can't find his way through the brush himself." - -The leather rigging clattered against the hard earthen floor when Innes -dropped his pack. His bushy bleached brows formed a reddish dominance -above shrewd little eyes that had not left Crawford's face since he -entered. He moved over and sat down across from Bailey. - -"So you brought Whitehead back." His voice held the same lack of -intonation as his grunt. - -"Ford had been Whitehead's saddle mate for a long time," said Quartel. -"I guess he'd like to know how it happened to Whitehead." - -"Get us some grub, Jacinto," said Aforismo. With his belduque he -indicated a place beside Bailey. "An empty seat there, Crawford. Sit -down." - -Crawford looked at the knife. He sat down. - -The table groaned as Aforismo lowered himself onto it and put his -feet on the bench, running a finger up and down his belduque. Ford -Innes began playing with his spoon on the table. Jacinto came from the -dog-run with a dish of beans. He fumbled the plate at the last moment -and almost tipped it onto the table. His fat jowls were trembling with -his chin. - -"Please, please, let's not have any--" - -"So Whitehead broke his neck out in the thicket," said Innes. - -"Have some beans, Glenn," said Bailey, ladling them onto a plate he had -shoved before Crawford. - -"They call them _nacionales_ down in Durango, because so many Mexicans -eat them," said Aforismo. "It is said of one who is weak that he lacks -_nacionales_." - -"How did it happen to Whitehead?" said Innes. - -"We don't know," said Bailey, helping the man to beans. "Crawford just -brought him back over his horse with his neck broke and said he found -him out in the brush that way." - -"How did it happen?" Innes asked Crawford. - -"There was eleven shots gone from Whitehead's carbine," said Quartel. - -Innes began eating in a slow, mechanical way, his jaws working steadily -beneath his red beard, looking at Crawford. "Where's your iron?" - -"Whitehead took away Crawford's rifle when he first came," said -Aforismo. - -Innes's bleached eyebrows raised, and he ceased chewing for a moment. -Quartel was standing behind Crawford to one side, and Crawford caught -the sly grin spreading the man's pawky lips. - -"There was no other marks on Whitehead's body," Quartel said. - -"Well," said Innes, still looking at Crawford that way. Finally he went -back to spooning up the beans, his eyes never leaving Crawford's face. -"What happened?" he said again, around a mouthful. - -"Yeah." Bailey nudged Crawford on the shoulder with his spoon. "What -happened?" - -Crawford could hear his own breathing now. It held a harsh, driven -sound. He looked from Innes to Bailey, from Bailey to Quartel, from -Quartel to Aforismo. There was a patent brutal intent in all their -faces. He was hunched over so far now the heat of the beans in his -plate penetrated his shirt and warmed his chest. - -"Where's the sorrel?" said Bailey. - -"What sorrel?" said Innes. - -"The horse he took out," said Quartel. "He never brought him back." - -"Coffee?" It was Jacinto again, waddling in with a big pot. He set it -down, looking around at the men. He wrung his great fat hands together, -speaking in a small, strained voice. "Please, _señores_, please. -Violence. I cannot stand it. You won't do this. Tell me you won't do -this. My father, he say--" - -Aforismo turned toward him, lifting the belduque. "Would you like my -Loyal Lover to see inside the sack?" - -"No." Jacinto backed out, lugubrious tears forming at the corners of -his eyes. "No, _lástima de Dios_, tears of God, no--" - -"You ain't told us what happened yet," said Innes, still eating. - -"Yeah." Quartel shoved Crawford from behind. "How did you lose the -sorrel? You could ride any horse I could, remember?" - -Crawford's hands were clasped desperately between his knees. There was -a taut, set expression to his features. Sweat had begun trickling down -his cheeks into his beard. His whole body was trembling. - -"So you brought Whitehead in with a broken neck," said Innes. - -"Yeah." Bueno poked Crawford with the spoon again. "How did it get -broke?" - -"Yeah." Aforismo pricked him from the other side with the knife. "What -happened?" - -"How did it get broke?" - -"How did you lose the sorrel?" - -"What happened?" - -Crawford jerked away as Aforismo bent forward with that belduque again. -It carried him against Bueno, sitting on his other side. Bueno pushed -him back roughly. Quartel shoved him from behind so hard his chest -struck the table. A small, strangled sound escaped him. - -"Tell us what happened." - -"_Sí_, tell us, Crawford." - -"What happened, Crawford?" - -"Talk, damn you." Bueno's shove was harder. - -"Tell us, Crawford." The knife prick was deeper. He jerked away from -it. Bailey caught him and shoved him back brutally. He made a spasmodic -effort to rise. Quartel put both hands on his shoulders and forced him -back down. He tried to twist around. Aforismo's belduque was in his -face. He jerked back the other way into Bailey. His hands knotted and -writhed between his knees underneath the table. His whole body was -shuddering now. - -"Where's the sorrel?" - -"How'd he break his neck?" - -"Talk, damn you!" - -"Tell us, Crawford." - -"What happened?" - -"Gentlemen!" It came from the doorway, and it stopped them abruptly. -Huerta stood there, bent forward slightly, and those bluish lids were -almost closed over his eyes. - -"I think we all know what happened to Whitehead," he said, "don't you?" -He stood there a moment, but no one answered. He dropped his eyes to -the jade cigarette holder he held in one hand, tapping it to knock the -ash from the cigarette, and still looking down that way, spoke again. -"I think it would be wise, now, Crawford, for you to come with me, up -to the house, don't you?" - - - - - _Chapter Seven_ - - SUNDAY CELEBRATION - - -It was the odor at first. Crawford lay there, staring up at the -ceiling, groping up through the remnants of a sleep so heavy it left -him filled with an oppressive nausea. The hangings had been removed -from the bed and the four reeded mahogany posts reached up through the -semi-gloom to support the bare tester frame above him. He realized -where he was, then. Huerta had stopped them? Yes, Huerta had stopped -them last night, and brought him to the big house to sleep. Strange, -the influence Huerta had over them. Without actually doing anything. -Those eyes? Maybe that was it. - -Crawford sat up abruptly, the heavy chintz coverlet falling away from -him. He held out his hand, staring at the fingers. They were trembling. -He sniffed the air. He pulled the coverlet completely off, swinging his -bare feet out of the bed. His levis were on the russet wing chair and -he grabbed them up and stepped into the legs. It was that sensation -again, stirring within him. It was hard for him to breathe. He sat on -the bed a moment, hands clutching the covers, staring at the wall. Why? -Here. Why? - -He turned his head from side to side, searching the room. It was day, -but the overdrapes had been pulled across the window, and he could make -out the furniture only dimly in the semi-gloom. And still, down inside -him, rising, growing. He bent down to pull on his boots with swift, -desperate tugs, then rose. He looked like a hounded animal, the forward -thrust of his rigid body imparting that narrowness to his shoulders, -his eyes shifting furtively in a gaunt face. Then, on one of those -shallow, indrawn breaths, it came to him, unmistakable. - -Slowly, his whole body so tense it was trembling now, he turned about, -sniffing. He stepped away from the bed, toward the windows, and it -faded. He moved back toward the bed, and he could smell it again. With -a muttered curse he bent down and tore the coverlet off. The dirty, -fetid horse blanket had been laid out flat beneath the chintz spread. - -"Huerta!" - -It came out of him in a strangled, guttural rage, and he bent to clutch -the horse blanket. He had it lifted off the bed before he released -it, throwing it back down and whirling to the door. His boots made a -hard thump down the stairway and into the entrance hall. He had almost -passed the living-room when, through the open door, he caught sight of -Huerta, seated in one of the willow chairs by the window. The doctor -had been reading, and he lowered the book, leaning forward in the chair. - -"You must have slept well, Crawford," he said. "It's nearly noon." - -Crawford started to take a step forward, opening his mouth to speak. -Then he closed it again, his fists clenched tight. There was a faint, -waiting mockery on Huerta's face. Crawford whirled and stamped on out -the front door. As he went down the front steps, he saw the crowd out -by the corrals, and was drawn toward it. He made out Bueno Bailey and -Innes among the men, but the others were new faces to him. There were -half a dozen riders cavorting their horses around in the open flats, -and a big Chihuahua cart was creaking out of the brush, piled high -with onions and apricots and baskets of blue corn meal and squealing -Mexican children and a fat Mexican peon driving. Crawford was part way -across the compound when he saw the woman coming toward him. He had a -momentary impulse to turn away, and stifled that. She held her heavy -green satin skirt up out of the dust with one hand, and the wind -ruffled the throat of her white Antoinette fichu. Her eyes, big and -dark and searching, were held to his face until she reached him, and it -did something to Crawford. - -"They said it was a bull-tailing," she told him, coming to a stop. "I -don't exactly understand." - -"About the only celebration the _brasaderos_ get," he said, watching -her warily. "A bunch of them gather almost every Sunday somewhere to -eat and drink and tail the bull. I think they're celebrating Cinco de -Mayo today. Commemorating some battle at Puebla--" - -He trailed off, because he could see it in her face, and he didn't -particularly want to talk about the bull-tailing either. When she spoke -again, her voice was husky and strained, and it must have been what was -really on her mind, from the first. - -"They were trying to kill you," she said. "Jacinto told me. They got -you in there, and started in on you, and they meant to drive you till -you cracked and fought back, and then they were going to kill you. How -did you stand it so long, Crawford? Jacinto said no other man could -have. Pushing you and shoving you and beating you like that. How did -you stand it?" - -"I'm still here, ain't I?" he said. - -She drew in a breath, staring up at him. "Why did you come back with -Whitehead?" she said finally. "You could have escaped." - -"Maybe a man gets tired running," he said. - -She caught his arm, coming in close enough for him to catch a hint of -her perfume. "Crawford, I want to help you." - -His whole body was rigid now, with that wariness. "I never saw a cow -yet that wanted to get back inside a corral when it was outside." - -"You're so suspicious," she flamed. Then she leaned toward him farther, -looking up into his face. "I guess you have a right to be. You've been -fighting all of them, haven't you, ever since this started. I don't -blame you, Crawford. I know how you feel. I'm in the same position. I -need your help as much as you need mine." - -It had been a long time since a woman stood this close to him, with her -hair shining like that, and her eyes. He felt a weakness seep through -him. He stared at the soft red curve of her lip, and his voice was -hardly audible. - -"What are you talking about?" - -"Have you ever heard of Mogotes Serpientes?" she said. - -"Snake Thickets? I guess so. It's supposed to be somewhere west of Rio -Diablo in that stretch of bad brush." - -"You've never actually been there?" Her voice was tense. - -"I don't know who has," he said. "There's a lot of the _brasada_ -nobody's ever seen, white man _or_ Indian. There's a stretch due south -from here just above the Rio Grande called Resaca Espantosa. Nobody's -ever been through it. I don't know why they call it Haunted Swamp." - -"But there is a good reason for the name Mogotes Serpientes?" - -"So they say. It's supposed to be so full of snakes no man could stay -alive in there more than a few--" He trailed off as he realized how far -he had let her allure carry him, and pulled roughly away from her, his -mouth twisting down at one corner. - -"Crawford," she said, trying to get in close again. "Please. Don't. I -mean it. You've got to believe me. If you believe in anything, you've -got to--" - -"Huerta made me a proposition too," said Crawford. "It didn't pack such -a wallop, but it was along the same lines." - -She flushed, stepping back from him violently. "You fool," she said, in -a bitter, intense whisper. "You fool." - -They were still standing that way, staring at each other, when Huerta -came out on the porch. The woman saw him and turned away, moving back -toward the corrals. - -"Hola, Quartel," someone over by the pens shouted. "When are you -letting the _toros_ out? I got a twenty-dollar pot for the first man to -tail a bull." - -"It's mine." Quartel's bellow came from somewhere in the crowd, and -then he appeared, running in that stiff, saddle-bound stride of his -toward the horses. "Aforismo, let that blue out. He ought to give us a -good run." - - * * * * * - -Used to working the wild, savage cattle of the brushland, the Mexicans -trained their horses to spin away from the side on which a man mounted -as soon as he lifted a foot to the stirrup. Though this saved many a -_vaquero_ from being gored by a ringy bull which he had just released -after throwing and branding the beast, it took a good man to get on -one of these horses. Each rider had a string of animals, and from his -bunch Quartel had saddled a brown horse they called a _trigueño_. He -knocked the reins loose of the corral post and snapped them over the -_trigueño's_ head. Then he checked the animal, pulling the nigh rein in -till it twisted the _trigueño's_ head down toward its shoulder so that -the horse's action would be inhibited long enough for him to mount. As -soon as Quartel raised his left foot, the _trigueño_ tried to whirl, -but that checking action held him long enough for Quartel to jam his -foot in the stirrup and swing aboard in one violent movement. Then he -released the tight rein and allowed the animal to spin toward the right. - -From outside the cedar-post corral, Aforismo and several other -_vaqueros_ had goaded and prodded a blue bull until it was separated -from the other bulls within the enclosure. As it neared the gate, -Aforismo let down the drop bar. - -In their natural state, running the brush, these cows were among the -wildest animals of the world, and the several days this cut of bulls -had spent penned up had put them in a frenzied rage. The blue stood -there a moment, glaring suspiciously at the opening, pawing the ground. -His great long curving horns had been scored and ripped and punched -by the brush until it looked as if someone had hacked them over with -a knife, and a pattern of scars formed a network across the gleaming -lathered hide of his forequarters. From the side, he looked deceptively -heavy, his length so extended that his back swayed, but as he lashed -his tail and shifted around to display a rear view, his narrow hips -and cat hams and ridgepole back became apparent. Abruptly, with a -hoarse bellow, he lowered his head, and swinging it from side to side, -galloped out of the gate. - -Quartel yelled something, dug in with his Chihuahuas and whacked his -quirt against the _trigueño's_ rump at the same time. The brown horse -burst into a headlong run, followed by most of the other _vaqueros_, -shouting and yelling and snapping their quirts against leather -_chivarras_ and fancy _charro_ pants. The blue bull had spotted an -opening in the brush across the compound, and he shook the ground -tearing for it. But the horsemen swiftly closed up on the animal. -Quartel and another _vaquero_ were bunched together in the lead. -Quartel raked his _trigueño_ with those huge Chihuahua guthooks, and -the horse spurted ahead, drawing up beside the bull. Quartel leaned out -of the saddle and made a grab for that lashing tail. But the blue bull -jammed its forefeet into the ground and came to a jarring halt, plowing -twin furrows in the earth. Quartel was several lengths on by before he -could swing back in the saddle and pull his horse around; by that time -the bull had turned in a half circle and cut for the brush. - -The other _vaquero_ had pulled up shorter than Quartel, and was in a -position to run down the bull on its quarter. He was a tall, supple -youth on a short-coupled horse they called a _bayo coyote_, its coat -a buckskin color with a black line running down the spine, with a -black mane and tail. Quartel spurred and quirted his _trigueño_ in a -last desperate effort to reach the bull first, but just at the edge of -brush, the other _vaquero_ pulled up beside the blue and leaned out to -grab for that tail. - -He caught its hairy end, and dallied it around his saddle horn, -clapping the guthooks to his _bayo coyote_ at the same time. The -buckskin gave a spurt that pulled it ahead of the blue bull, and just -as the horse smashed into the first thicket, the tail of the bull -snapped taut, yanking its hind feet from beneath it. The _vaquero_ tore -the tail off his horn and hunched forward with his arm before his face -all at the same time, and as he disappeared into the thicket the ground -shook with the bull's falling. Huerta had come down from the house, and -he moved in behind Crawford. - -"I understand a good man can break the bull's neck every time," he -said. "Why don't you try it, Crawford?" - -Crawford's hands closed tightly, and he did not look at Huerta. The -inside of his mouth was dry and cottony as he watched the _vaquero_ -come back through the mesquite into the open, prancing his _bayo -coyote_ proudly. - -"You better go back to herding dogies, Quartel," the _vaquero_ grinned, -"and leave the grown ones to men." - -"If you're a man, let's see your _reata_," roared Quartel, wheeling -his _trigueño_ toward the man and unlashing his 40-foot rope from his -saddle. - -The rider fought his excited buckskin around in a circle as he tore his -own rope from the saddle, and when he had completed the circle, the -rope was free and the two riders were facing each other about a hundred -yards apart. - -"_Vamanos, Indita_," shouted Quartel, his huge cart-wheel spurs -gouging the brown into a headlong run toward the other man. - -"Are they crazy?" said Huerta. - -"Stay around the border much and you'll get used to it," Merida told -him. "The _vaqueros_ used to do the same thing on the rancho where I -was born. They'd rather rope than eat." - -"Duello," said Crawford. - -"With ropes?" It caused Huerta distinct effort to evince even the dim -incredulity. - -"Lot of 'em would rather fight with ropes than guns," Crawford told -him. "More than one lawman has been dragged to death here in the brush." - -It had taken that long for the two riders to meet, passing one another -not 10 feet apart. At the last moment Quartel made a pass with his rope -arm. Indita's own throw caused him a hoarse exhalation that turned into -a shout of triumph as he saw his loop settling over Quartel's head. -Then it happened. As much as he had handled horses, Crawford did not -think he had ever seen one turn so fast. One instant the _trigueño_ was -racing past the _bayo coyote_, the next it was facing in the opposite -direction, Quartel's own involuntary grunt still hanging in the air to -tell what a vicious effort he had put into the reining. The motion had -carried Quartel from beneath Indita's loop in that last moment, and now -he sat the _trigueño_ perfectly still, facing after Indita's retreating -buckskin. - -Quartel's first pass had been a feint, and he still retained his rope. -It was so slight a flirt of his hand that Crawford barely caught it. -He did not spin the loop above his head. He tossed it underhand, the -way he had thrown it with Africano in the corral. It was a hooley-ann, -spinning flatly out above Indita, seeming to hover above him an -instant, no bigger than the brim of his sombrero; then it was taut -about his shoulders, and he was pulled over the back of his horse with -a resounding thump. - -"I ought to drag you for your presumption," said Quartel, shifting his -horse forward so he could get enough slack in his rope to flirt it -off Indita as the man rose. Then, pulling the rawhide clothesline in -with a series of quick, skillful snaps, he turned the _trigueño_ to -prance it over toward them, grinning at Merida. "How do you like that, -_señorita_?" - -"I have seen it done before," said Merida. - -Quartel's face darkened. "You don't think I am any good?" - -"I didn't say that." - -"Listen," he shouted, thumping his chest, "I am the best goddam roper -in the world. I am the best goddam rider in the world. I am--" - -"Don't be a boor," said Huerta, in faint disgust. - -"A what?" Quartel wheeled the horse around in a growing rage, the sweat -greasing his coarse face. "I'll show you." He started pounding his -chest again. "I'll show you who's good. I'll make you a bet. I'll bet -you a _talega_ full of gold pesos that I can, blindfolded, with one end -of the _reata_ tied to my own neck and not to be touched by my hands, -riding a bareback horse of your own choosing, forefoot each of any ten -bulls we got in a pen, and break their necks." - -Huerta shrugged, smiling in a faint, vague dismissal. Quartel reined -the _trigueño_ in closer. "I mean it," he bellowed. "Are you afraid to -make the bet? Could anybody where you come from do it?" - -"Frankly, I don't think anyone can do it," said Huerta, disinterestedly. - -"I can," yelled Quartel. "I'm the best--" - -"Don't be a fool, Quartel," the woman told him. - -"You'll kill yourself. One mistake with that rope around your neck and -you'll be dead." - -That was the final impetus. "_Hijo de la chingada_," shouted Quartel, -whirling his _trigueño_ away from them. "How many bulls you got in that -corral, Aforismo? Seven? Get me three more. Get me three more from that -holding pen across the arroyo. I'll show you what roping really is, -Merida. You're going to see a performance tonight you'll never forget!" - - - - - _Chapter Eight_ - - BEST ROPER IN THE WORLD - - -The throng about the large cedar-post corral was oddly subdued. Some -of the _vaqueros_ had dragged the blue bull over to the cooking fire -for Jacinto to spit, but the gross cook had left the carcass lying -on the ground. He stood with the middle bar of the fence making a -deep indentation in the incredible protuberance of his stomach as the -crowding _vaqueros_ pressed in from behind. - -"_Madre de Dios_, Crawford, why do you let him do this thing?" wailed -the cook, running his fat hands nervously up and down the rail. "I -don't want to see a man die." - -"Then why watch?" said Crawford. - -"Please, Crawford, you take such a brutal attitude. Don't you know this -is the way Oro Peso died down in Mexico? He was the greatest roper in -the world, Quartel's boasting to the contrary. Oro Peso used to go -around making this same bet. Then somebody took him up on it. The third -bull pulled him from his horse. His neck was broken like you'd snap a -switch of mesquite. Please--" - -"Hola, _compadres_!" shouted Quartel, from outside the corral, and -they saw that he had stripped his _trigueño_ of its saddle. Indita -dropped the bar and Quartel trotted the animal in, laughing as the -bulls bunched up on the other side, bawling. "You see, already they are -afraid of me. Who is going to put the blindfold on? Merida, will you -honor me?" - -"Why not?" The woman's voice held a savage undertone that surprised -Crawford. She caught his eyes on her and turned toward Crawford. When -she saw the look on his face, she threw her head back that way, to -laugh. It held a rich, wild mockery. "What's the matter, Crawford? -Don't you like that in a woman? Maybe you haven't known the right -women." - -Still laughing, she reached through the bars to tie the bandanna behind -Quartet's head as the man slipped off the _trigueño_ and turned his -back to her. Then he swung aboard again, and tied one end of the rope -he was carrying about his thick neck in a noose, too small to slip over -his head. Merida's face was flushed excitedly as she watched him prance -the _trigueño_ away, and her eyes flashed in frank anticipation. Huerta -pulled out his cigarette case and put a smoke into his jade holder. -His motions were as languid as ever, but Crawford thought his fingers -pinched the holder more tightly than was necessary. - -"Hola!" shouted Quartel, wheeling his _trigueño_ in the middle of the -corral and kicking its flanks with his heels. The horse charged toward -the bulls, and the animals strung out along the fence. Quartel was an -uncanny judge of distance; when his horse was but half a length from -the fence, he made a quarter turn and raced along the bars after the -last bull in the running bunch. - -"_Andale!_" yelled the man, and made his toss. - -The loop snaked about the forefeet of that last bull as it turned at -the corner of the corral, and as Quartel felt the rope snap taut, he -let go completely with his hands, pulling his thick neck down into -his shoulders to set it and jerking back with his torso at the last -moment. The bull turned a flip, its shoulder striking the rump of the -running animal in front, and as the falling bull struck, Quartel shoved -his reins hard against the _trigueño's_ neck to wheel inward and give -himself slack on the rope. He clutched for the slackening rawhide -and sent a flirt down the rope that lifted the loop off the bull's -forelegs, and when he turned away, he was pulling the line in. - -"_Viva Quartel, viva!_" shouted the _vaqueros_, shoving Crawford up -against the fence with their shifting press and deafening him with -their cheers. Grinning, Quartel kicked the _trigueño_ after the bulls -again. It started them off once more, bawling and running. Quartel's -hearing was as uncanny as his judgment of distance; he rode with his -head lifted, and when a scarred brindle bull broke from the others, -running along the fence and cutting across the middle of the corral, -Crawford could see Quartel's head turn after the animal. The Mexican -reined his _trigueño_ over that way, kicking it into a dead run that -closed the space between himself and the bull in a swift instant. - -"_Ahora_," he shouted, "now," and tossed. His rope caught the bull's -hind feet instead of its forefeet, and as a strange sighing sound rose -from the crowd, Quartel must have sensed something was wrong, for he -spurred the _trigueño_ brutally, and its frenzied leap into a headlong -run gave him slack enough in the rope for that last moment to send a -flirt down its length that carried the loop off the bull's hind feet -before it could draw closed. The bull stumbled into the other animals -as they turned the corner and milled down this side of the corral. By -that time Quartel had his rope coiled, and he maneuvered the bawling, -excited animals so that they strung out down the fence once more, -and then ran his horse up behind the last one. This time it was the -forefeet, and he dropped the animal, breaking its neck as before. The -end of the rope about Quartel's neck was not a slip noose, but Crawford -could see the rawhide dig into the thick brown flesh of Quartel's neck -as he jerked back, till the skin showed a white ridge above and below -the lasso. He watched in undeniable fascination as the Mexican flirted -in the rope and turned his horse after them once more. Shouting, -Quartel closed the gap between himself and another bull and made his -toss. He released the lasso with his hand as soon as it was in the -air. The instant that loop caught on the running bull's forefeet, -Quartel reined his _trigueño_ in a quarter turn that wheeled it away -from the running bull. The bull's own forward motion would draw the -noose tight about its legs, and the turning maneuver of the horse would -stretch the rope taut between them as soon as that noose was completely -closed. In that instant, with the bull hitting the end of the rope and -flipping, Quartel had to wheel his horse back or be pulled off. He had -already turned the _trigueño_ away from the bull, and the noose was -making its singing sound closing on those churning forefeet, when a big -_hosco golondrino_ cut away from the other animals running along the -fence and turned out into the corral, directly across the head of the -_trigueño_. Quartel's huge neck sank into his shoulders, and he put the -reins against the _trigueño's_ neck to swerve it back as he felt the -rope snapping taut. But the turn would have run the horse head-on into -the _hosco golondrino_. It was the first time Crawford had seen that -_trigueño_ fight the bit; its head turned in and its neck arched, it -lurched in the opposite direction from Quartel's reining. - -"Crawford," screamed Merida, and then the full weight of the falling -bull hit the end of that rope with Quartel going in the wrong direction -to take the shock. He made a small, choked sound as he was snapped off -the _trigueño's_ rump. Crawford was not conscious of going through -the bars. He found himself on the inside of the corral, with someone -climbing through the rails on his left. He did not realize who it was -till he had started running toward Quartel where he was rolling across -the ground. Then from the corner of his eye, Crawford caught the white -flutter of Merida's fichu. - -"Get back, you crazy fool," he screamed at her, diving headlong at her -as a couple of crazed bulls charged by. He struck her with his arms -around her waist and carried her back against the bars as a third -animal crashed past where she had been standing. He rolled to his feet, -leaving her there huddled up against the fence, and dodged through -another pair of the bawling, frenzied animals, coughing in the dust. - -The bull Quartel had thrown was scrambling to its feet, the _reata_ -still caught around one foreleg. Crawford saw the slack rope hiss -taut as the animal broke into a stumbling gallop, and knew he could -never reach it in time. If Quartel's neck were not already broken, his -head would be pulled from his body now. Another bull went past behind -Crawford, its shoulder sending him spinning, and he threw himself -bodily toward the rope where it lay tautening across the ground, in a -last desperate effort to try and get it before the bull had stretched -it completely. - -But even as he did so, he saw Quartel had risen to his hands and -knees. Still blindfolded, the man must have heard the sing of the rope -and known what was occurring. He gave his head one dazed shake and -jumped to his feet, sinking his neck in that way and throwing himself -backward. His body was at a three-quarter angle when the rope snapped -taut; he would have fallen completely if the line had not caught him. -The impetus of his jerking back that way and the weight of his body -combined to upset the bull once more. The ground shuddered to the -falling animal. Crawford heard the crack of its broken neck. - -"How's that, Huerta?" laughed Quartel, running forward to slacken the -rope so he could flirt the loop free. "I told you I wouldn't pull on -it by hand. Did you see that? I didn't touch it with my hands, did I? -I'll bet you never saw a roper could do that down around Mexico City. -Even Oro Peso. Did you think I was finished? Not with a neck like that. -I could throw ten bulls all at once. Where's my horse? Bring me that -_trigueño_. I'm not through yet. Not with a neck like that." - -In a daze, Crawford picked himself off the ground, seeing Indita run -out to corner the _trigueño_ and lead him over to the sweating, roaring -Quartel. Stumbling back to the fence, Crawford watched the whole crazy -performance begin once more. It was a nightmare of shouting _vaqueros_ -and bawling bulls and singing ropes and clouds of acrid russet dust -obscuring the whole pattern every time the animals broke into a run. -Quartel took three casts to nail the seventh bull, and it was obvious -he was tiring. - -"Three more," Crawford heard Jacinto mumbling beside him. "Three more. -Oh, _madre de Dios_, let him get over with this, will you, and I'll -never forget to say my rosary again. Three more, three more--" - -Two more. One more. "Hola!" shouted the Mexican, "_ahora_," and -the rope spun, and caught, and tautened, and the ground shook as -the last bull broke its neck. Coiling in the rope, Quartel spurred -the _trigueño_ to the gate, ripping off his blindfold. They were -all running that way, Aforismo catching the man as he slid off the -lathered, quivering horse, pounding him on the back. Even Merida had -lifted her skirts to run that way, drawn by the excitement. Quartel -came through the crowd, sweating and grinning and pounding himself -on the chest with his hairy fist. "I told you. The best roper in the -world. What do you think of it, Huerta? Have you ever seen better? Was -Oro Peso better?" Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he sobered, -looking around at the _vaqueros_. "When I was pulled off the horse. -Someone was in the corral. I heard them." - -The hubbub sank until there was only the muffled sound of stirring -bodies, and Quartel saw the direction their glances had taken, one -after another. He stared at Crawford in disbelief. - -"You--" - -Crawford shrugged, sullenly. "It was automatic, I guess. I didn't -think." - -"Yes." Huerta allowed twin streamers of gray smoke to escape his -nostrils. "I wonder what would have happened if you had stopped to -think." - -Crawford flushed, turning toward him, but Quartel came forward, -clapping his hand on Crawford's shoulder. "Huerta, I'm surprised at -you. After all, he saved my life. And how about you. A _talega_ of -pesos." - -"I made no wager," said Huerta, tapping ash from his cigarette. - -The blood swept into Quartel's face, and he stepped forward to grab the -lapels of Huerta's coat with one huge hand, jerking the man toward him. -"Huerta, I bet you a _talega_ of pesos--" - -"I made no wager." Huerta had not moved his hands. One of them still -held the cigarette holder at his side; the other rested in the pocket -of his coat. But he was looking into Quartel's eyes, and his own eyes -had opened wider. The veined dissolution of his heavy bluish lids had -lifted until the whole pupil was visible. - -"That's right, that's right," said Jacinto nervously. "Huerta didn't -take up your bet, Quartel. You was so busy shouting and all you didn't -wait to see if he'd made the bet with you." - -"If he had, he'd pay me," said Quartel, still looking into Huerta's -eyes, an indefinable puzzlement drawing a faint furrow through his -brow, and something else. Abruptly he turned around, raising his voice. -"_Caramba_, if I ain't going to get a _talega_ of pesos, I should get -some kind of reward. You don't see a rodeo like that every day. How -about it, Merida? I want a reward--" - -He had shoved through the crowd toward her, catching her around the -waist. Apparently not divining his intent at first, she had been -smiling, her face still flushed with that excitement. But as he caught -her and bent his face to hers, the smile twisted into a grimace. She -threw her forearm across his neck and tried to lever him away. - -"_Vayase con la música a otra parte_," she cried, anger causing her to -break into Spanish. "_Tu barrachon, largo de aqui, tu chile, no puedo -sufrir su insolencia--_" - -"My insolence?" laughed Quartel, grasping her wrist and tearing it from -between them. The force of it drew a gasp of pain from Merida; she -began writhing more violently in his embrace, and tried to scratch his -face with the other hand. But he caught that too, and forced both her -hands behind her until he had her wrists crossed with his arms about -her waist. In that last moment, he quit grinning. Crawford had seen the -same expression in the man's face before, when he looked at Merida, but -never so palpable, never so clearly recognizable. His voice came from -deep in his throat, husky and sensual and demanding. - -"_Besame, querida_," he said, and lowered his sweating face to hers. - -"Let her go, Quartel!" - -The Mexican stopped, with his lips not quite touching Merida. The -woman's body ceased to writhe; she stood there in his arms, bent -backward like a bow, looking up at him. Without releasing her, Quartel -raised his head and turned it over his shoulder till he could see -Crawford. It had taken Crawford that long to get through the laughing, -shouting crowd; they were no longer making any noise, and they had -spread away from him. He stood there with his boots spread a little on -the hard-packed dirt and the weight of his shoulders thrown forward, -the bitter intensity of his face only accentuating its gauntness. - -"Oh." The word came out softly, slyly on Quartel's breath. "Maybe you'd -rather be the one to kiss her. First he saves my life, then he wants to -take my woman away." - -"Your woman?" gasped Merida. - -"Take your hands off, damn you--" - -"Don't swear at me, Crawford." The hurt tone of Quartel's voice held -that pawky mockery. "I thought we were _amigos_. I thought you saved my -life in the corrals." - -"Quartel--" - -"_Sí?_" The man had released Merida and wheeled to face Crawford. For -a moment he stood there, his heavy chest rising and falling gently -with his breathing. The mockery faded from his face, leaving a heavy, -deliberate intent. His shift to the side was unhurried, but Crawford's -effort to keep facing the man came in a swift, spasmodic reaction. Then -Quartel stood there again. "Nobody swears at me, Crawford," he said, -and then, moving with incredible speed for such a bulky man, he leaped -forward. Crawford had been waiting for something, but it came so fast -his move to block it was aborted. Quartel had him by the shoulders, -knocking him off balance, and Crawford had to stumble backward to keep -from falling. "Do you understand that?" Quartel was shouting it now, -hoarsely, allowing his ebullience to escape finally. "I'm _amansador_, -here, I'm foreman, and nobody swears at me or tries to stop me whatever -I'm doing. I rod this outfit and I can do anything I want and nobody -can stop me, do you hear?" - -It was then Crawford realized what he had brought up against. Stumbling -backward, he had lurched into the _trigueño_ and it had kept him from -falling. He was held against it now by Quartel's hands gripping his -shoulders. The animal heat of it penetrated through his shirt, and -something else clawed at him, somewhere way down in his vitals. - -In a new spasm, Crawford tried to lurch free of Quartel's grip; but -the man had still managed to keep him off balance, and he was held -there, with his knees bent and his body pushed off to one side so that -he had no leverage. He was shoved back hard against the horse again, -and the hot, living, hairy, animal resilience of it against his back -intensified that vague alarm inside him. - -"Do you hear me, Crawford, do you hear me--" - -Quartel's voice came through to him as if the man were far away. -Crawford was writhing from side to side, trying to escape, but he was -still held at that disadvantage. He had his hands on the man's arms, -tearing at them. The effort rocked Quartel from side to side, but -failed to loosen his grip. Crawford's face was twisted, and he was -gasping hoarsely, because it was growing in him now, raking at him -insistently with its subtle, insidious nails. His legs were beginning -to tremble and the muscles across his belly were twisting up into -little involuntary knots. - -"Let go, let go--" - -The violent movement and their shouting had excited the horse, and -it began to shift around behind Crawford. It had been standing there -against the fence where Quartel left it when he slid off. Crawford -had it pinned up against the bars, and the animal whinnied nervously, -trying to get from between him and the fence. Aforismo moved from the -crowd to grab the _trigueño's_ reins and pull its head down. - -"What's the matter, Juarez?" he said. "Crawford, don't do that, you're -spooking this horse." - -"Yeah, quit shouting!" roared Quartel. "Can't you see what you're doing -to my _trigueño_? Hasn't he been through enough today? Quit jumping -around like that." - -He realized what they were doing. That had been the intent in Quartel's -face. It didn't help him now to understand. Nothing helped him now. It -had its grip on him. His struggles had become a blind, frenetic effort -to escape. Not from Quartel, now. It was the horse. The shrill sound -of the _trigueño's_ whinny and the rising turbulence of the beast's -nervous movement against him drove Crawford to a new violence in his -attempts at escape. It was no longer small or vague in him. It filled -his whole consciousness. It spread through his legs and lower body in a -clutching, stabbing pain that caused his knees to tremble and jerk. It -filled his chest with a terrible constriction. And as before, the pain -was rapidly turning to something else. - -"Let go, damn you, let go--" - -He was screaming it now, in animal panic, his face contorted, his -whole body writhing and struggling in a blind frenzy that only excited -the horse further. He felt it rear up, and would have fallen backward -beneath it had not Aforismo yanked it down hard with his grip on the -reins. The hot hide was wet with nervous sweat against Crawford's back, -and he could feel the ripple of its muscle with every movement it made, -and every ripple sent a new wave of panic through him. All reason -was gone from his mind and he was sinking into a dark vortex of that -terrible panic like a cow sinking into a black bog. - -"What's the matter, Crawford? Are you afraid of the horse?" - -"Let go, please, for God's sake, let go." - -"What's the matter, Crawford?" - -"Leggo, leggo, leggo--" - -He stopped screaming. It took him a long time to comprehend he was no -longer being held against the horse. He crouched there on his knees -where he had fallen when Quartel had stepped back, releasing him. The -movement of the animal behind him raised a flurry of dirty brown dust. -Coughing in it, Crawford stared up at Quartel. The rage had disappeared -from Quartel's face. His lips were spread in that pawky smile. - -"Sure," he said, "I'll let you go. What will you do if I let you go?" - -Aforismo had pulled the _trigueño_ out from behind him now, and -Crawford crouched there on his hands and knees, black hair falling -dankly over his feverish eyes. He looked like a trapped animal, his -breath escaping him in hoarse gasps, his head turning in quick jerks as -his wild glance leaped from one person to another. First it was Merida. -There was a desperate plea in the way she bent toward him, her bosom -rising and falling, her red lower lip dropped away from the shadowed -white line of her teeth, glistening damply. Then Huerta, managing to -convey a bored amusement without actually expressing anything in his -face, as he studied Crawford distantly. And Jacinto, great, lugubrious -globules of sweat sliding down his brown face, wringing his fat hands, -making small, unintelligible sounds of pain. - -A vagrant anger swept Crawford and he tried to collect it and hold it -in him, bitter and acrid and violent. But it held no strength, and a -shift of the wind swept the fetor of the _trigueño_ to him once more, -and the anger disappeared. There was none of the spasm of panic now. -It was heavy and oppressive in him, holding him down like a physical -weight, robbing him of all resolve, dominating all other emotion. He -was still shaking violently, and the salty tears blinded him. He felt a -dim impulse to move twitch at his legs, and he knew a moment there when -he thought he could rise. Then he heard the guttural, frustrated sound -he made, and knew he was still on the ground, and felt an overpowering -impulse to give way and cry. - -"I thought so," said Quartel, and turned to take the reins from -Aforismo. He checked the animal to prevent its whirling away from him, -and jumped onto its back. He released the rein, and the _trigueño's_ -head came around with a snap as it spun to trot off toward the fires. -The other _vaqueros_ followed one by one, in an uncomfortable silence. -Huerta patted a yawn. - -"They've got some cane chairs over under those coma trees," he said. "I -think I'll watch the proceedings from there. Coming, Merida?" - -She did not answer. She was looking at Crawford, her face pale. Huerta -shrugged, moved languidly across the dusty compound. Then it was just -the two of them, with Crawford finally gaining his feet, unable to meet -her eyes. Merida's weight had settled back onto her high heels slowly. -That ripe lower lip had contracted against her teeth till her mouth was -twisted across them faintly. Her husky voice was barely audible. - -"I had hoped Huerta was wrong." - -He stared at her, wanting to turn and run, unable to, somehow, and -finally it came from him, guttural, hardly recognizable. "Whadda you -mean?" - -"About that fellow in the mine," she said. - -"Whaddaya mean?" Had that been him? Shrill, and cracked, like that? - -"You know what I mean," she said. "Not only pain. Fear. And not only -fear of what originally caused the pain." - -"No--" - -"Yes!" she said thinly. "Yes! It's not just the horses any more. It's -everything. You're a coward, Crawford. You're a coward!" - - - - - _Chapter Nine_ - - STILL IN THE THROES OF FEAR - - -The girandole candelabra on the mantel looked like a brooding ghoul in -the evening gloom which shrouded the living-room of Otis Rockland's -house. The French windows at the front extended completely to the -floor, double-hung sashes forming the upper half, paneled gates of -unpolished oak being the lower section. The damask hangings had been -pulled across during the afternoon to shut out the sun, but the windows -themselves were partly ajar, allowing the sounds from the corrals to -enter the room. Someone was playing a guitar over there where they were -still roasting the bulls that had been killed. A woman's laugh came -dimly. - -Crawford raised his head a moment where he sat in a willow chair by the -window; then he lowered it once more into his hands. His face was bleak -and empty. He did not know how long it was since he had come here, -unable to face them out there. - -When the creak of the porch came mutedly to him, he gave no sign. Then -there was more sound, louder, more recognizable. His head lifted as the -noise terminated with a muffled crash. - -"Crawford!" - -Just once like that, shrill and cracked. He got to his feet and ran to -the door, tearing it open. It was the side table in the entrance hall -which had made the crash. Merida must have pulled it over, falling. The -marble top had smashed, and a piece of it lay on the floor beside her. -The front door stood open wide. - -"Merida?" he said, dropping to one knee. "You fell?" - -"No." She stirred feebly, rising to one elbow with his help, hanging -her head over against his knee a moment. The kitchen door opened, and -her maid padded down the hall in bare feet, a small, wizened Indian, so -dark she looked negroid, dressed in nothing more than a white cotton -shift. - -"It's all right, Nexpa," Merida told her. "A little accident. Crawford -will help me to my room." - -She allowed him to help her up the stairs, leaning heavily on his arm. -The warmth of her body flowed through Crawford, and when they reached -the second floor he was breathing heavily. Beyond the last step, Merida -pulled away from him, her eyes meeting his in a swift, unreadable way. - -She turned and moved toward her room, halting a moment outside Huerta's -closed door, as if listening. Then she opened the door of her bedroom. -He had kept from asking by an effort, but now he followed her in -hesitantly, speaking. - -"Huerta came up?" - -She closed her door softly. "He wasn't at the corrals when I left." - -"Maybe he got hungry for his red beans." Her face lifted to him, eyes -widening, and he shrugged. "Jacinto said something about dope." - -She pursed her lips, moving around him toward the table. "Couldn't you -see it? Opium when we were in Mexico City. Peyote now." - -"Those beans." - -"Yes. You've heard it. The Indians call it _raíz diabólica_. Devil -weed. They've been using it for centuries in Mexico. Even the Aztecs -knew of it. They called it peyotl. It's effect isn't as marked as -opium. He seems capable of eating those beans all day. They make a -drink of it that's more potent." - -"He said something about a complaint," Crawford told her. - -Her mouth twisted somewhat. "Maybe he has an old wound. He's been -around. He'd take dope anyway. That's just the kind he is. You saw the -kind. Dissolute? I don't know. Whatever you want." She had got a punk -off the table and was lighting the candles in the porcelain candelabra -supported by oak wall brackets. Then she saw how he was looking at her, -and turned part way. "What is it?" - -He looked away. "Nothing." - -She caught his arm, turning him back. - -"No," she said. "It is something. Huerta?" - -Crawford pulled away from her hand, uncomfortable, somehow. "I just -can't see you with him. You're not the type." - -"What type do you think I am?" - -He started to answer. Then he moved his shoulders again, letting out a -muted, rueful sound. "I guess I don't know, really, do I?" - -"Don't you?" She was meeting his glance with a wide, candid demand in -her eyes. - -"Santa Anna's chests?" he said. - -She drew in a long, slow breath, and nodded, finally. "You do know, -then," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "You have known, all along." She -hesitated, studying him. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. -"That's inconceivable to you, isn't it?" - -"No--" - -"Yes!" She blew out the punk with the word. "You've lived in the -_brasada_ most of your life. Money to you represents no more than a -barren, lonely ranch like this and a herd of cattle to support it. You -have no conception of what riches can really mean. Not just the horses, -the servants, the jewels. The grace, Crawford, the ease, the beauty, -the way of life." An intensity had gripped her voice, and her face was -flushed. "Do you know what it is to be a peon in Mexico? No. You've -never seen it, have you? You've seen the women in the brush here, -living like animals in a one-room mud house with nothing but a cotton -sheet for a dress. That's nothing. They're rich. They're hidalgos -compared with a real peon. I should know. I was one, Crawford. I won't -be one again. I'd rather steal and lie and cheat. I'd rather murder. -Can you understand that? I will, if it's necessary. I--" - -She broke off, breathing deeply, looking wide-eyed up at him. Then -a short bitter laugh escaped her, and she turned away, the line of -her shoulders bowing faintly. Light drew a soft glow from the rich -black hair drawn tightly across the back of her head. With a new -understanding of the woman, he stepped in behind her. - -"All right," he said. - -The simple acceptance of that drew her around. They were standing so -close her breast touched his when it stirred faintly to her breathing. - -"You were going to tell me what happened downstairs," he murmured. - -"_Derrotero?_" she said, watching his face narrowly. - -It was an effort to keep it expressionless. "The map?" - -"It's why Huerta wanted to keep you here in the first place," she said. -"Quartel and Tarant were against it, but Huerta thought you had some -reason for coming here. He was right, Crawford. Nothing else could make -you take what they've been doing. You've got part of the _derrotero_, -and you think one of us has the rest. Well, one of us has!" - -She turned around and did something with the waist of her dress, -beneath the fichu. When she turned back, she held a piece of torn, -yellowed paper in her hand. - -"There are three pieces to the map," she said. "This is one of them." - -"Lopez?" he asked. - -"Yes," she muttered. "Santa Anna had many wives. My mother was one. -You will recall that the captain of the mule train sent one third of -the map to Santa Anna himself. It was about all my mother got out of -Santa Anna's estate when he died." - -"Who was it downstairs?" he asked. - -"He came from behind. It was dark. I did not see." - -He stared at the section of paper a long time, scratching his dirty -beard with a thumbnail. "Huerta's been trying to find out all along if -I have the _derrotero_. The fact that he doesn't know for sure has kept -him from making any definite move, one way or another. What would he do -if he found out, for sure, one way or another?" - -"Why should he find out?" she said. - -"You're with Huerta." - -"Am I?" she said, moving in close again. "Maybe I _was_." - -"You tried that before," he said. - -"No," she said hotly. "Will you never trust me, Crawford? I want to -help you. Not just the map. That doesn't matter, now. Out there, with -the _trigueño_. I'm sorry for what I called you." - -"Maybe you were right," he said, bitterly. - -"No! You're not a coward, intrinsically. Can't you see what they were -doing? Maybe Huerta was the first to see how it was--about your legs. -Now they all know. They're using it, Crawford. Quartel used it today. -He shoved you up against the horse and held you there till you were -half-crazy with panic. He knew you wouldn't fight him in that state. -It wasn't fear of him that demoralized you. It was horrible to watch." -She reached up to grasp his elbows with her hands, lifting her weight -toward him. "But I've seen what you used to be, too. When you brought -Whitehead back. No coward could have done that. Come back, with -Whitehead that way, knowing what you would have to face, here. Do you -realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that morning and -see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing what it meant. -It doesn't happen to a person often in her life, Crawford. That sort -of feeling. Let me help you, Crawford. I want to. I can't if you don't -trust me." - -She was up against him now, almost sobbing it, and his hands had slid -around her waist, the flesh hot and silken against his palm through -her gown. For one last moment he tried to fight it. But he had fought -so long, so alone, without anyone, and the warm resilience of her body -against him filled Crawford with a giddy weakness. - -"Merida," he muttered thickly, bending her back, "Merida--" - -She pulled away, her face flushed. "I can't--if you don't trust me--" - -He held her that way, breathing heavily, her back arched away from him -by the pressure of her hands against his chest. He searched her wide, -dark eyes, and found no guile there. Still filled with that desire -and driven by it, he made a guttural, inarticulate sound, releasing -her, and took one step to the bed, lowering himself on the embroidered -muslin coverlet. He bent to take off his right Justin. The fancy -stitching across the top of the boot unknotted, and he pulled it away -from half a dozen eyelets in the leather, revealing a double thickness -which formed a pocket. - -"Used to keep my money here," he said, pulling out the piece of -parchment Rockland had given him. The woman's hand trembled as she -took it from him, laying it on the bed beside her piece, fitting them -together. Then her pale finger crossed the map until it reached a word -printed on his section. Her voice was no more than a whisper. - -"Mogotes Serpientes." - -"Yeah," he said, watching her. "Yeah. I never got around to using the -map. Kenmare was on my tail a lot since I left San Antonio. I didn't -take too much stock in the story anyway. Del never told me anything -about it, and it was his uncle supposed to have been captain of that -mule train. How did Rockland get hold of this portion?" - -"Delcazar's uncle escaped to Mexico City, where he died, his effects -being turned over to the family lawyer down there," she said. "Rockland -originally wanted the Delcazar land up here for the water. He sent -Tarant down to Mexico City to make sure there was nothing in the -Delcazar papers which would prevent having clear title to the land when -he got hold of it. Tarant found this part of the chart when he was -going through those papers." She straightened slowly, allowing her gaze -to reach his face. "Do you know who has the other piece, Crawford?" - -"No," he said. - -Her eyes grew blank; and he stood swiftly, grasping her hand. "I've -trusted you, Merida. Now you've got to trust me. I don't know." - -"It's got to be more than trust now," she said. "We're in it together, -Crawford. If I'm to help you, you've got to help me. Will you?" - -"Haven't I proved that?" he said, trying to pull her toward him with -that hand. "Anything, Merida--" - -She held back, calculation hardening the planes of her face. "Perhaps I -should have said, _can_ you?" - -Just the feel of her wrist in his fingers that way, soft and satiny, -started it up again in him, and he quit trying to pull her in, and took -a step in toward her. "What horse you on now?" - -"I mean, maybe you can't. Maybe you're incapable of it. You can't do -much the way you are now, Crawford. You're only half a man. It's not -just the horses any more. It's your whole life. Everything you do is -affected by it. I've thought of trying to get you a gun. A dozen times. -It would be hard, but I might be able to do it. To stay unarmed here, -like this--" She put her free hand against his chest to stop him. "What -good would it do, Crawford? If you'd had a gun, would you have used it -today? Quartel carries one. Would you have pulled yours on him?" - -No woman had ever affected him so violently before. Hardly aware of -what she was saying, the blood pounding through his head, he sought to -force her hand aside and bend his face to hers, wanting only to feel -her against him again. - -"Merida," he said, the blood so thick in his throat it made him sound -strangled, "I told you--anything--" - -She took a deep, ragged breath, and he could not tell whether she -was fighting him or herself, now. "No, Crawford. It wouldn't be any -different with a gun. Not the way you are now. A gun wouldn't do you -any more good than your bare hands. Quartel wanted you to fight him -with your hands. You wouldn't even do that. Nothing will do you any -good until you can step on a horse again without feeling that pain in -your legs--that fear." She forced herself away, saying it in a cold -tone, "Africano?" - -It was like throwing ice water on a fire. All his ardor disappeared -before the abrupt clutch of fear that word engendered in him. He -stiffened for a moment, still holding that one hand. Then he dropped it -and stepped back, his mouth twisted. Just the word, like that. Just the -name. - -"Yes." The heavy rise and fall of Merida's breast abated as she studied -him, the candor gone from her face now, a cold, critical speculation -filling her eyes as she studied him. "Perhaps I was wrong, Crawford. -Perhaps you can't help me. Perhaps I can't help you." - -"No? Let me show you," he said desperately. - - - - - _Chapter Ten_ - - FLIGHT FROM SNAKE THICKETS - - -This time of night did strange things to the brush. The moon had not -yet risen enough to light fully the trails winding their secretive -way through the jealous chaparral, and what vague dim light did seep -through the gloom held a reflected, synthetic quality. Most of the -_vaqueros_ were in a drunken stupor when Crawford and the woman left -the house, getting one of Rockland's prized copperbottoms and a pinto -mare from the corrals without being detected. They rode north from the -spread, following one of the ancient game traces which the _vaqueros_ -used when working the cattle. In the eerie illumination, the berries -ripening on the granjeno bushes formed yellow shadow patches against -the velvet backdrop of darkness farther back, and the white filament -of the horse-maimer was turned to a sick erubescence where it crouched -on a stony ridge. Crawford caught the dim glow of the cactus's silky -blossoms, and pulled his reins in a hard jerk against the pinto's neck. -The animal shied to the right, away from the horse-maimer. - -"Crawford!" - -The woman said it softly from behind him, a controlled anger in her -voice. She moved the copperbottom up beside him, peering at his face. - -"It's all right," he said impatiently. - -"Crawford," she said again, in that low, insistent tone. - -He tried to relax his legs against the pinto. Just a walk, and they -were like that. He felt his shirt sticking to his armpits and knew the -sweat was showing on his face. That terrible frustration was biting at -him. - -"I told you it was all right," he said harshly. - -A savagery entered her voice, struggling with that restraint. "Will you -quit trying to hide it, Crawford. From me. From yourself. I know all -about it now. I've seen it. There's no use being ashamed of it with -me. It's there. We both recognize it. Admit it. That's the first thing -you've got to do." - -"All right. I'm afraid. Every time it moves. Every time it bats an -eyelash. Every time it--" - -He stopped, realizing how violent the release had been, and it seemed -the mocking echoes of his voice were dying down the sombrous lanes of -the brush. He turned away from her, feeling a new wave of shame. - -"That's better than nothing," she said. The tone of Merida's voice made -him turn back to her. She must have been waiting for that, because -the movement brought his eyes around to hers. "When you wouldn't meet -Quartel back at the bull-tailing," she said, "I condemned you for being -a coward. I'll never do it again. You may be afraid, but I'll never -condemn you for it. The only thing I'll condemn you for is refusing to -face your fear." - -He felt his legs relaxing slightly, and for a moment the beat of his -heart diminished. He had never talked with anyone about it like this -before. He had kept it locked within himself, refusing to look at it, -refusing to admit it even to himself. - -"Do your legs hurt now?" she said. - -"A little." His voice was tight. - -"Crawford--" - -"All right. A lot. They hurt like hell. I hurt all over. Does that -satisfy you?" - -"This the river?" she said. - -He pulled the pinto to a stop and stepped off stiffly. He stood there -a moment with his face into the horse, trembling faintly. When he -moved away from the animal, the nebulous pain subsided somewhat in his -loins. Yet the animal's very proximity kept the irritation in his -consciousness. When he pulled the map from his shirt, his hand twitched -spasmodically, and he almost tore the paper. She took the paper from -his uncertain hands, moving into the best of the bizarre light. They -had ridden north in order to strike the Nueces River where the route -on his portion of the _derrotero_ started. The woman hunkered down on -the ground, spreading the paper out. There was something wild about -her figure, crouching there like that, her dark head brooding over -the chart. She looked up abruptly. It caused him to make a small, -involuntary movement, realizing how he had been watching her. He -squatted down beside her, seeing the scarlet tip of her finger descend -to the words printed in Spanish at one end of the chart. - -"Montezuma Embrujada?" - -"Yeah," he said. "You can see them right across the river. I don't know -why they're called the Haunted Ruins. It's just an old Spanish fort -they had here to guard the gold trains coming from the San Saba Mines." - -Her finger moved down the line on the paper to the next spot. "Chapotes -Platas." - -"Silver Persimmons. A bunch of persimmon trees growing about five -miles south of here that look silver in the moonlight. I been by there -sometimes chousing cattle with Delcazar." - -"Tinaja de la Tortuga." Her finger had passed on to the third spot -marked on the upper portion of the map. - -"Turtle Sink, we call it," he said. "There's the biggest old granddaddy -turtle you ever saw living there, but I never saw any water." - -"Veredas Coloradas--" - -"You got me now," he said. "I told you nobody's seen all of the -_brasada_. Delcazar knows more about it than anybody else I ever knew, -but he can't tell me where Snake Thickets are, or what's in Lost -Swamp." - -"This is still on the portion of the map you had," she said. - -He nodded. "It's new brush to me and thicker'n heel flies in spring. It -takes a machete to get through." - -Her finger was trailing on down the line, crossing the jagged tear -in the paper, marking the spots noted on the second portion of the -_derrotero_. "Llano Sacaguista, Puenta Piedra, Resaca Perdida--you -don't know any of these?" - -He shook his head. "I told you. I've never been down that way. I've -heard of some. Puenta Piedra, for instance. There's supposed to be a -natural stone bridge somewhere along the Rio Diablo. And most everybody -in the brush has heard the tales about Lost Swamp." - -"Puenta Piedra is beyond that thick brush," she said. "Why not skirt -that section of the _brasada_ until we strike Rio Diablo? If Puenta -Piedra is somewhere along Rio Diablo, we should find it by following -the river's course. Then maybe we can follow the chart from Puenta -Piedra on down to the Snake Thickets." - -"We won't get back before daylight," he said. - -"I don't care." She rose with a toss of her head. "Let them know we've -been hunting the chest. I told you there wasn't any time left to beat -about the bush." - -"And what have we got when we do reach Snake Thickets?" he said. - -"Don't ask me!" She seemed to allow herself full release for the first -time. Her face was flushed and she swung aboard the copperbottom -viciously. "All I know is I can't sit around that house and wait for -something to happen. The only way to find something is to go out and -hunt for it--" - -She stopped, as she saw him standing there staring at the pinto. It -had a little roan in its black coloring which caused the dark spots to -run over into the white patches, giving a sloppy, splotched effect. It -stirred faintly, snorting. Merida saw what that did to him. - -"Crawford--" - -There was a plea in her voice. She sat quiescent, waiting. His lips -flattened against his teeth. He moved slowly to the pinto, standing -there, staring at the sweaty saddle. The smell of it grew in his -nostrils. He was filled with the impulse to turn and run. His body -twitched with it. - -"Crawford--" - -He put his foot in the stirrup and stepped aboard. - -Silver Persimmons, Turtle Sink, Rio Diablo. They were names on the -chart. They were spots in the brasada. They were names in his head and -their reality blended with black letters on faded parchment. He lost -all sense of time. His only consciousness was of movement. No telling -how long it took them from Haunted Ruins to Silver Persimmons. The -weird brush floated past in a sea of mingled pain and trembling and -sweating. The stark arms of chaparral supplicated the night on every -side. The _cenizo's_ ashen hue had turned a sick lavender from recent -rain, and it reeled biliously into vision and out again. Then Chapotes -Platas were gleaming like newly minted coin beneath the risen moon. The -woman talked sometimes, watching Crawford, in a low, insistent way. - -"My mother was the _curandera_ of the village. You have no idea how -many plants those herb-women can make medicine from. On Saturday we -would go to the river a mile away and gather herbs. I used to enjoy -that. It was as far away from home as I got. The rest was mostly work. -Nothing very nice to remember. Choking to death in the fumes of the -herbs my mother had cooking constantly in the big brass kettle in our -jacal. Rubbing my eyes all day in the smoke. She was stone blind from -that. Grinding corn on the metate. I must have spent half my waking -hours with that metate. Do you blame me for marrying Capitán Mendoza -when he asked? I didn't love him. He was brutal and ugly. But he was -stationed in Mexico City. I was fourteen at the time--" - -Turtle Sink ceased to be inked words on yellowed paper and rose -abruptly from the shadowed depths of the brush--a stony water hole -with sand white as bleached bones covering its bottom and the scarred, -mottled shell of a huge turtle barely visible in the black shadow -beneath one end. They were beyond that when the sound of his breathing -slid momentarily across the uppermost reaches of his consciousness. It -was not as labored, or as harsh. Then it was her voice, floating in -again. - -"After Mendoza died, riding with Diaz, I got a job entertaining in a -cafe near Collegio Militar. It was there I first met Huerta. He taught -me to speak English, gave me my first taste of what money can do. -Tarant had known Huerta before, and when Rockland sent him down to -look into the Delcazar papers, Tarant contacted Huerta to help him. -Huerta was there when Tarant came across the portion of the _derrotero_ -Delcazar's uncle had possessed. That's how Huerta knew Rockland would -have it. When Huerta told me about it, I showed him the portion of the -map I had--" - -Now it was his legs. First it had been his breath, now it was his legs. -He realized they were hanging free against the stirrup leathers. He was -sitting a horse without tension for the first time since Africano had -rolled him. He turned toward Merida. Maybe it was in his face. - -"Your legs don't hurt now, do they?" - -He was almost afraid to speak. "No," he said, with a strange, husky -wonder in his voice. "No." - -He had never seen her smile with such rich sincerity, and her voice -trembled with a strange, joyful excitation. "Then we can, Crawford, we -can!" - -He stared at her, unable to answer. Then he averted his head, lips thin -against his teeth. Could they? He was afraid to answer it. Yet the pain -was gone. He could sit there with the movement of the horse beneath him -and its sweaty fetor reaching his nostrils in vagrant waves and feel no -pain. And with the cessation of his pain, the other things became more -vivid in his consciousness. - -He caught the faint honeyed odor of white brush from a draw to his -right, and drank in its full sweetness for the first time in months. -The woman saw that, and her lips lifted faintly. They reached Rio -Diablo and turned northward on its banks. It was the best water between -the Nueces and the Rio Grande, yet it was no more than a stream, its -mucky course following a sandy bottom that wandered in lazy loops -through the _brasada_. - -"We're crossing Delcazar's old spread now," Crawford told her. "You -can see how much better watering you'd get here than where Rio Diablo -turns into Rockland's holdings. That's why Rockland wanted to get hold -of this stretch. When Rockland's dad first got the Big O, they say the -river was bank full from one end of his pastures to the other. Couple -more years and it will be completely dry there." - -They passed the borders of what had once belonged to Pio Delcazar and -came across a grass-grown pile of stones on a clay bank while it was -still dark, a broken, hand-hewn timber thrusting its jagged end skyward -from the rubble. Crawford dismounted and moved about the area, bending -now and then to squint at certain spots. Then he stared across the -river to where another heap of stones stood on the far bank. - -"Puenta Piedra," he mused, tugging idly at his scraggly black beard. "I -wonder if those stories about a natural stone bridge could have started -from one the Spaniards built on the route south from San Antonio." - -"How does this line up with Tinaja de la Tortuga?" - -He looked upward, turning his head till he found Lucero, and raised his -hand to it. "There's the Shepherd's Star. And the one the Mexicans call -La Guía. They're always fixed in relation to each other. That leaves us -almost due south of Turtle Sink." - -"That tallies with the map," she said, spreading the parchment out -against her horse's neck. "Red Trails must be right in the middle of -that thicket we skirted. And this is the Puenta Piedra they mean. We -have to turn east a little now to strike Llano Sacaguista." - -He got onto the pinto without hesitation this time, and led down -into the brown muck of the shallow water and up the other bank. -Llano Sacaguista proved to be a vast open flat covered with greening -sacaguista grass. He had never traversed these particular flats, and -beyond this was a stretch of brush entirely foreign to him. They left -Rio Diablo for a mile or so and then struck it again. A block in the -river caused by some ancient upheaval rendered the land boggy here. The -hollow boom of bullfrogs mingled with the other night sounds. A 'gator -bellowed somewhere from the depths of the exotic brush. - -"Looks more like East Texas," Crawford muttered. "I wonder if this -could be Lost Swamp." - -He could see the glow of excitement in the woman's eyes now. They -pushed on southward with the false dawn dropping an eerie light through -the brush. The boggy section fell behind, and the natural aridity of -the _brasada_ returned. They were still following the river, though it -was nothing but a dry bed now, the trickle of water having ceased where -it ran into Lost Swamp. A true dawn was bringing light to the sky in -the east when they heard the first sound. It was a thin sibilation, -reminiscent of the mesquite sighing in a light breeze. Crawford moved -his pinto over beside Merida's copperbottom, halting both horses, to -sit there, listening. Then he touched a heel to the pinto's flank, -moving it carefully down into the very center of the river bed. The -brush on either bank grew more dense as they moved on up the dry bed, -and began to gather here in the bottoms now. The sound increased, too. -The faint hissing was veritably ceaseless now, rising and falling in -a sibilant tide. Finally the brush was so thick in the river bed they -were having to force their way through. The pinto was beginning to -fiddle nervously. It shied, finally, and Crawford jerked it to a stop, -a vagrant wave of the old panic gripping him. He sat there a moment, -trying to control his breathing. - -"You wanted to know where Snake Thickets was," he said. "It looks like -we're sitting right on the edge of it." - -There was a vague awe in her voice. "It sounds as if all the snakes in -Texas had gathered here. Crawford--" - -"Don't be loco," he said, seeing it in her eyes. "We wouldn't last two -minutes beyond this spot. If those Mexicans cached anything, it sure -couldn't have been inside here." - -"If?" Her tone was sharp; the excited glow fled her eyes, leaving them -narrow and speculative as she looked at him. "You still don't believe -there is any money." - -"I told you I was skeptical to begin with," said Crawford. - -"But the part of the _derrotero_ you had--" she moved her hand in a -vague, defensive way--"coming all this way, putting up with all that -back there--Quartel, Huerta, Whitehead--surely--" She stopped as it -must have struck her. A reserve crossed her face, tightening the planes -of her cheek, and that speculation deepened in her eyes, accentuating, -somehow, the oblique tilt of her brow. "Maybe I was right the first -time," she said finally. She leaned toward him slightly. "I guess I -should have seen it before this. You're hardly the type, are you? Money -wouldn't mean enough to you to put up with that." She stopped again, -studying him, and then a faint smile stirred her lips. "Which one of -us do you think murdered Otis Rockland?" - -He met her eyes for a moment, almost sullenly. Then a vague unrest -seeped through him. His saddle creaked as he shifted on the pinto, -and he turned his head upward, sniffing. She must have taken it for a -discomfort arising from her scrutiny, for that smile on her lips spread -perceptibly. - -"I didn't think you were that righteous," she said. - -He brought his eyes back to hers with an effort, staring a moment -before he comprehended. "Look," he said, then, with a careful -deliberateness. "I don't give a damn about Rockland being killed. It's -me, see. It's purely a selfish motive. I told you. A man gets tired -after a while. He gets tired jumping like a jack rabbit every time a -tree toad chirps. He gets tired running the brush all day and all night -to keep one jump ahead of those badge-packers. He gets tired living on -raw meat because he's afraid to build a fire, and sleeping in a bunch -of mesquite because he can't get near enough a house to get a blanket, -and scratching his face off because he hasn't even got so much as a -knife to shave with." - -"Then why didn't you leave?" - -He opened his mouth to say it. Then he closed it again, staring at her. -Finally he shrugged sullenly. "It's my country, that's all." - -"Is it?" she said. "Or maybe I'm wrong again. Maybe Quartel was closer -to the truth than any of us. Where do you pin the badge? On your -undershirt?" - -"I didn't think you'd understand," he said. - -"It would be the most logical reason for your staying, through all -that," she said, studying him. "If you really are hoping to find -Rockland's murderer, that would be the most logical reason." - -"Let's close the poke," he said. - -"And maybe that about your legs is wrong, too," her voice probed -relentlessly. "That would be a pretty good blind. Who would suspect -them of sending in a lawman who couldn't even sit a horse?" - -She must have meant it to sting him. He saw some strange satisfaction -in her face as he stiffened perceptibly. - -"No--Merida--" He held out his hand, losing for a moment all sense of -the heavy antipathy which had fallen between them. Then it was that -restlessness, coming again, through the consciousness of her mocking -eyes on him. The pinto began to fiddle around in the sand, and the -woman's copperbottom raised its head, delicate nostrils fluttering. -Merida looked at the animals, frowning. - -"What is it?" she said. - -A puff of wind ruffled Crawford's ducking jacket against his ribs. He -turned in the saddle, staring northward. It was light enough with dawn -now for him to discern the blackening clouds on the horizon, above the -pattern of brush. The breeze whipped through the _brasada_ anew, strong -enough now to drown out the incessant hissing which emanated from -Mogotes Serpientes. Mesquite rattled mournfully to the wind. A mule -deer broke from chaparral with a clatter behind the horses, bounding -across the river bed in frightened leaps. The pinto snorted and began -fighting the bit, whirling in the sand. - -The woman shivered with the sudden chill, calling again, a vague fear -tinging her voice. "What is it?" - -He could hardly answer. The plunging, rearing pinto had filled him -again with that panic, and he was gripping frantically with his legs, -blood thickening in his throat, choking him up, sweat breaking out on -his face. - -"Norther." He finally got it out. "Hits like this sometimes in the -spring. Better get to shelter quick as we can. It looks like hell is -going to pop its shutters. Delcazar used to have an old jacal on the -Diablo. It's south of us somewhere along the bottoms. He and I used to -hole up there when we were hunting--" - -He was fighting the pinto all the time he shouted, and he could hold -it no longer. Frothing at the mouth from battling the bit, the horse -wheeled wildly, tossing its head, and bolted up the bank of the river. -The wind had risen to a veritable gale already, and the ducking jacket -whipped about his torso with a dull slapping sound as the pinto burst -through the first growth of chaparral. A hackberry rose ahead. Crawford -reined the horse aside desperately, sliding off on one flank to get -beneath the branches. He was shaking with panic now, and the pain was -in his tense, quivering legs. - -"Crawford, Crawford--" - -It was Merida's voice behind him. Her animal made a hellish clatter -going through a _mogote_. Then that was drowned in the howl of the -rising gale. Crawford was dimly aware of his own choked sobbing as -he fought to stay on the frenzied pinto and turn it southward toward -Delcazar's jacal. His consciousness of the norther was only secondary -to the terrible animal panic in him. The black clouds had risen like a -pyre of smoke over the northern horizon and were descending on the near -brush like an awesome, clutching hand. Already rain was beginning to -pelt the thickets. The howling wind tore a pendent bunch of mesquite -berries off its bush as Crawford raced by, carrying it into his face. -He shouted aloud at it, clawing wildly at the blinding mass. But -mostly it was the horse beneath him. The writhing heat of its frenetic -movement beating against his legs. The dank smell of its wet body -sweeping him. The coarse black hair of its mane whipping into his face. -The awful demoralizing consciousness of its uncontrollable run carrying -him along. - -He could hear his own choked, incoherent cries. The fear held him in a -shaking, writhing vise now. Nopal clawed his face. A post-oak branch -struck his head with stunning force. He clung to the horse, bawling -insanely, no longer trying to rein it, torn off one side by raking -chaparral, beaten at by the trunk of a hackberry, scratched and ripped -by mesquite. - -"Let go, Crawford." It was Merida, calling shrilly from behind him -somewhere. "Jump, Crawford, please, let go, oh please--" - -"No! no!" - -Had he screamed it? Someone was screaming. His head rocked backward -to a blow. Sensations spun in a kaleidoscope about him. The towering -dominance of a cottonwood reeled around its orbit above him. Mesquite -swept into his vision and out again. Sound and sight and feel became a -confused pattern. Red-topped nopal swam past. The crash of chaparral -dinned in his ears. The gnarled curve of a post oak reeled up and -blotted out his vision with a stunning blow in the face. His own hoarse -scream of agony. The drum of hoofs somewhere beneath him. The shrieking -wind. White brush. Green toboso grass. Brown hackberries. Agony in his -legs. The horse whinnying. White brush. Pain. Grass. Screaming. Trees. -Shouting. Blood. Nopal-- - -"Crawford!" - -He did not know he had left the horse till he found himself crouched -there in a thicket of mesquite, his face against the wet, earthy smell -of dampened grama grass, making small, incoherent sounds. He seemed -in a void, only dimly aware of sound sweeping around him, his awesome -fear the only real thing to him. It clutched his loins and knotted the -muscles across his belly. His legs were still rigid and trembling with -that pain. He was sobbing in a hoarse, choked way. He heard the creak -behind him but didn't know what it was till the woman's voice came -through the haze of primal panic. - -"Crawford--" - -"There. That's it. You've seen it now. All of it. Can we? Hell. How do -you like it? Isn't it pretty?" - -"You should have jumped." She had dropped to her knees before him and -pulled his face up off the ground. The rain had soaked her clothes and -when she drew his head into her arms he felt the soft, wet contour of -her breast through the damp silk shirt. He was still shaken with that -animal fright, and he had no control over his choked, guttural sobbing, -or his words. - -"I couldn't jump. It's always like that. I'm so scared I want to puke -and the only thing I want to do is leave the horse and I can't." His -voice sounded muffled against the supple heat of her body. He had never -let it out like this before, and with the panic and pain and fear -robbing him of all control, he heard all the agony and anguish and -frustration of the last months flooding from him in a wild release. He -was still crouched on the ground, bent into her lap, his face against -her breast, his fingers clutching spasmodically at the grass on either -side of her. - -She soothed him like a child, stroking his head. Finally, the pain -began to die in his legs. The knotted muscles across his belly began to -twitch spasmodically, and then relaxed. It was no longer his hoarse, -sobbing words against her body. It was only his labored breathing. The -full realization of what had happened struck him, and he forced his -head back in her arms till he was far enough away to see her face. The -flush of a sudden shame swept darkly into his cheeks. She saw it, and -her eyes widened with a tortured compassion. - -"No, Crawford, no, please," she said, in a husky voice, and put her -palms against his cheeks and pulled his head to one side. Her position -gave weight to the leverage of her hands, and he found himself lying -with his back on the ground, with his knees twisted beneath him and -Merida bending over from her sitting position. - -He had thought about it, before, enough times. A man did, with such a -woman. But none of it had equaled this. All the shame was swept away. -The sounds of the storm were blotted out. His whole consciousness -was of the straining tension of her body against him and the moist -resilience of her lips meeting his. Finally she lifted her head, and he -could see that her eyes were closed. She sat that way a moment, without -opening them, her blouse caught wetly across the curving rise and fall -of her breast. He lay staring up at her, and it was not the fear or -the pain or the shame any longer in him, or even the passion which had -swept him in that brief, violent moment. Opening her eyes, she must -have seen it in his twisted, wet face. - -"Crawford," she said in a strained voice. "Crawford, what is it? What -do you want?" - - - - - _Chapter Eleven_ - - OLD FRIENDS REUNITED - - -The Mexicans constructed the roofs of their jacals by laying willow -shoots in a herringbone pattern across the bare vigas which formed the -rafters, and then piling a foot or so of earth atop the shoots. It was -this pattern Crawford saw when he first opened his eyes. Then it was -the estufa, built of adobe, in one corner of the room, with a raised -hearth and a cone-shaped opening in front, the hood rounding from the -center to each wall with two mantels terraced back toward the chimney. -It was over this oven that the old man stood. - -"Delcazar!" - -Crawford's voice turned the aged Mexican, a rusty black frying pan -still held in one gnarled fist. His face was seamed like an ancient -satchel, and he squinted with the effort of focusing his rheumy eyes -on Crawford. His soiled white cotton shirt hung slack from stooped, -bony shoulders, and the inevitable _chivarras_ were on his skinny -legs, glistening with daubs of grease. They gazed at each other in an -uncomfortable silence, and finally Delcazar made a vague movement with -the frying pan. - -"Hard to know what to say," he mumbled. "After such a long time, and -all that's happened." - -"Yeah." Crawford put the rotting bayeta blanket off him, moving his -arms and legs tentatively, grimacing with the pain it caused him. Hail -had come after that first downpour of rain, and the white skin of his -shoulders was marked with small purple bruises. He sat up, swinging -his legs off, watching the Mexican. "I remember we had a terrible time -in that storm. Last I recollect is trying to build a fire beneath some -coma trees." - -"That must have been a long time before I find you," said Delcazar. -"I was in my jacal here when I hear somebody yelling my name. You was -carrying Merida across your shoulder. Both near froze to death. I put -you to bed like that time in Austin when the red-eye got you." He saw -how Crawford was looking around the dim room, and Delcazar grinned -hesitantly. "She's out getting water for the coffee." - -They were still watching one another that way, waiting, and Crawford -waved his hand around the room. "I didn't think you'd hide out here." - -Delcazar bent toward him, squinting. "Hide out? How do you mean?" - -"A lot of people know about it," said Crawford. "I should think it -would be the first place they'd look." - -"They?" Then Delcazar seemed to understand. He pointed at himself with -a thumb. "You think--that I--I--" He halted with a confused grunt, -staring at Crawford. "Then--you didn't?" - -"Don't you know?" said Crawford. - -"_Dios_, no," said Delcazar. "How could I know? Bueno told me how you -threaten Rockland after Africano rolled you. I thought--" he gave a -short, rueful laugh--"I guess I even hoped--" - -He trailed off, shrugging hopelessly again, and Crawford bent toward -him. "Del, are you trying to tell me you didn't kill Rockland?" - -"Trying!" The old man bristled. "Trying to tell you? You doubt my--" -He broke off, staring at Crawford. When he spoke again, it was simply, -without vehemence. "No, Crawford. I didn't. I thought you did. You're -on Bible Two. There was a couple of Rangers in the brush. Torbirio -spoke with them. He tell me they had you on the fugitive list." - -His face darkened, and he turned away from Crawford, setting the frying -pan down. From one of the terraced shelves he took a grease-soaked -paper, unwrapping it from about the piece of bacon, rubbing the meat -sparingly across the frying pan. - -"Isn't that the same piece of side meat you had when we were here -last?" said Crawford. - -Delcazar tried to smile. "Almost, I guess. Some day I have a hog of my -own and we grease the pan with a fresh piece every morning." - -"You said you hoped I had killed Rockland," Crawford murmured, watching -Delcazar's back. "Why?" - -"_Nada_," said Delcazar. "_Nada._" - -Crawford's levis had been drying over the fire, and he rose to get -them. "Because if I had done it, the whole thing could have been -nothing more than the quarrel between me and Rockland?" - -The old man pulled a pot of boiled beans out and dumped them into the -frying pan. "Frijoles _fritos_, Crawford. You always like them." - -"But if it wasn't me who did it," said Crawford, pulling on his damp -levis, "there would have to be some other reason for Rockland being -murdered. Santa Anna's chests, for instance." He saw Delcazar's whole -body stiffen. The beans started to hiss as the flames licked at the -bottom of the frying pan. "What do you know, Del?" said Crawford. - -"_Nada, nada._" The old man turned around, rising with effort. "I don't -know nothing." - -"Your uncle was the _capitán_ of that mule train," said Crawford. - -"My mother tell me that," said Delcazar. "I never seen him. He died in -Mexico City when I was a little _niño_." - -"Then why are you so het-up if you don't know anything about it?" - -"It's dangerous, Crawford," said Delcazar, catching at his arm. "It's -the most dangerous thing ever hit this brush. You better get out of it -while you're still alive. It's got the whole _brasada_ going now. No -telling how many are mixed up in it now. The Mexican government has an -agent up here somewhere." - -"Huerta?" - -"The man at Rockland's?" said Delcazar. "I don't think so." - -"Huerta was the one who told me about your uncle," said Crawford. -"Funny nobody has come hunting you. You're a logical link." - -"They have," said Delcazar. "I wasn't here to greet them." - -"Who?" - -"That ramrod Tarant hired to clean out the brush," said Delcazar. "Him -and his whole _corrida_." - -"Quartel?" Crawford's eyes narrowed, staring past Delcazar. "I hadn't -thought of him." - -"You better think of him. You better think about everybody, Glenn. No -telling who's in it, now, and who ain't. No telling who's going to -come up behind you next. I hear they take your Henry away--" He turned -and squatted by the mess of saddle rigging and blankets in the corner, -rummaging around till he came up with a wooden-handled bowie--"Here, -it's all I have. I know it seems silly, but you got to have something. -I wish I had a gun. That old Remington I owned blew up." He stopped -again, clutching Crawford's arm. "Glenn, you ain't going back?" - -"Why else did you give me the knife?" - -The old man let his hand slide off. - -"I guess so. I know you." He sniffled, rubbing peevishly at his -coffee-colored nose with a calloused index finger. "I guess there ain't -any use trying to keep you from it. They couldn't keep you from it with -Whitehead. What are you after there, Glenn?" - -_Puntales_ of peeled cedar formed the doorframe. Crawford hefted the -bowie in his hand, flipped it into the cedar post with a deft twist of -his hand. He walked across the room and pulled it free. - -"We found Snake Thickets before the norther hit, Del," he said. - -The old man grunted. "You're doing it wrong for a short throw like -that. Let me show you." - -Crawford had been holding the bowie by the tip of its blade and -throwing it from back over his shoulder, allowing it to flip over once -in the air before it struck. Delcazar palmed the heavy knife with the -hilt against his wrist and the blade on his fingers. He threw it from -his hip, point foremost. It struck with a dull thud. Crawford went over -to the post. The blade was embedded half an inch deeper than his throws -had sent it in. Standing there in the doorway, he turned back to the -old man, squinting at him. Delcazar sniffled that way again, rubbing -his nose, not meeting Crawford's eyes. - -"I told you, Glenn, I never even seen Mogotes Serpientes. If you find -it, okay. But I never even seen it. I thought it was just a story, like -Resaca Perdida." - -"We saw Lost Swamp too," said Crawford. "Snake Thickets was the most -interesting, though. You should have heard it. Sounded like those -beans, only ten times as much. Must be a million snakes in those -_mogotes_." He paced back to Delcazar, palming the knife as the old man -had this time, throwing it with a grunt. With the blade quivering in -the cedar post, he turned part way to the Mexican. "I guess you know -what the woman came from Mexico for. She thinks it's somewhere in Snake -Thickets." - -Delcazar was shorter than Crawford, and he had to turn his head up to -meet the younger man's eyes. "Listen, Glenn," he said soberly, "I don't -know what you're in this for. I've heard a lot of reasons. Quartel -thinks you got a badge tacked on you somewhere. That might be. A man -can get a new job in the time you been away from the brush. Bueno -Bailey said something about trying to clear yourself of Rockland's -murder. That may be, too. If you didn't kill Rockland, maybe the man -who did is at the Big O spread. Personally, I no care whether you -killed Rockland or not or why you're here. I just no want to see you -messed up in it, that's all. I know you before, and I no want to see -you messed up in it. Take my advice as an _amigo_. Forget Mogotes -Serpientes. Forget the whole thing. Get out of it. Get out of it right -now." - -Crawford scratched his beard, squinting into the old man's eyes -thoughtfully. "You know, Del, it just strikes me. Two men can be -friends for a long time, and not really know each other very well." - -"Ah, _carajo_," growled Delcazar, shuffling back to hunker over the -fire. - -Crawford watched him stir the steaming beans. "Is there a way into -Snake Thickets, Del?" - -"_Nada_," grumbled the old man. "I don't know. I don't know nothing." - -There was a muffled sound from outside, and then Merida was standing -silhouetted in the doorway, staring at Crawford. All his weight lay -in his chest and shoulders, and below the line of dark sunburn that -covered his face and neck, the skin was pale and white and so thin -as to gleam almost translucently over the musculature lying quilted -across his upper back. He became aware of how long Merida had gazed at -him like that, without speaking, and turned farther toward her. The -myriad striations that formed the heavy roll of muscle capping his -shoulders were clearly defined, and the abrupt movement caused a faint -ripple beneath the skin, like the stir of a sleepy snake. Merida smiled -strangely as she entered with a big clay jug of water. - -"_Cimarrón_," she said. - -"What?" he asked. - -"_Cimarrón_," she said. "_Ladino._ I never could quite think of what -you reminded me of. Now I know. One of those wild outlaw cattle Quartel -brings in from the brush. Sullen, like them. Bitter. Even built like -them. Their weight all up in their shoulders, running the brush so -constantly they melt the beef off till--" - -She stopped short, a strange, indulgent smile catching at her mouth as -she saw the puzzled expression in his face. He turned to pull his shirt -off the estufa. Merida moved after him, till she stood close behind. -Delcazar was across the room, pulling a twist of chili from where he -had hung it on a viga. Merida spoke in a low tone that the old man -would not hear. - -"What was it out there, Glenn?" - -"When do you mean?" he said, without turning around. - -"You know when I mean," she said. "After I'd kissed you. The way you -looked. That expression on your face." - -"Nothing," he said stiffly. He couldn't tell her, somehow, if she -didn't know. It just wasn't in him to express his own terrible -incapacity again, to her. For that was what it had been, out there, -after the kiss. The bitter, unutterable realization that no matter how -much he wanted her, he was completely unworthy of such a woman, and -could never have her. - -"It was something," said Merida, tensely, trying to turn him around, -"tell me, Crawford, tell me--" - -"Hola, Delcazar!" shouted someone, from outside, halting Merida. The -old man whirled about, dropping the chili. Quartel had come into view, -outside, across the clearing from the doorway, moving into the open -from the brush in stiff, tentative steps, his Chihuahuas tinkling -softly. He was leading his own _trigueño_ and the copperbottom Merida -had ridden. Crawford made an abortive move toward the door, but -Delcazar caught him. - -"_Buenos días_," said Delcazar, stepping then into view. - -"I found Merida's horse down in the bottoms," Quartel told him. "I -thought they might--ah, the flash rider himself." - -He must have seen them behind Delcazar. Crawford pushed past the old -man into the open, and saw the morning sunlight catch Quartel's white -teeth in that pawky grin. The brush held a torn, rended look after the -norther, great holes ripped in the mesquite thicket behind Quartel, -mesquite berries littering the ground. The copperbottom shifted -wearily, rattling its bridle. - -"How did you find us?" said Crawford. - -"I trailed you," said Quartel. - -"That's some trailing." - -Quartel shrugged. "Believe it or not. I don't care. There was someone -at the Big O looking for you." - -"Yeah?" - -"_Sí._ I misjudged you, Crawford. Let me apologize for thinking -you were a lawman." Merida made a small strained sound from behind -Crawford, and Quartel grinned at her. "_Sí_, Merida. This man looking -for Crawford don't pin it on his undershirt, either. He has it right -out where everybody can see. He's hunting Crawford all right. He says -he's got orders to shoot him on sight." - - - - - _Chapter Twelve_ - - CONQUEROR AND CONQUERED - - -It was twilight of the same day that Quartel had found them at -Delcazar's jacal. Crawford and Merida had ridden double on the -copperbottom back to the Big O, where Merida had gone up to her room -to change, while Crawford washed up in the kitchen. No one was in -evidence when Crawford returned to the living-room for a drink, feeling -exhausted and battered from that night in the storm and the long ride -back. He was no connoisseur, his experience with good liquor limited -to the few times he had drunk Rockland's potables here, and he was at -a loss to choose from the array of glittering bottles and decanters in -the sideboard. He sampled one labeled _curaçao_ and found it too sweet -for his taste. Finally he settled on some armagnac, pouring himself -a stiff jolt and moving toward the French windows. He had meant to -sit down in one of the willow chairs, but the strange silence outside -caught his attention. - -It was unnatural for this time of day. There was no wind, and the -mesquite berries hung in motionless clusters from drooping trees. Dusk -clouded farther thickets, and only the nearest growths took form. The -low mats of chaparral crouched like waiting cats in the gloom. The -warped dead hackberry by the wagon road thrust skeleton arms skyward. -It seemed to be waiting for something too. That oppressive sense of -expectancy bore in on Crawford, and he emptied half the glass at one -gulp, squinting his eyes as the brandy burned his throat. It did not -help. Waiting. The sickish sweet scent of the _lluvia de oro_ twining -itself through the lattice of the front porch was so oppressive in the -hot, still air that it nauseated him. Waiting-- - -The sound of someone rushing down the stairs caused him to turn toward -the door. It was Merida, and he was surprised to see she had not -changed from the torn, dirty leggings she had ridden in. Then he saw -the expression on her face. - -"Where's Quartel?" she cried. - -"He went down to the bunkhouse I guess," Crawford told her, frowning. -"What is it?" - -"He was right." - -"Who was right?" - -"Quartel," she said, coming across the room in still, tense steps, her -eyes fixed to his face. "Nexpa saw him." - -"Quartel?" - -"No," she said. "Crawford, don't you understand? Nexpa saw him from an -upstairs bedroom. He's out in the brush and he's coming back." - -It struck him, then, whom she meant, and his fingers tightened -involuntarily around the glass. "The lawman?" She stared at him -without answering, her mouth working faintly. He realized his fingers -ached, and he eased his grip on the glass. "That's crazy, Merida. No -badge-packer would come in here like that. Even Sheriff Kenmare was -afraid to follow me this far. Nexpa must be mistaken." She shook her -head, the planes of her face taut and strained-looking, her eyes glued -in that wide, frightened way to his. He made a small, frustrated motion -with the glass, his voice growing hoarse. "She must be, Merida. No -lawman. Not even a Texas Ranger." She shook her head again, emitting -a small, sobbing sound. He bent toward her tensely, his chest moving -perceptibly with the breath passing through it. He was remembering -what Delcazar had said. Bible Two? "It _is_ a Ranger?" Crawford almost -whispered. - -She caught his arm, the words torn from her. "You've got to get out, -Crawford. Before he reaches here." - -"Ranger," he muttered, almost to himself, turning to get past her -toward the door. "It can't be--" - -"Too much time, Crawford," she said swiftly, blocking him from that -direction. "Can't you understand? He's coming back. You won't even be -able to cross the compound before he's here. You won't even be able to -reach the brush. You'll never make it on foot, Crawford." - -He stared down at her twisted face. "What are you saying?" - -"There's one in the small corral," she said. "Nexpa told me. It's one -of Jacinto's, so it won't be spooky." - -It took him a moment to comprehend what she meant, and then it escaped -him in a strangled way. "Think I can do it that way?" - -"You've got to." She was close to crying now, the tears glistening in -her eyes. "There isn't any other way, Crawford. Can't you understand? -You've got to. Right now. You'll never make it to the brush. It's twice -as far as the corral. You'd be out there in the open, and you'd be a -clay pigeon. Your only chance is the corral." - -"No!" He tried to break free of her grip on his arm. "I can't. You know -I can't. You saw, out there in the storm, with that pinto." - -"You can!" she cried. "You've got to, Crawford, you've got to." - -He stared down into her twisted, pale face. Then, with a guttural, -inarticulate sound, he whirled to the French windows, opening one -farther, and stepped out onto the porch. He stood a moment behind the -screen of yellow _lluvia de oro_ covering the lattice. The silence -lay across the compound so thick it almost gagged him. Waiting. There -it was again. His shoulders hunched forward, and his whole tense body -had taken on the look of a hunted animal. He stared furtively down the -length of the porch. His shirt was wringing wet with sweat now. - -"Crawford--" - -It came from Merida, standing in the window behind him. Without turning -around, he moved down the steps, his boots making a clatter in the -silence. Then he was moving across the ground in an urgent, shuffling -gait, his narrow, dark head turning ceaselessly from side to side. He -realized he was still holding the glass, and threw it from him with -a muffled curse. With every step nearer the corral, something seemed -to be contracting about his heart. He was fighting for breath, and -sweat had turned his beard soggy when he reached the fence. In the -semi-gloom, he could barely make out the shape of the horse. This was -the corral they broke broncs in, built in three sections, the largest -section on this side, with a chute at the other end, and beyond that, -a small, tight holding corral not much bigger than a stall, where they -held the animals before putting them into the chute to be saddled. It -had been Otis Rockland's boast that this smaller section was built -so hog-tight and bull-tight it would hold the wildest bronc that -ever double-shuffled. The heavy, reinforced cedar bars were so close -together a man could not crawl between them but had to go through the -gate. This gate itself was built so that it would close automatically, -a rawhide rope run from its frame through a pulley on the overhead -structure with a bucket of sand hanging at its end. Whenever the gate -was open the weight of the sand bucket pulled it closed again, and the -drop bar fell automatically into its sockets on the outside. - -Crawford stopped at this gate, glancing from one side to another at the -brush. There was a small crackle behind the bunkhouse. With a startled -abruptness, he pulled the rope that hoisted the drop bar from its -sockets and lifted it above the top of the gate, allowing the portal -to swing open. The bar would not drop back into position as long as -the gate was ajar. Holding the gate open, Crawford found a rock large -enough to wedge beneath the bottom bar and keep the sand bucket's -weight from pulling the gate closed when he let go. The horse inside -snorted softly. Crawford stiffened by the gate post. Then, his whole -body so tense the muscles ached, he took a forced, jerky step toward -the animal. The horse snorted again, louder. It had been hitched to -the corral and, as Crawford drew near, the animal began tugging at the -reins nervously. - -"Easy, boy, easy." Crawford tried to make his voice soft and -reassuring, but it came out tight, harsh. "You're going to break your -headstall. Easy, you jughead." - -But as he drew near, the horse's efforts to get free became wilder. It -whinnied shrilly and reared up. The sound halted Crawford in the middle -of the corral, his whole body a rigid line. The reins pulled free of -their half hitch on the cedar-post bar, and the animal wheeled away -from Crawford toward the far corner of the small corral. Crawford's -movements were forced, now, as he moved to catch the animal in that -corner. He bent forward slightly to peer at the lines of the beast. The -darkness revealed only a hazy impression of broad rump and viciously -churning hind legs and a roached mane. The stirrup leathers flapped -loosely as the animal moved down the fence, trapped in the corner now -by Crawford's advance. He was close to it when the horse wheeled with a -strangled, screaming sound and broke toward him in a rush. - -"No!" - -It escaped Crawford in a hoarse shout. He stood there a moment longer, -staring at the horse, his whole face contorted. Then he threw himself -to one side, and the animal galloped past. It saw the partly open -gate and was in a dead run by the time it reached that side. But in -its frantic rush, the beast struck the opening partly broadside, rump -crashing against the gate, head slamming into the fence post. The horse -reeled back, screaming in rage, and wheeled to go through headfirst. -But the blow of its body had jarred loose the rock Crawford had wedged -beneath the gate, and the heavy bucket of sand descended with a rush -to the ground, slamming the gate shut before the horse reached it. The -drop bar outside fell into its sockets with a thud, about the same -time the charging horse struck the gate once more. The whole corral -shuddered with the impact, but the gate held firm. The dazed horse -staggered away from the fence, making thwarted, guttural sounds of pain. - -Crawford realized he was trembling now. Pain swept up his legs, and the -muscles across his belly began to jump and knot. Still dazed, the horse -wheeled about wildly. It caught sight of him again, and all its enraged -bestial instincts must have pinned the cause of its pain on Crawford, -for the animal screamed once more and rushed him. - -"No," shouted Crawford, again, his voice choked with the terrible -reasonless fear that inundated him. He whirled and leaped to the high -fence, trying to climb it. But he heard the pound of the animal's -hoofs behind, and realized he would never make the top in time, and -threw himself off. As he rolled to the ground, the animal crashed into -the fence where he had been a moment before. Crawford stumbled to his -feet, starting in a wild run for the gate which led into the chute. -But he saw before he reached it that it was shut tight too. He turned -to the other gate, his whole consciousness filled with the sound of -the panting, whinnying, snorting animal behind him. At the portal, he -tried to reach through and lift the drop bar from its sockets, but the -cedar-post log was too heavy. He grabbed the gate, heaving at it madly. -The horse was trotting back and forth on the other side of the small -corral in a dazed way, shaking its head, snorting. Crouched weakly on -his knees by the gate, trembling and shuddering, Crawford tried to keep -his voice down, hoping he would not arouse the horse again. - -"Jacinto," he called. "I'm in the corral. The bar's dropped on this -gate in the corral and I'm trapped inside with Africano. Jacinto, come -and get me out--" - -There was no sound from outside. He sagged there, panting, the pain -clutching at him spasmodically, clenching his teeth in a desperate -battle against the fear. - -"Merida! Can't you hear me? Somebody. Jacinto! Come and let me out. -The bar's dropped and Africano's in here. That killer's in here and -I can't get out. Merida." His voice rose and he began shaking at the -gate again. "Someone hear me! Merida! Jacinto! I'm locked in with that -black killer--" He was screaming now, throwing himself bodily at the -door like a frenzied animal--"Damn you, come and get me out, damn you, -Merida, you put that _puro negro_ in here, you knew I'd be trapped -in here with Africano, someone, come and let me out, for God's sake, -Jacinto, let me out, Aforismo, can't you hear me, you can hear me, damn -you, oh, God damn you--" - -He stopped, huddled against the door, sobbing uncontrollably, realizing -his own screams had set the black off again. Crawford jumped away as -the horse came at him, stumbling and rolling in the dirt, bawling like -a baby, too far gone to realize clearly what he was doing. He tried to -claw up the fence again. But that pain in his legs and his terrible -fear robbed him of much control. His boots beat a futile tattoo on the -bars, seeking the openings in between. His bloody hands clawed blindly -for holds. And the fence was too high for him to reach the top before -the horse crossed the small corral. Over his shoulder he could see the -animal coming. - -"No! no! no--" - -His wild bellow was cut off as the animal spun broadside against -him. He heard his own crushed roar of pain, and he fell off into the -dirt, his arms instinctively going over his head to protect them from -flailing hoofs as he rolled away. The horse was as wild and frenzied -as Crawford now. Two beasts filled the narrow confines of the corral -with their crazed screams, forming shadowy, thundering, pounding, -running shapes back and forth between the fences, the whole structure -shuddering as one or the other smashed into the sides. Crawford did not -try again to climb the fence. Hands bloody, clothes covered with dirt, -shirt torn, all his wild concentration was on avoiding the mad, blind -rushes of the killer horse. He found himself backed up against the door -leading into the chute, facing the charging horse. He threw himself -bodily aside, and the animal crashed into the door. Panels cracked and -splintered, and corral posts groaned with the strain. The _puro negro_ -stumbled back, blood streaming from its head, eyes showing their whites -in the gathering darkness, foam dripping from its jaw. - -Crawford had rolled across the short space to the side fence. And -crouching there now, watching the horse wheeling and circling, seeking -him, a terrible blinding anger swept him, blotting out for a moment -the awful fear and pain. They thought they could do this to him? They -thought they could lock him in a stall with a killer? The hell-- - -He dove aside again as the horse rushed, feeling no pain in his legs as -he landed, feeling no panic, feeling only that utter rage, scalding, -vitriolic, cleansing. - -"You think you can do this to me?" he found himself shouting. "Merida? -You think you can lock me in here like this? Damn you, Merida!" He -moved in front of the door to the chute, yelling crazily at the animal. -"Come on, Africano, here I am, you bastard, here I am, come on, see me, -damn you, come on--" - -Dirt spurted beneath the churning hoofs as the horse charged and reared -above the man. Crawford waited till the last moment, jumped aside. -Panels cracked and split again as twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh -crashed against the gate. The horse staggered off, whirled back to -Crawford. - -Gasping, Crawford pawed sweat from his eyes, dodged aside. The _puro -negro_ caught itself before plunging into the fence there, whirling on -one hind foot and changing its lead in mid-air to rush Crawford again -with a frenzied scream. He put himself in front of the chute door again. - -Once more it was the horse's wild scream and the leap aside and the -maddened animal shaking the whole corral as it crashed into the door. -Another panel cracked, and hinges creaked, and the door sagged outward. -Blood covering its head, the black whirled and came at Crawford -sideways. It didn't give him enough room on either side, and the -black's shoulder caught him as he tried to jump away from the rear -fence. He went down, rolling up against the side with a force that -stunned him. - -The horse had smashed into the rear fence, and it backed away, shaking -its head. Sensing Crawford at its side, the animal turned, shifting its -weight to kick. - -Crawford saw the movement and knew what it meant, and not even hearing -his own shout, he clawed up the fence and threw himself directly at the -horse's rump. His weight struck the black hocks, and, without leverage, -all the kick did was throw him bodily back against the cedar logs. -With almost human cunning, Africano jumped forward to clear the space -between them so it could catch Crawford with the full force of its -kick. He rolled under the hoofs as they lashed out. One of them caught -his shoulder and he screamed in agony. Then he was up against the door -again. - -He didn't know how many more times he drew the black into that door -before the portal collapsed. It was all a wild haze of choking dirt -and soggy sweat and salty blood and lashing hoofs. Time and time again -he waited there at the gate till the last moment, and then jumped -free, allowing the horse to batter on into it. And finally, with the -whole corral shuddering with the impact, the black crashed through -the portal, tearing its lower half clear out and carrying the upper -portion of the gate about its head and neck as it stumbled on into the -chute. The opposite door to the chute had been left open, and the horse -went on through into the larger corral. - -Pawing blood and sweat off his face, drawing in a great gulp of air, -Crawford staggered out after the animal. It was logical that Merida -should have taken this long to hear the racket from the house, but -the men from the bunkhouse should have reached the corrals long ago. -Jacinto was at the fence with Merida, and Quartel was coming up in his -hard-heeled run, followed by Aforismo and the others. - -"Crawford," cried Jacinto, "get out between the bars! You can do it -now. While Africano's still fighting the door. Are you loco? He's a -killer. He'll run you down. You can get away now." - -"No," gasped Crawford, "no," and ran on toward the horse where it had -dragged the chute door clear out into the middle of the corral. He -wasn't finished yet. He knew he had to do it now or never, while the -anger still blotted out his fear. He worked the _puro negro_ into a -corner and got close enough to jerk the shattered door off its neck. -The horse tried to break away, but Crawford threw himself in front of -it, getting the frenzied, lathered animal back against the fence. One -of the hands was belatedly climbing the fence with a rope. Crawford did -not wait; he moved in toward the horse. - -Screaming like a woman, Africano charged straight at him. There hadn't -been enough room between them for the beast to gain much momentum, -however. Crawford met it almost head-on, throwing himself partly aside -only at the last moment, grabbing the roached mane with one hand and -hooking his other arm around beneath the neck and letting the horse's -shoulder slam into his hip, throwing him up and over. - -"Crawford," he heard Jacinto scream, "oh, you fool, Crawford." - -He didn't hear any more, then, except the horse's wild, frenzied sounds -and the horse's drumming hoofs. He didn't see any more except the black -devil beneath him, doing everything within the scope of its vicious -cunning to get him off. - -It bucked, and he took every jarring drop screaming triumphantly at the -agony it caused him. It rolled, and instead of stepping clear off and -waiting till the horse came up again, he rode its belly around, eyes -open wide, dodging the death in its flailing legs. There was an insane -frustration in the black's eyes as it came onto its feet again and -found the man had never left it. The horse rolled again, directing its -kicks this time. Still Crawford was on when it came up. - -He rolled it from one side of the corral to the other, until it had -enough of that, and began going over backward. A man stepping off then -would have ultimately lost his touch with the horse too. But Crawford -rode its neck when it twisted onto its hips and rode its head when it -put its rump into the ground and rode its belly while it was upside -down. - -The horse rose into a veritable orgasm of mad bucking, pin-wheeling, -sunfishing, humping up and coming down with all four feet planted, and -knocking most of the consciousness from Crawford every time it landed. -Crawford was bleeding at the nose and ears, face covered with blood and -sweat, clothes black with dirt. His whole world was one of shocking, -jarring pain and a grim, terrible concentration on finishing this. - -The horse began rolling again, trying desperately to get the man under -its black body, and Crawford went with it, crying openly now, pawing -blindly for holds, head rocking as a hoof caught him, lying over the -animal's back with his nose streaming blood on its dirty hide. - -Finally he felt the animal come to a stop beneath him, legs trembling, -barrel heaving, lather dripping off it white as snow. Crawford slumped -over, hearing his own sobbing, not knowing whether the wet on his face -was sweat or blood or both. He waited for the animal to gather itself -again. It didn't. Finally Crawford slid off and his legs collapsed -beneath him; he grabbed the horse's cannon bone and pulled himself to -his knees, then the mane and pulled himself erect. He bent over and was -sick. Choking weakly, he saw them coming from the corral. - -"Get away, stay away. I'm taking this horse back in. You wanted him for -cow work? You got him." Merida swam into his vision, and he spat out -blood and teeth before he could speak again. "And maybe you don't know -it, Merida, but you did me a big favor. Yeah. A _big_ favor." - - - - - _Chapter Thirteen_ - - VIOLENCE IN THE BUNKHOUSE - - -The morning sun had not yet warmed the mud walls of the bunkshack -through, and the dank reek of adobe filled the dog-run as Crawford -passed down its narrow corridor toward the kitchen, still limping -with the pain of his ride on Africano the evening before. Coming from -the run, he almost knocked over Jacinto, who had been sitting propped -against the wall on a three-legged stool, his head bent forward on his -fat chest. - -"What are you doing?" said Crawford. - -The huge cook had barely caught himself from falling, and he blinked -sleepy eyes up at Crawford in surprise. "Sitting on a stool." - -"You been sitting there all night," Crawford accused him. - -Jacinto looked sheepishly at the prodigious butcher knife across his -lap. "No--I--I just--" He waved the blade suddenly at the room. "Well, -why not, you been sleeping up at the big house, and now you come -down here, and after all that about Whitehead, and everything else, -_sacramento_, how is a man to know what might happen--" - -Crawford gazed at him soberly. "_Gracias, amigo_," he said. - -Jacinto grinned in embarrassment, turning to shuffle toward the stove. -He put the knife down with a clatter and got the big coffeepot to fill -it with water at the butt. When he had it on to boil, he took three -clay bowls off a shelf and put them on the table. Seating himself at a -bench before the bowls, he spoke again. - -"You feel all right this morning?" - -Crawford was standing in the doorway, staring emptily toward the house. -"No," he said. "Beaten to a pulp." - -"I'll fix you some Romero steak," said Jacinto. From the dull red clay -bowl he fumbled a grain of corn, carefully picking out the black base -with his teeth and spitting it into a second, a blue bowl, dropping the -remainder of the kernel into the third, a yellow container. He gave -Crawford a sidelong glance. "You told Merida she did you a favor last -night. How did you mean?" - -"Never mind," said Crawford. - -Jacinto plucked another grain from the red bowl, picking out the base -with his teeth. "You think she put Africano in there?" - -"What else?" said Crawford. "Did you see any Rangers around?" - -"No," said Jacinto, frowning at him. - -"Neither did anybody else," said Crawford. "There weren't any." - -Jacinto took out another grain of corn, waving it at Crawford. "You -mean you thought you was running from a Ranger?" - -Crawford turned away impatiently, pacing toward the door. "That's what -she told me." - -"_Por supuesto_," said Jacinto. "Why should Merida do such a thing?" - -"Good way to get rid of me as any," said Crawford bitterly. - -Jacinto studied him a moment, smiling in a hesitant, puzzled way. Then -he tipped the yellow bowl so Crawford could see it was full of pale -corn kernels. "Now I have _tortillas_ white as the sand in Arroyo -Blanco." Grunting, he bent forward to pull the metate nearer his bench, -a large oblong block of pumice stone, hollowed out in the upper surface -from countless grindings with the pumice rolling pin they called a -mano. He poured the hollowed portion full of the corn kernels. "Why -should she want to get rid of you?" he said, without looking up. - -"I guess she had a good reason," said Crawford. - -Jacinto took up the mano, began to grind the corn, the hulls working to -the edge of the metate like scum along the edge of a water hole. "That -day of the bull-tailing, when you and Merida went out into the brush. -You found what you wanted?" - -"Let's not talk about it," said Crawford. - -"And maybe you and her was the only ones who knew where it was, then, -no?" said Jacinto. With the edge of his fat hand, he shoved the -collection of hulls off into the blue bowl, which contained the black -bases he had spit out. "You think that's why she did it?" - -Crawford's head jerked from side to side. When he spoke, the -frustration was evident in his voice. "How do I know? How do I know -anything? Sure we found what we were looking for. You know what it was. -Everybody knows. Why do you all keep beating around the thicket this -way? Mogotes Serpientes. You know that. Maybe she and I are the only -ones who know how to get there. And if I was out of the way, she would -be the only one to know. It's what she came up here in the first place -for, isn't it? She didn't even try to deny she put that killer horse in -there. It's the best reason I can think of." - -Jacinto poured a little water into the corn left on the metate, began -grinding it again with the mano. "Is it?" - -Crawford turned sharply from the door. "What do you mean?" - -The paste of corn meal and water Jacinto now had was called masa. He -began to pat it into thin _tortillas_. The _comal_, heating over an -open fire, was a large plate upon which he cast the _tortillas_ to -bake, without salt, leavening, or grease. - -"I am not too astute in affairs of the heart," said the cook, drawing -a heavy breath and wiping sweat off his fat face, "but I have had a -few, and have drawn some conclusions about women from them, which I -think are as accurate as any conclusions about women can be. They will -do strange things when they are in love, Crawford, often cruel things, -or brutal. Love to them, when they are enmeshed within it, is all of -life, is their whole existence. They will fight for it with their last -breath. They will go to any extreme for it. Merida is no ordinary -woman. You have seen her fire. You know her depths." - -"You're riding a pretty muddy creek," said Crawford. - -"I'll clear the water," said Jacinto. "Just give me time. Merida came -to you for help, didn't she?" - -"You might call it that." - -"All right. But she knew you could never be much help in the state you -were in. You told me she tried to aid you in conquering it that day you -left the bull-tailing." - -"So what. Huerta acted like he wanted to help me once too. It was only -part of the game he was playing." - -"_Lástima de Dios_," cried Jacinto, clapping fat hands to his brow. -"Pity of God. Now I know you must be as loco about Merida as she is -about you. Only a man in love could be that blind. Can't you see what -she did? That day you and she rode into the _brasada_ must have made -Merida realize, finally, that the only way you could conquer your fear -was to ride Africano again. And she wanted to see you conquer your -fear, Crawford. More than anything else. More, even, than finding what -she came up here for. More, even, than having you live. She didn't want -a half-man. She didn't want a coward. She wanted _you_, the way you -used to be, the way she knew you must have been whenever those little -flashes of your old self would show themselves." - -Crawford had turned around, staring at Jacinto, now. It was beginning -to grow in him. The first dim realization of it. An understanding he -couldn't name, yet. It prickled the hair on the back of his neck. - -"Yes." Jacinto could see the strange wonder in his eyes. "You are -beginning to see, no? It took you long enough. There are not many women -with that kind of gravel in their craw. Not many women could have done -it that way." - -It was starting to blossom in Crawford now, a strange, dim exaltation. -"Do you realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that -morning and see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing -what it meant?" Suddenly he knew how she must have felt. "It doesn't -happen to a person often in her life." Suddenly he knew what she had -been talking about. "That sort of feeling." - -That sort of feeling. He looked around at Jacinto, his eyes wide. - -"_Sí_," said Jacinto. "You understand now. It would take a lot of man -to accept it, Crawford, even when he understood. It would take _her_ -kind of man. Admittedly she took a big chance on killing you. Maybe -she'd rather have you dead than a coward. That's the kind she is. Not -many men could take her. Not many men could realize she sent them out -deliberately that way, and still take her." - -"Hyacinth," Crawford said almost inaudibly, "Hyacinth--" - -"_Sí, sí._" The gross cook began to chuckle excitedly, for he must have -seen what was in Crawford. "You better go to her now, Crawford, before -it's too late. She thinks you're through with her, after what you told -her last night. She thinks you're not enough of a man to take it that -way. But you just didn't understand. Now you do. Go on, Crawford. You -won't get a woman with that kind of guts twice in your life. It's -almost as good as owning a vinegar roan. I owned a vinegar roan once--" - -But Crawford had stopped hearing the cook. It held him completely now. -It lifted him so high he didn't feel his feet hit the floor when he -started to walk. He moved past Jacinto with a dazed, twisted expression -on his face, not even seeing the fat Mexican. The only thing within his -awareness was that sweeping, tingling sense of exaltation, so strong -and poignant it approached a nausea. The kitchen door faced away from -the house, and it was more direct to go through the dog-run and out the -bunkhouse; he must have gone that way unconsciously, not remembering -his passage through the covered run. - -"Where you going?" It penetrated only dully. He kept on walking. Then -somebody was in front of him. "I said where you going?" - -Innes! The singular odor of sweaty leather reached Crawford from the -red-bearded man's buckskin ducking jacket. - -"The house," he said, trying to get around the man. Ford Innes shifted -again, and this time Crawford was brought up against the man's body. It -was like walking into an oak tree. - -"Not right now," said Innes. - -It was the other things, then, brought in with a clarity almost -painful. Bueno Bailey. Sitting at the table. Filing the sear on the -trigger of his gun. Aforismo. Sitting on the upper bunk to Crawford's -right. His legs dangling over the sideboard. - -"Did you ever see the _dichos_ on my belduque?" he asked, seriously. "I -like the one on this side best. _Tripe is sweet but bowels are better._ -Don't you like that one best?" - -The contraction of Crawford's muscles began with his calves. They -twitched faintly, stiffening up, and the tightening ran up the inside -of his legs and pervaded his belly and crossed his chest. His whole -body was taut as he took the step back away from contact with Innes. - -"That's it," said the red-bearded man. - -Bueno's gun was an old 1848 percussion Dragoon, converted to handle -cartridges. Rubbing his finger delicately across the sear, Bailey -nodded his head approvingly. - -"_Bueno_," he said. "I'll bet the pull isn't more than half a pound on -that now." - -"Where is Quartel?" asked Crawford. - -"If you don't blow your foot off, you'll blow your head off," Innes -told Bailey. "I never heard of anybody filing a hair trigger down below -a pound." - -"Where is Quartel?" - -Tongue between his teeth, Bailey slipped the mainspring into the butt -of his Dragoon, tightening the strain screw against it carefully. "You -don't think that's too much of a hair trigger, do you? I knew a Mexican -up in San Antonio that used to carry an old Remington filed down to a -quarter-pound pull." - -"All right," said Crawford, through his teeth. "I am going up to the -house, Innes. Will you get out of my way?" - -"That Mex would still be alive if he didn't have the cussed habit of -jumping off his horse when it stopped," said Bueno Bailey, slipping the -trigger down through the frame and screwing the trigger stud into its -proper hole. "But I don't jump off my nag. I get off real easy all the -time." - -"Please, Innes." It was Jacinto's voice, from behind Crawford. "Let him -through this time. It ain't the same as before. Please. It's different. -_He's_ different. Don't you know? _En el nombre de mi madre._ Can't you -see--" - -"This _bravo's_ pretty good," said Aforismo, swinging his legs. -"_Nothing compares with my kiss._ But I guess I like the other _dicho_ -better. Which do you like best, Crawford?" - -"Oh, _Dios_." Jacinto's voice was quavering now. "Please, Innes. I hate -violence so. Let him go. I was not born for such as this. Wassail and -song, Innes. Can't we all have wassail and song--" - -"_Bueno_," said Bailey, as he finished tightening the hammer stud and -started putting on the metal side plates. - -"_Compañeros_, can't you hear me? Wassail and song. No violence. Oh, -_carajo_--" - -"I'll ask you once more." Crawford's voice was flat. "Get out of my -way." - -"You're not going any place," said Innes, pulling his buckskin jacket -up off the handle of his own gun. "Why don't you sit down?" - -"Yeah." Bailey had the walnut grips screwed on. He reached for the -barrel, fitting it in place. "Why don't you sit down?" - -Crawford stooped over to grab the hilt of Delcazar's bowie in his boot -and lunged forward at the same time. He struck Ford Innes doubled over. -The red-bearded man expelled his air in a gasp and went down. Crawford -let himself go with Innes, rolling off the man as they struck. He came -face up with the knife in his hand. It happened so fast that Aforismo -only had time to pull his belduque back for the throw. Crawford's -position prevented an over-the-shoulder throw such as Aforismo's. - -"All right, Del," he grunted, and heaved the bowie from his hip, point -foremost, while he was still in the act of rolling off Innes. - -"_Chingado!_" he heard Aforismo scream. Bailey's body blocked the view -in that same moment. Crawford did not see the blow coming. He shouted -hoarsely with the pain of Bueno's Dragoon barrel slashing across his -head. Stunned, the most he could do was let his knee fly up. It caught -Bailey in the crotch. The man's explosive grunt held a sick agony. - -Crawford was still sprawled partly across Innes, the redheaded man -had been striving to free his gun without wasting time trying to get -from beneath Crawford. He had it out now and was twisting to bring it -in line. Blinded by Bailey's blow, Crawford squirmed around, launching -a wild kick at Innes. It caught the redhead's fist as he pulled the -trigger, knocking the gun up. The Remington's boom filled the room, and -the slug knocked a rain of the whitewash they called _yeso_ off the -ceiling. - -"_Lástima de Dios!_" Aforismo's voice came from somewhere after the -shot, "come and pull it out, you _chile_, come and get it out--" - -Crawford struggled to his feet, striving to jerk free o£ Bailey. But -the man had him about the waist, head buried against Crawford's belly, -hair hanging in greasy yellow streamers, groaning with the pain of that -knee Crawford had given him in the groin. - -Innes still had his Remington. He gripped it with his left hand too, -now, rolling back with the weapon in both fists to line it up on -Crawford. Struggling with Bailey, Crawford could do only one thing. He -threw the weight of his whole body toward Innes. Bailey tried to jerk -him back, but not soon enough. Before Innes got that Remington turned -in the right direction, Crawford was close enough to lift his leg above -the man's face. He saw Innes's eyes open wide with the realization. -Then he felt flesh and bone crunch beneath his stamping boot. - -Lifting his leg robbed Crawford of his balance, and he fell backward -with Bailey's next lunging jerk. They struck the wall so hard the whole -building shook, and another rain of _yeso_ spattered down over them. - -"_Cristo_, will somebody take it out? Oh, please, somebody come and -take it out--" - -Bailey rose up, straddling Crawford. Before the man could strike, -Crawford doubled in beneath him and got his legs twisted around so he -could heave. Bailey went back with a cry, stumbling into the bench. -The plank splintered beneath his body, and the bench collapsed with -him. Innes was getting to his feet, hoarse, desperate sobs rending him. -He pawed blindly at his mutilated face with his free hand, blinking -his eyes as he tried to find Crawford. He must have caught Crawford's -movement against the wall. He whirled that way with the Remington -coming up. - -Crawford jumped toward him, catching the gun in both hands. Still -unable to see, Innes clung desperately to the six-shooter. When -Crawford yanked the gun around, it pulled Innes too, swinging him -against the wall. Unable to tear the Remington free, Crawford let go -with one hand and lurched in close to sink his right fist deep into -Innes's square belly. - -"That for your three-quarter-pound pull, you _pordiosero_," shouted -somebody from behind Crawford, "that for your bacon grease--" - -Innes sagged against the wall with a pitiful sob, still trying to pull -the gun against Crawford. Crawford brought that fist in again. - -"Oh, _madre, madre_, please come and get it out--" - -"That for your hair trigger, you _lépero_, I hope it gives you -_corajes_, I hope it gives you worse than fits of the spleen--" - -Innes was slumped halfway down the wall now, still making those -horrible sobbing sounds as he refused to give up. Crawford shoved the -gun clear back against the adobe, and hit him again. The redheaded man -slid completely to the floor, dropping the Remington. Crawford whirled -around, wondering why Bueno had not come back in. Then he saw who had -been yelling. - -Bueno Bailey was huddled in a corner, and standing over him, beating at -him with the broken end of the bench, was the fat cook. "That for your -bacon grease, you _rumbero_," squealed Jacinto, and the bench made a -crunching sound striking Bueno, "that for your--" - -Crawford leaped across the room and grabbed the bench before Jacinto -could strike again. The huge Mexican fought him crazily, trying to tear -loose and get back at Bueno. "Just one more, Crawford, please, just one -more. He deserves it. Did you see what they were trying to do with you? -_Barba del diablo_, just one more. Look at the scabby _pordiosero_--" - -"Who was it didn't like violence?" shouted Crawford. - -Jacinto stopped abruptly, looking at Bailey, crouching dazedly against -the wall. He stared around at the carnage of the room, the smashed -table, Innes sprawled out against the wall clutching his face. - -"_A fe mía_," he said in a hollow voice. "Upon my word. It looks -like they turned a _toro_ loose." Then his popping eyes came back to -Bailey. "I did--that--" he waved an incredulous hand at the man. "No, -Crawford, tell me I didn't." Jacinto turned around to clutch at him. -"_Violencia._ _Caramba_, I couldn't, not me, not little Hyacinth of the -River. My father would be desecrated. Please, tell me I didn't do it--" - -"_Dios_, somebody, come and pull it out, damn you, Crawford, somebody, -you _chingados_, come and help me, come and get this _cuchillo_, damn -you--" - -It was Aforismo's voice, breaking in on Jacinto's plea. Jacinto turned -toward the man, where he still sat up in the bunk. Aforismo must still -have had his right hand held back over one shoulder to throw his -belduque when Crawford's knife struck him, for the bowie was up to its -hilt through his palm, pinning the hand to the adobe wall. With the -inconsistency of a child, the tortured look left Jacinto's sweating -face, and he began to chuckle. - -"Look at him. Aphorisms? Hah! What good are they now? _Proverbios._ Why -don't you give us a saying now, Aforismo?" He had begun to drag the -table toward the bunk. "_Dichos?_ What right have you got to _dichos_? -Tripe is sweet? Hah! How does that belduque know?" With a great effort -he had managed to climb on the table and bend over the bunk to grab the -hilt of Crawford's bowie. "_Nothing compares with my kiss._ That makes -me laugh. That belduque never kissed anything but the inside of your -belt--" - -"_Madre_," howled Aforismo, "take it easy, will you?" - -Jacinto tugged more violently in his effort to pull the knife from -Aforismo's hand. "_Dios_, Crawford, how did you throw it so hard? No -wonder he couldn't get it out. I'll bet it goes clear through the wall -into--Crawford, where you going?" - -He was almost out the door, and he threw it over his shoulder. "To the -house." Crawford ran all the way across the compound and up the steps -and through the close, suffocating heat of the entrance hall, glancing -through the door of the living-room. - -"Merida?" The echo of his voice held a frightening ring, farther down -the hall. "Merida?" he called again, and whirled to take the stairway -up, knocking off a mahogany riser with his boot heel, leaping the -whole elliptical landing where the stairway turned, halfway up. It was -recognizable, now, a woman's sobbing, coming from Merida's bedroom. -This door was open, too, and he stumbled in. Nexpa was crouched at the -foot of the bed with her face in her hands. He grabbed her shoulders, -pulling her upward. - -"_Dónde esta Merida?_" he shouted. - -The maid turned a face up to him so dark it looked negroid, her eyes -wide and terrified. "_No sabe, no sabe_," she gasped. - -"What have they done to her?" he cried hoarsely, shaking Nexpa. "You -know. Where is she? Did they take her? What happened?" - -"_No sabe_," sobbed the maid again. "_Huerta, Huerta_--" - -"Huerta took her," shouted Crawford. "What are you talking about? -Where? _Dónde, dónde?_" - -"_En su cuarto. Merida eo puso alli, en su cuarto!_" - -"My room?" he said, and dropped her roughly against the footboard and -wheeled to run down the hall to the chamber he had occupied, tearing -open the door. The reeded mahogany posts supporting the bare tester -frame formed a skeleton pattern in the gloom. - -"Merida?" he called. He could not see enough in the semidarkness, and -he ran to the windows, yanking the heavy overdrapes of dark blue velure -away from the window. Noon sunlight flooded the room, turned the damask -covering on the wing chair to a gleaming china blue, caught brazenly on -the brass fixtures of the Franklin stove in the small fireplace. Then, -blinking his eyes, Crawford saw it, and realized what the maid had -meant. "In your room. Merida put it there." - -On the chintz coverlet of the bed lay his rifle. - - - - - _Chapter Fourteen_ - - CHALLENGING SNAKE THICKETS - - -No longer did it wait. No longer did it crouch in passive, -latent malignance. Now the evil coma unsheathed its thorns, like -a knife-thrower drawing his dirks for the first time. Now the -adder-toothed retama struck from beneath the disguise of yellow flowers -which had caused the Mexicans to call it flower of gold. Now the deadly -Spanish dagger of the devil's head thrust and parried and lunged like a -savage fencer. - -Ever since Crawford had returned to the Big O, the _brasada_ had -filled him with a strange, inexplicable sense of biding its time, -crouched out there, surrounding them with its sinister, purring, -waiting destruction. And now, as if this was what it had anticipated, -it seemed to leap forth in all its deadly, ruthless malevolence, like -a beast unleashed. Never before had it fought him so, blocking his -way impenetrably, cutting and stabbing and striking every foot of the -way. And Crawford met its challenge, taking a wild, savage delight -in pitting all his skill and strength and experience against the -_brasada's_ violent, cunning, malicious virulence. - -And he had a horse! Knowing it would take something more than an -ordinary brush horse to catch Huerta, he had chosen Africano. It had -not been broken to the spade bit yet, but would work with a hackamore, -and the fact that they had first captured it in the _brasada_ indicated -a life of running the thickets, which would make it a good brush horse -even without training. Just how good, Crawford realized the first -thicket they traversed. The _puro negro_ met the brush with a fearless, -consummate skill, something uncanny about the way it could sense -whether the _mogotes_ were actually impenetrable or whether they held -a weak spot which could be run through. It found holes in thickets -Crawford would never have guessed were there, running headlong through -the most dense ramaderos without a moment's hesitation. The kind of -a horse a brush-popper dreamed about. It was a constant battle, and -Crawford fought it with the wild abandon peculiar to the _brasadero_ -when he was riding the brush like this, shouting at the horse and -himself and anything else that wanted to listen, and cursing in two -languages at every stabbing, clawing thicket which tried to drag him -off. - -And the names passed by, as they had before. Silver Persimmons. Turtle -Sink. Rio Diablo. Chapotes Platas. He had tried to follow Huerta's -trail for a while, but when he had seen the undeviating direction it -was taking he had quit tracking and had let the black out. Finally he -came crashing through the fringe of chaparral into the clearing above -Rio Diablo and swung down off the lathered, heaving horse, and ran -toward the jacal. A man was trying to crawl across the threshold of the -doorway. - -"Crawford," he groaned. "I knew it was you. I heard you coming ten -miles off. There never was anybody could match you cussing the brush. -I guess that's 'cause there never was anybody loved it the way you -do." He tried to rise abruptly, his eyes opening in a glazed way as he -stared past Crawford. "_Dios_, Africano!" - -Crawford had reached him by then. "What happened, Del? They did this to -you?" - -Dried blood darkened the old man's face, and the soles of his bare feet -had a red, blistered look. "You got a hackamore on it," said Delcazar -vacantly, still staring at the black. "You can't ride that killer with -a hackamore. You're loco--" - -"Who did it? Tell me who did it!" almost shouted Crawford. - -"Merida--" - -"She did this!" - -"No, no," gasped Delcazar weakly. "Merida come first. She say she -needed help. Say you weren't with her any more for some reason. Had -an idea I knew about Snake Thickets. While she was still here, Huerta -came. Followed her, I guess. He thought I knew about Snake Thickets -too. Those cigarettes of Huerta's. I'm a _viejo_, an old man. I -couldn't stand much. The woman try to stop him. She couldn't do it." - -"How do you get in, Delcazar?" Crawford's voice shook with its low -intensity. - -Delcazar's eyes widened. "Crawford, you ain't going to try and follow -them. It's suicide. Even if you know how to get in. Those _serpientes_. -You been there. You heard them. Please, you and I been _amigos_ too -long. Let those fools kill themselves after a chest of pesos. Who wants -pesos--" - -"How do you get in?" - -Crawford's voice held a shrill, driven stridor that stiffened Delcazar. -The old man stared at him a moment, mouth open slightly. Maybe it was -the pale, set look to Crawford's face. - -"Rio Diablo. You know how it goes underground about a mile above here. -Nobody's ever been able to find where it comes up again. It comes -from the Nueces past here and then drops out of sight and there ain't -nothing left but the dry bed going on south to Mogotes Serpientes. I'll -tell you where it does come up again. Right inside Snake Thickets. -That's why nobody ever found it. You know how water in a place like -Turtle Sink dries up during the day. Then, come night, it rises to the -surface again. That's what happens inside Mogotes Serpientes. During -the day, the part of Rio Diablo that surfaces inside the thickets is -all dried up. Then when evening sets in, it comes up again. That's how -you get in. You got to run a short stretch of the thicket before you -reach water. That's why you have to time it right. The snakes sleep -during the day, and start to stir around at sundown. That's about the -same time the water starts rising. If you start in just a few minutes -before the sun sets, you can run that stretch of thicket between the -outside and the water while the snakes are still asleep. Naturally -you'll wake them, but you got a bigger chance of reaching the water -than if they were already wide-awake and waiting for you. Once you're -in the bog, you're safe. The snakes will come down to drink, but -rattlers like dry land too much to go swimming in that muck. Time it -wrong by one minute either way and you're done. If you go in too early -and the water ain't risen yet, you're setting right in the middle of a -million rattlers. And if you go in too late and the snakes are stirring -around, they'll probably get you before you reach water. I found it out -from an old Comanche a long time ago, Crawford. I was afraid to tell. -I was afraid to go in myself and I was afraid somebody would make me -show them the way if I tell, and I couldn't do that, Crawford, nobody -could. It's suicide. Maybe those Mexicans do it once, with the chests. -It couldn't be done again in a million years." - -"Still got those cavalry boots?" - -"Crawford, please, you ain't going to--" - -"I'll want your batwings too." - -Delcazar began to cry without sound, and the words came between his -lips with a resigned audibility. "In the jacal. Under my bunk." - -Crawford stepped past the man, the decision hard and crystallized in -him now, permitting no other considerations. He hauled out the old pair -of jack boots someone in Delcazar's family had worn with Diaz, and -unhooked a tattered pair of batwing chaps from the bunk post, a rarity -in this border section where most men preferred _chivarras_. He pulled -the ancient Chimayo from the bunk and began cutting it in strips with -the bowie. Then he wound the strips about his legs like puttees, up -to his crotch, till they formed three or four layers; he had trouble -pulling the jack boots on over this thickness. - -"_Pechero?_" he said, swiftly buckling the bull-hide chaps on. - -Delcazar was huddled against the doorframe, watching him hopelessly. -"Had one somewhere. Maybe under the bunk too." - -The _pechero_ was a buckskin shield used by the _brasaderos_ for -popping the heaviest brush; it fitted around the front of the horse's -chest, tying over its withers and behind its front legs. The black was -too weary for any objection as Crawford lashed the _pechero_ on. - -"Gloves," Delcazar was motioning vaguely toward the fireplace, -"gloves--" - -They were on one of the shelves above the estufa, thick buckskin gloves -with flaps as long as the forearm. Crawford pulled them on his hands -and stepped past the old man. He stopped there a moment, staring down -at Delcazar. His mouth twisted open as if he would speak. No words -came. A torn look crossed his face momentarily. Then he turned and -swung aboard the black and jerked the hackamore against its neck and -the animal wheeled and broke into a gallop down toward the brush lining -the river-- - -The sun was low and he forced the flagging _puro negro_ down Rio Diablo -until the water ceased and they were running the dry bed. The mesquite -became thicker in the bottom lands, interspersed by cottonwoods turning -sear with the heat of oncoming summer. Finally the _pechero_ was -rattling and scraping constantly against the brush as Crawford forced -his way through. He was riding at a walk now, head cocked to listen, -eyes roving the terrain restlessly, whole body tense with waiting for -the first sign that he had reached Mogotes Serpientes. The sun was -almost down now, and he was filled with a growing, trembling sense of -urgency. Maybe it was the incessant clash of brush against the buckskin -shield which hid the other sound at first. Suddenly he pulled the black -to a halt. It came from ahead of him, a faint, barely perceptible -hissing sound. He sat there a moment, letting the thought of Merida in -there harden the resolve within himself till it was so sharp and clear -it hurt. The black had begun fretting at the sound, and Crawford pulled -in the _mecate_ on the hackamore, bending forward. - -"All right," he said, "we're going through!" - -Perhaps it was the tone of his voice. The horse ceased all movement -abruptly, stiffening beneath him. Then the man flapped his legs out -wide and brought his spurs in against the sweating black flanks with -a hoarse shout. The _puro negro_ leaped forward like a startled buck, -breaking into a headlong gallop straight into the brush thickening in -the river bottom ahead of them. Crawford rode as if he were bareback, -gripping the animal from his thighs down, heels turned in hard against -the horse. They crashed headlong through the first thicket of mesquite, -Crawford bent forward with his free arm thrown in front of his face, -the branches ripping at his cheeks and tearing his levi ducking jacket -half off his back. A post oak loomed before them as they tore free of -the mesquite. He reined the black viciously to one side and the animal -reacted with a violence that would have unseated Crawford but for that -grip of his legs, wheeling so sharply the man's torso was snapped to -one side like the flirt of a rope. Crawford jerked himself back in -time to bend down off one side as they passed beneath the branches. -Then they were racing at a thicket of chaparral and huisache entwined -together so thickly it formed a solid mat before them. Crawford felt -the confidence of the horse beneath him and gave the animal its head, -and they crashed headlong through the hole Africano had spotted with -his uncanny instinct. Filled with the wild excitement of it, Crawford -had begun shouting and swearing that way again, adding his own hoarse -obscenities to the roar of popping brush. But even all this sound -did not obliterate the noise. It came through his bellow and the -crash of brush with an insidious, sinister insistence, that constant -menacing hiss, like the threat of escaping steam. It filled him with -an excitation which did not come from the mad ride. And as he burst -through the chaparral into the open, the first snake struck. - -It happened so fast his own reaction did not come till the snake had -gone again. He had a dim sense of a sudden writhing shape leaping -from the last of the chaparral they were coming out of, and the sharp -snapping thud somewhere in front of him, and the horse's leap sideways, -screaming. Again his terrible grip was the only thing that kept the man -in the saddle, and they were tearing forward once more with a vague -impression of that writhing shape slithering off into the brush. They -were crashing into the next _mogote_ before Crawford realized the snake -must have struck that _pechero_ on the horse's chest. Now more of them -were in sight. Fast as he was going, he could still see the sleepy -torpidity of the awakening snakes. He spotted what he thought was a -root lying in the thickness of a _mogote_, but as the black jumped it, -the root came alive, jerking in a surprised, sluggish way, and then -one end began to curl inward. But by the time the serpent had awakened -fully and snapped into its coil, Africano was by. - -Another one ahead woke faster. Crawford did not see it till a flashing -motion filled the lower corner of his vision. Again he heard the sharp -thump of the snake striking that _pechero_, and saw the frustrated -serpent drop away from the shield in a stunned way. The horse was -in a veritable frenzy now, lather foaming its mouth, screaming and -whinnying and fighting the hackamore madly without actually trying to -change its direction. It was no longer only the hissing all about them. -It was the movement. On every side the thickets seemed to have come -alive. Writhing, slithering shapes undulating in dim spasms through the -pattern of brush. But the fact that they were still awakening and the -speed at which Crawford was going aborted the greater part of their -efforts. Time and again he saw a snake strike after he was already -by. Twice more one of them reached the horse, only to batter its head -against that stiff shield of cowhide. Then, beneath him, Crawford heard -a thick, slopping sound, and the black stumbled, and almost went down. -With his spurs he forced the animal farther on into the muck. It was -not very deep and there were patches of dry ground, but there was no -more of that nightmarish movement about him now. Only the incessant -sinister sibilation to his rear. - -His body was drenched with perspiration, and for the first time he -realized he was panting in a choked, rasping way. The horse was heaving -beneath him, still fighting the hackamore and fiddling around wildly. -He suddenly felt as if he were going to collapse. He bent forward, -gripping the saddle horn, realizing it was only reaction. Then, -as strength returned in slow, undulating waves, the black stopped -abruptly, head raised, ears stiffened. Crawford automatically put his -heels into the animal. The _puro negro_ stood adamant. Then Crawford -heard it, and stopped trying to force Africano ahead. Suddenly the -horse threw up its head and let out a shrill, wild whinny. - -"Damn you," snarled Crawford in a guttural voice. "I ought to--" - -He stopped at the answering whinny from farther in the brush. -"Crawford?" asked someone from there. - -Crawford felt his body straighten involuntarily in the saddle. "Yes, -Quartel," he said. - - - - - _Chapter Fifteen_ - - TREASURE HUNT CLIMAX - - -Perhaps it was the sound. The constant, incessant, unrelenting sound of -those snakes. Standing in this narrow strip of bog formed by the rising -muck of the underground river, the hissing was audible on both sides -now. There was something infinitely evil about it that clutched at a -man's vitals. It filled Crawford with a vague, primal panic, akin to -the fear he had known of Africano before, yet different, in a subtle, -insidious way. - -"I knew it was you." Quartel's voice startled him, coming from an -entirely different direction than before. "I heard you coming. I wish -I could cuss the way you can, Crawford." It was getting on Crawford's -nerves. The black was becoming unmanageable beneath him. Under other -circumstances he would have been willing to play the game. But the -thought of Merida somewhere in there drove all the conditioned wariness -from him. Suddenly the black raised its head again; he pulled on -the hackamore to stifle the whinny in its throat, but he saw which -direction it was turned in. He flapped his legs out wide and brought -the heels in hard, bolting the black into the mesquite. They crashed -through the _mogote_. Crawford had the Henry in his right hand as they -burst into the open, keeping it free of brush with the lever down. A -vague, blurred impression of Quartel sitting that _trigueño_ leaped -into Crawford's vision. With one motion he was jerking the hackamore -against the left side of the black's neck to wheel it toward the man, -and then releasing the hackamore completely to have both hands for -his rifle, bringing the Henry up into line with his right hand and -slapping his left palm against the barrel at the same time. In that -last instant, as fast as he had moved, he had time to see why Quartel -had been doing it this way. The man had no gun in his hand. Even as -Crawford wheeled and brought his Henry up, Quartel was leaning forward -with a grunt, his arm snapping out. - -Crawford tried to duck the rope and fire at the same time. He heard his -bullet clatter through brush, after the thunder of the shot, and knew -he had missed. Then the edge of the loop struck his hand and slid down -his arm and closed over the gun. It was either let go the Henry or be -jerked from his horse. - -The rifle bounced along the ground, and for a moment it looked as if -Quartel were going to be able to pull it to him. Then it slipped from -the noose. The Mexican wheeled his _trigueño_ toward the rifle, and -his intent was patent. Crawford turned the black and quartered in on a -line that would bring him between Quartel and the Henry. Seeing how he -would be blocked off from reaching the gun, Quartel reared his horse -to a stop, flirting in his rope and catching it up in loops. Crawford, -realizing that if he turned to approach the Henry his back would be to -Quartel and the man would have him with that rope, halted his black -too. For a moment, the two men sat there facing each other across the -open ground. It must have struck Quartel how it had to be, now, about -the same time the realization came to Crawford. The Mexican let out a -hoarse, violent laugh. - -"All right," he said. "I am the best roper in the world, Crawford." - -He sat there, grinning, allowing Crawford to unlash the 40-foot rawhide -lasso from the black's rig. A picture formed in Crawford's mind that -filled him with a growing tension. A picture of Quartel blindfolded -on that _trigueño_ in the corral with one end of a rawhide dally tied -about his neck and ten snorting, stamping, vicious _ladinos_ tearing -up the turf and the strange sighing sound rising from the crowd of -sweating, stinking _vaqueros_ every time he threw the bull. It didn't -help a man. It didn't help a man while he unhitched the rawhide lashing -on the saddle skirt from about the dally and shook out the loops and -watched the braided hondo slide down the slick rope. His motions were -stiff, jerky. He hadn't roped in a long time. - -"Hola!" bellowed Quartel, and those great Chihuahua spurs rolled down -the flanks of his brown animal like cart wheels digging ruts in a road. -Crawford jabbed his own guthooks into the black, and Africano jumped -into a dead run. The brown horse seemed to come at Crawford in a surge -that left no space for conscious thought. He knew what a mistake it -would be for him to make the first pass, and he bent forward in the -saddle, watching Quartel's hand. - -But the Mexican was waiting too, and the _trigueño_ was completely past -Crawford, with Crawford still holding his rope and twisting around -so he could watch Quartel, when the man made his throw. The Mexican -passed the rope over his shoulder, without looking at Crawford. In that -position, the movement of Quartel's arms was blocked off by his body, -and Crawford did not know the Mexican had made his toss till he saw -the small, tight loop spinning directly over his head. The throw was -calculated to compensate for Crawford's forward speed. All he could do -to escape it was rein to one side or the other. He bent forward so far -on Africano his chest struck the saddle horn, putting the reins against -the black neck hard. - -The violence of the quarter turn almost snapped Crawford from the -saddle. He shouted with the pain stabbing through his middle. He heard -the faint sound of the rope striking Africano's rump. Then he was -tearing into a _mogote_ of mesquite. - -Instead of going on through, he wheeled Africano within the thicket. -The horse reared up, screaming with the pain of turning in that cruel -brush, and Crawford was charging out the way he had come. - -Evidently expecting Crawford to go on through the mesquite, Quartel -was racing around the fringe to intercept him on the other side. -This caused the Mexican to be at Crawford's rear as he burst out the -same spot he had gone in. Crawford put his reins against Africano's -neck, and again the horse responded with that incredible turn, and -Crawford found himself directly behind the churning brown rump of the -_trigueño_. The Mexican was already in the act of wheeling his horse -around to meet Crawford. Then he must have seen how Crawford had turned -after him, and realized how his own maneuver would place him, for he -tried to turn back. It was too late. - -Quartel's first turn had placed him broadside to Crawford's oncoming -black. Crawford had that one free pass at Quartel's flank, with the -Mexican in no position to defend himself by a throw of his own. -Crawford saw his loop settle over the man's head. - -"All right," he shouted, and dallied his end of the rope around the -saddle horn, wheeling Africano away to pull Quartel off. - -But there was no weight on the rope. It fell slackly from the horn, and -Crawford twisted back to see what had happened. - -He had seen Indians do it. One instant Quartel had been sitting the -horse, the next he wasn't. The loop fell across the back of the -riderless _trigueño_, caught on the cantle, slipped off. Then the -Mexican appeared in the saddle again. He had jumped completely off, -hanging onto the horn with but one hand, to strike the ground and -bounce back up, the rope hitting while he was off on the far side that -way. - -The first wild action had left no time for much thought, but now, as -he recovered his rope and maneuvered to meet Quartel's next move, the -sheer deadliness of this struck Crawford fully. Like trying to figure -out three or four plays ahead in a poker game, with your life in the -pot instead of a few dollars. Well, he had been figuring one play -ahead, ever since he had seen the cards Quartel put down back there at -the bull-tailing. It was the trick Quartel had used on Indita. Crawford -had spotted the weakness of it, even then. A man could take advantage -of that, if he had a horse which could turn quick enough. - -Crawford remembered Quartel and Indita had been racing head-on at each -other, and he placed himself in the position to meet Quartel that way -as the Mexican trotted toward him from across the clearing now. The -_trigueño_ was picking up its feet in a high, excited action, lather -marbling its snout and chest. - -"_Vamanos_," Quartel roared, and raked the animal's bloody flanks with -his Chihuahua can openers, and they were racing at each other again. -Quartel leaned forward and threw his arm out with a grunt as they went -by one another. Crawford's own arm stiffened with the impulse to make -his throw. Then he realized Quartel's clothesline was not coming. - -The rest of it moved automatically, without any conscious volition -from Crawford. Holding his throw, he allowed the black to race on past -Quartel. Then, when he knew Quartel would be wheeling that _trigueño_ -to make his true cast at Crawford's retreating back, Crawford yanked -the _mecate_ against Africano's neck. He felt the movement of the -horse's shoulders beneath him, changing leads as it spun in full gallop -on its hind foot. No quarter turn this time. A half turn, switching -ends completely in that instant, so that he was facing Quartel instead -of going away and, with the horse still in motion, was racing back -toward the Mexican. - -It caused Quartel's rope to overshoot completely. Crawford saw the -man's face twist in surprise. Then Crawford made his cast. It was an -underhanded throw with a hooley-ann at the end. In wheeling, Quartel -had come to a full stop. He made one last abortive effort to turn -his animal away, but the small loop caught him before the _trigueño_ -reacted. Then Crawford was on past the Mexican, with the rope dallied -on his horn and snapping taut. He heard Quartel make a strangled sound -of pain. Then there was the thump of him striking the ground. - -Crawford tried to keep his black in full gallop and drag Quartel, but -something within him rebelled. He halted the animal and swung off, -running back to catch the man before he could rise. Quartel was on his -knees, that rope still about his thick neck, shaking his head dully. -The mesquite rattled behind Quartel, and Merida stepped out. She must -have passed the Henry where it had been dropped. She held it cocked -in both hands, and her bosom was heaving, her face torn and bleeding -from the brush she had run through. They stared at each other without -speaking. Her eyes were wide and shining, and her lips started twisting -across her teeth without any sound coming out. - -Then, without any consciousness of having moved, he found her body in -his arms and her lips against his and the sound of her expelled breath -hot and hoarse in his ears. He didn't know how long he was lost in it. -Finally the other things began to come. The cold, hard feel of the -rifle barrel against his back where she held it in one hand with that -arm around him. The guttural sounds of pain Quartel was making trying -to get that noose off his neck. The crash of another passage through -the mesquite. - -"Crawford, Crawford, I knew you'd come, I knew they couldn't stop you, -none of them--" It was Merida, whispering it in a husky, passionate, -barely coherent stream against his chest. "I was so afraid. Thinking -of you out there. All those snakes. I wanted you to come and I didn't -want you to. I didn't know what I wanted. I do now, I mean. I guess I -haven't known really what I wanted all my life, but I do now. I was so -afraid--" - -"Merida--Where are you?" - -It was Huerta's voice, accompanying the rattle of the thicket. Crawford -lifted his face from the woman's, staring at the doctor as he stumbled -from the mesquite. The man's fustian was ripped and torn, and he was -dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a silk monogrammed handkerchief. He -brought himself to an abrupt halt, breathing heavily, when he saw them. - -Crawford disengaged himself from Merida, taking the rifle out of her -hand, still looking at the doctor. There was something about the man -that vaguely puzzled him. - -"Did you find it?" Crawford asked Merida finally. - -A dim, bitter expression entered Merida's face. "Yes," she said, "we -found it." - -"What do you mean?" Crawford muttered. - -She inclined her head through the mesquite, that strange expression -still on her features. Crawford frowned at her. Then he turned to jerk -the Henry at Quartel. The man had finally got that rope off his neck -and stood there rubbing the bruised flesh sullenly. He moved ahead of -Crawford through the brush. - -"You too, Doctor," said Crawford. - -They passed through the thicket and crossed a boggy section. With the -violence of the action over now, the hissing of the snakes began to -impinge on Crawford's consciousness again. Rising out of the bog to -the thick mat of greenish-brown toboso grass covering an island of -firm ground, they reached the first aparejo. It was one of the old -X-shaped packsaddles used by the original Mexican muleteers, with two -brass-bound chests lashed into it so that one would fall on each side -of the mule. - -"The Mexicans carrying this stuff must have been following the dry -river bed and hit the fringe of Snake Thickets about dusk," said -Merida. "That's the only way they could have got this far in. Then, -when the snakes started waking up, and they realized what they had -wandered into, the men left the stuff here, knowing it would be as safe -as anywhere they could have hidden it, and shot their way out through -the snakes again." - -"Did you just stumble onto it too?" Crawford asked. - -"Quartel had the other third of the _derrotero_," said Merida. - -"Quartel?" Crawford's head lifted sharply to the man. He emitted a -small, humorless laugh. "That explains a lot of things." - -"Does it?" said Quartel. - -"It showed Quartel how to find the aparejos once he was inside Mogotes -Serpientes," Merida said. "But not how to find Snake Thickets." Her -eyes were on Crawford, and that odd expression still filled her face. -She moved her head toward the chest. "Go ahead," she said. - -He kept Quartel and Huerta in sight when he knelt. The wood was rotten -and someone had torn the lid of one chest away from its brass bindings. -He lifted it, and stared at the black gunpowder filling the oak box. -The woman's voice sounded far away. - -"The Centralists must have done this. They would have done anything to -break Santa Anna's power at that time. They knew his men were ready to -desert because they hadn't been paid in three months. It was only by -the promise of this pay that Santa Anna held them together long enough -to fight the battle of San Jacinto. You can imagine their reaction -if the train had reached the army and they had found their pay to be -nothing more than this." She stared emptily at the case. "Twenty chests -of gunpowder. That's ironic, isn't it? All this trouble over twenty -chests of gunpowder." - -Crawford rose slowly, drawing himself back to present necessities by a -distinct effort. "We'd better start thinking about getting out of here." - -Huerta's feet made a small, quick shift against the toboso grass. -Crawford realized what it was in the man now. That air of infinite -ennui was beginning to dissipate before something else; an indefinable -tension tightened the little muscles about Huerta's mouth till the soft -flesh was furrowed like an old man's. The bluish, veined lower lid of -his right eye was twitching noticeably. "We can't go out now," he said, -and the strain was palpable in his voice. "Not through all those snakes -again. They're awake now." - -"This place dries up come daylight," said Crawford. "It won't be any -safer than out there. We have to leave sometime before then, and it -might as well be now." - -He began peeling off his gloves and handing them to Merida; then his -heavy denim ducking jacket and the bull-hide chaps. Huerta's breathing -became more audible as he watched it. - -"No," he said, "no--listen--" - -"What's wrong with your gun?" Crawford asked Quartel. - -"Merida's horse got hit by a snake about halfway through," said the -Mexican. "She got pitched and Huerta wouldn't stop to pick her up. I -was following them pretty close and came across her before she'd been -caught by the snakes. But they were all waked up in that section and I -used my lead up shooting our way on into here. That's why I had to use -the rope on you." - -"What caliber you got?" - -Quartel looked surprised. "It's an old Bisley .44." - -From the pocket of his levis, Crawford pulled a handful of his .44 -flat-noses. He stood there with the copper cartridges in his hand, -meeting Quartet's eyes. He held out his hand. - -Quartel stared at the handful of shells, then he threw back his head -and let out that Gargantuan laugh. "Crawford, you're the craziest -_barrachon_ I ever saw." - -He took the cartridges and broke his Bisley and began thumbing them -into the cylinder. Huerta lowered the handkerchief from his scratched -face, and his effort at control was more obvious now. - -"I haven't got a gun," he said. - -"That's too bad," said Crawford. - -"No, no, listen, you can't expect me to go out there without--" - -He turned around and indicated Quartel should follow him through the -mesquite to their horses. Like the well-trained roper it was, the -_trigueño_ had stopped the instant Quartel left its back, and was -standing in the same spot they had left it. Africano must have run on -across the bog and been stopped by his fear of the snakes in the first -dry thickets over there, for he came trotting back through the mud, -whinnying nervously. Crawford blocked the animal off against a _mogote_ -of chaparral and caught it. - -"Get on first," he told the girl. - -"Crawford," Huerta began again, "you can't--" - -"Get your horse if you're coming with us," he told the man. - -Huerta opened his mouth to say something more; then, with a strangled, -inarticulate sound, he turned and crashed back through the mesquite. In -a moment he returned on the copperbottom. It was a risky thing to do -with such a green horse, but there was no other way, and Crawford swung -onto the black behind the cantle. The animal kicked in a startled, -angry way and started to buck. Crawford swung his arms around in front -of Merida to grab the _mecate_ and yank back hard on it, spurring -Africano at the same time. The _puro negro_ quit bucking and broke -forward, slopping into a muddy stretch. Crawford turned the horse to -get Quartel in front of him. They rode toward the edge of the bog that -way. - -"You go first, Quartel," Crawford said. "I'll follow you, Huerta. If -you can keep your head and stay in between us, we might be able to get -you out. Just keep your head. That's the whole thing. Get panicky and -you're through. You can even get bit a couple of times by snakes and -still live to tell about it if you don't let it throw you. It isn't the -venom that kills a man so quick; it's when he gets spooked and starts -running and yelling and pumping all that poison through him a hundred -times as fast as it would spread if he just stayed calm. Savvy?" - -Huerta's copperbottom fiddled beneath him. "Crawford, I can't. Not -without a gun. You can't ask me to." - -"Quartel?" said Crawford. - -"_Sí_," grinned the Mexican, and flapped his feet out wide. The -_trigueño_ bolted before Quartel's feet came back in to kick his -flanks, and then crashed into the thickets. Crawford held the Henry in -one hand and he waved it at Huerta. - -"Get going, damn you, I'm not going to wait for you to puke, get going!" - -"No, I can't, not through there--" Huerta saw Crawford swing out his -feet, and whirled the copperbottom with a last desperate shout, and -crashed into the Snake Thickets after Quartel. Then Crawford's heels -struck the black, and they were going. - -At first it was only the wild, crashing, pounding, yelling run through -the mesquite. With Quartel leading the way all they had to do was -follow the trail he made, running through holes he had burst in the -thickets ahead of them. Then the snakes began. First it was that -sharp, dry thump against Africano's _pechero_, and the woman's shrill, -startled cry. Quartel's gun crashed from ahead of them, but Crawford -was too taken up with reining the black to use his Henry. He had that -blurred impression of violent undulation around him. There was another -snapping thud against Africano's buckskin shield, and a big diamondback -fell to the ground beneath them as they went by. - -Then it was the shrill scream from Huerta's copperbottom ahead. -Crawford saw the huge rattler dropping off the animal's rump, and the -copperbottom started to buck. - -"There it is," screamed Huerta, "there it is!" - -"Don't lose your head," shouted Crawford. "Get him to running again. -He'll last through, Huerta, get him to running--" - -Another rattler flashed from the thickets. The copperbottom reared -up as the snake struck, pawing the air wildly. Crawford came up -from behind at a dead run and Huerta's panicky reining brought the -copperbottom down broadside to them. Crawford jerked his whole body to -the left with the desperation of his attempt to rein the black around, -but Africano smashed head-on into Huerta's animal. - -Crawford had the sense of falling through a bedlam of Huerta's wild -yells and Merida's voice calling something and the animal's frenzied, -agonized screaming. Then he hit the ground with Merida coming down on -top of him. It knocked the breath from him and he struggled to get from -beneath her, making a horrible retching sound in his fight for breath. -He got to his knees, surprised that he still clutched the Henry. The -copperbottom was already crashing off through the brush, and Africano -was just scrambling to his feet. Crawford lurched at the black horse, -but Africano whirled and galloped at a _ramadero_ of _cejas_, smashing -through and disappearing. There was a whirring sound from behind and -Merida's shriek. He whirled, snapping the lever on his Henry down at -the same time, and fired from the hip at the serpent coiled just -beyond her. She had been in the act of throwing herself away, and the -slug driving into the snake aborted its strike. The head fell heavily -to the ground with only half its length uncoiled. Crawford leaped to -Merida, grabbing her roughly by the elbow and yanking her erect. - -"Crawford, get me out, Crawford! Crawford!" It was Huerta, rising -from the patch of switch mesquite where he had been thrown. There -was a sallow, putty color to his face and that eye was twitching -uncontrollably now. He staggered toward them, his blasé, jaded -sophistication swept away before the terrible animal fear. A deadly -rattle rose from behind him and he tried to run, and stumbled, falling -against Crawford. - -The woman's gasp made Crawford turn in the direction she was looking, -and he brought up the Henry, kicking free of Huerta, firing at the -snake which had writhed from the switch mesquite toward them, shouting -at Huerta. "Get up, then. I'll get you out. Get up!" - -Panting, sobbing hoarsely, Huerta pulled himself up, staring about him -wildly, starting like a frightened deer at every new sound. Crawford -put the woman directly before him and started moving forward. Huerta -cringed at his side, clawing at him, and he had to keep shoving the man -away. - -"Hurry, Crawford, hurry, please, what are you doing this for? We'll -never--" - -"Let go," Crawford bawled at him. "It won't do to lose our heads and -start running. How can I--" - -"No, Crawford, no--" - -Shouting it, Huerta reeled back against him. Crawford had to fight the -man off and wheel that way and fire all at once. He couldn't have hit -the snake anyway. It had already been in the middle of its lunge. - -"I'm hit," screamed Huerta. "Crawford, I'm hit. Save me. I'll do -anything. Help me!" - -"Keep your head, Huerta. Quit fighting like that!" - -"No, Crawford, for God's sake!" Huerta was floundering around blindly, -shouting and clutching at Crawford, who tried to kick him away so he -could keep the gun going. Another rattler slithered from the thickets, -and he fired wildly at it. - -"Huerta!" cried Merida, tearing at the man, the panic gripping her -voice and twisting her face, "don't be a fool. Let him go, let him go--" - -"No. Get me out! I'll do anything, Crawford, admit anything. You were -right. I'm no doctor. I had two years in France and they dismissed -me. The opium. There. Now. I've told you--" His babble broke off in a -wild shriek. Crawford had not seen the snake strike. It fell away from -Huerta's back, slithering off into the thicket. Huerta crawled toward -Crawford on his hands and knees, a faint, yellow froth forming at his -lips. He clutched at Crawford's legs, shouting up at him. "I'll tell -you anything, please, anything. I was the one who killed Otis Rockland. -Is that what you want? I knew Tarant had given him that piece of the -_derrotero_, and I knew Otis was in that hotel room. I'd just reached -him when you arrived, and I had to escape by the balcony without -getting the map--" - -Again his hoarse bawling broke off in a scream. His struggles had -carried them both over to a thicket, and Crawford could see the same -snake Huerta did, coiled almost at their feet. He tore free of the -doctor's frantic hands, throwing himself back, and firing at the -serpent. He tripped and fell heavily onto his back, seeing the snake -jerk with the slug but reach Huerta anyway. Screaming, the doctor -fought to gain his feet. - -"Get me out, Crawford, get me out," he howled, pawing the writhing, -thumping thing off in horror, whirling to run blindly away from it -across the small opening. "It wasn't Quartel who had Whitehead try to -bushwhack you that time, either. It was me. I wanted the third of the -_derrotero_ you had. And I was the one who tried to get Merida's third -in the house during the bull-tailing. Please, Crawford, what more can -you want? Get me out now!" - -He looked like some frenzied beast, greasy black hair down over his -face, froth drooling off his chin. He stumbled blindly into a _mogote_ -of chaparro _prieto_, and tried to turn and get out. But there must -have been a nest of them in the black chaparral, and they caught him -there. - -"No, Crawford," he screamed, as the first one struck, with a fleshy -spissitude, knocking him to his knees in the thicket, "they're all -around me," and his voice broke as a second one caught him. "For -Christ's sake, Crawford, get me out. I told you, didn't I?" he sobbed, -trying to crawl on through. And then another one struck him. "Oh, for -God's sake, Crawford, please, for God's sake." And another, and he was -lying on his belly, still trying to crawl, and his voice had sunk to a -pitiful wailing, like a little child weakening, sinking until it was -barely audible. "Please, get me out, oh, please, Crawford, get me out," -and then dying finally, beneath the crescendo hissing of the snakes, -"Get me out, I'll do anything, only please get me out--" - -After it had ceased, Crawford felt himself twitch, and realized how -long he had been crouching there in a dazed shocked immobility at such -a bizarre, terrifying display. It was like awakening from a deep sleep. -There was a thick, sweet taste in his mouth, and he was sweating, and -movement came with a strange pain. He saw that Merida was standing -over him, staring at the brush with that same stunned horror in her -face. His movement caused her to turn in something akin to surprise. -She looked at him a moment before her eyes dropped to his hand; he -was rising, but the sound she made stopped him. It must have struck -him sometime during his struggles with Huerta. He did not remember -when. The twin red punctures on the back of his hand were oozing blood -thickly. With a curse, he started to rise again and get the rifle, but -Merida caught him. - -"No, Crawford. The knife. Your bowie. You've got to get it now before -it spreads." She was on her knees beside him, pulling the bowie from -his boot where he had thrust it after winding those strips of blanket -on. - -"The snakes," he said, "the snakes--" - -"If we sit still they won't come for a minute. Now--I've got to." She -met his eyes, then bent over his hand with the blade. He felt himself -turn rigid, but it caused him less pain than he anticipated. She did -it in three quick, skillful strokes. "I told you my mother was a -_curandera_. I've seen her do this a dozen times. Find some Spanish -dagger and you can get a poison from it that makes as good an antidote -as any." - -She bent to suck the wound, and now it was beginning to come. _Take -it easy._ The hissing bore in on him with a physical weight. _Take it -easy, damn you. That's why Huerta's through. He lost his head. All -right. Get up, then, damn you, get up._ He got up. - -The motion drew his hand from Merida's fingers, and she rose too. He -had scooped up the Henry in rising, and he pulled the lever down. No -fired shell popped out, and he realized the magazine must be empty. He -reached in his right-hand pocket for fresh loads, and pulled out his -hand, empty. The woman's eyes followed the movements in a fascinated -way as he shifted the rifle so he could reach into his left-hand -pocket. Again his hand came out empty. Merida's gaze raised to his, and -they stared at each other blankly for a long moment. A small, hopeless -sob escaped her. - -The first, faint, snapping crackle came from behind, turning him that -way. It was a big diamondback, slithering from the switch mesquite. -It stopped as it caught sight of them, and its long, shimmering -body coiled with oily facility. The ugly hammerhead raised, and the -glittering opacity of its cruel little eyes held Crawford's gaze in a -viscid mesmerization. Then it began to rattle. - -"Crawford--" - -The woman's agonized whisper brought his eyes around the other way. -Another serpent, as big around as his lower leg, had crawled from a -_mogote_ of huisache. Again it was the soft snap of decaying vegetation -that lay thickly over the ground, and the cessation of this as the -snake saw them and stopped, and that swift coiling movement, and that -sibilant rattle. - -"Crawford," said Merida, in a hoarse, strained whisper. "We can't move. -They'll strike as soon as we move. They're all around us and we can't -move--" - -"No," he said gutturally. "Remember they don't often strike above the -hip. You've got those batwings. Just keep your feet, that's all, just -keep your feet." - -"There's another one," she said, and he saw the panic was gripping her -the way it had Huerta. "We can't move, Crawford. Not a step. They'll -have us." - -"Merida," he said. "You've got to. Don't lose your head. Just start -walking." - -"I can't," she said, in a strangled, pathetic way, "Crawford, I can't--" - -He could feel that animal fear rising up in him, to blot out all his -terrible control. Sweat formed gleaming streaks through the grime of -his face. His right hand was clenched so hard around the useless gun -it ached. Gritting his teeth, he summoned the awful, supreme effort of -will it would take for him to make that first step. His whole body was -stiffened for it, when the first thunderous detonation came from out in -the brush. There was a second, and a third, before Crawford recognized -them as gunshots. This was followed by a long crashing of brush, and -Quartel burst into view. This movement caused the snake on Crawford's -right to strike. It hit his leg with a solid thump, knocking him over -against Merida, and though he knew the fangs had not penetrated the -triple thickness of Chimayo blanket around his calf, he could not hold -back his hoarse, fearful shout. Quartel had fired twice at the second -rattler, knocking it back before it could strike. The serpent tried to -recoil and strike again, in a weak, abortive way, and Quartel jumped at -it with a curse, stamping on its head. Then he whirled away to fire at -a third one beyond Merida. - -"Hola!" bellowed Quartel. "Let's go. You only got a little stretch left -and we'll be out." - -"You!" said Crawford blankly, gaping at him. - -"Who else?" grinned the man. He caught Crawford by the shoulder, -shoving him forward. "Come on, I tell you. We ain't got time for -coffee." - -The rest of it was Quartel's bellowing gun and the crash of mesquite -and Merida's hoarse, uncontrollable sobbing and a nightmarish sense of -movement within and without him as he staggered through the thickets. -At last he found himself face down on gritty sand, his breathing -settling down to the shallow exhalation of complete exhaustion. He -looked up to see Quartel squatting over him, that grin on his sweaty, -greasy face. The woman was sitting up on the bank beyond Quartel, the -batwings lying at her feet. Crawford realized he was barefooted and the -blanketing had been stripped off his legs. - -"The chaps saved Merida," said Quartel. "And that Chimayo on you was a -good idea. The only thing you got is that hand. I don't think it will -cause you too much trouble, the way she fixed it." - -"Why did you come back?" said Crawford. - -Quartel shrugged. "For the same reason you gave me those shells back in -the bog when you didn't know for sure whether I'd use them on you or -the snakes, I guess." He sat there looking at Crawford a while. "I'm -sort of glad it was Huerta that killed Rockland," he said finally. He -laughed, at the look Crawford gave him. "_Sí._ You could have heard -that Huerta yelling up in San Antone. My horse went down just as I got -out, and I was lying here in the sand when Huerta cut loose. He really -cracked up good, didn't he? It sort of finishes my job out here." - -Merida came over and lowered herself to her knees beside Crawford, and -he sat up, staring at Quartel. "Your job?" - -That pawky grin was on the Mexican's face. "_Sí._ Like I said I knew -one who pinned it to his undershirt. Me, I couldn't even do that. Only -a damn fool would come into the _brasada_ with a badge. But I got a -commission back in San Antonio from the federal government." - -Crawford continued to stare at the man a long time, and it all went -through his head, before he said it. "_Marshal_ Quartel?" - -"That's right," said the Mexican. "Maybe I look like I should be a -_rurale_, but I'm a citizen of the States and my father was before -me. They sent me out to get you a couple of weeks after Rockland was -killed. Other lawmen had been given the job without meeting much -success. I guess you know about that. I figured you'd turn up at your -old corral sooner or later, so I had the Nueces Cattle Association -recommend me to Tarant as qualified to rod the roundup he was managing -for Rockland's estate. By the time you'd showed up at the Big O, I'd -been there long enough to find out that, whether you murdered Rockland -or not, there was more to the whole business than just the personal -trouble between you and him. That _derrotero_ for instance. I'd gotten -a third of it from Whitehead. He'd found it many years ago on the body -of one of the Mexican muleteers, who had been shot in the brush by -Houston's men but apparently had gotten away from them to die. It was -the section of the map which showed Snake Thickets, and how to find -the chests once you got inside the thickets, but not how to find the -thickets themselves. When you finally arrived, I had to choose between -nabbing you then, or staying on and trying to find out what was really -behind the murder." - -"Then, those other lawmen--" - -"The ones I told you about when I found you at Delcazar's?" Quartel -giggled slyly. "I'm the only lawman I seen in the _brasada_ since I -came. You were pretty jumpy, Crawford. I thought if I cinched the girth -up tight enough it might squeeze out some interesting things." - -There was no apology in his voice for how he had used Crawford. The -elemental brutality of the man was in his greasy, thick-featured face, -and the courage, too. _And it would take that kind_, thought Crawford, -_to come into a place like this. I can cuss better and ride better and -rope better than any hombre in the world._ - -"Not rope better." - -"What?" said Quartel. - -"Nothing," said Crawford, sitting up to pull on his boots. "How about -Tarant?" - -"He was involved all right," said Quartel. "He knew Rockland had -that section of the map, and allowed Huerta to stay at the Big O, -undoubtedly having made some deal with him to split the money when they -got it. Since it was Huerta that murdered Rockland, we might be able to -nab Tarant as an accessory." - -With a weary breath, Crawford rose. "We can reach Del's from here in a -couple of hours. He needs tending to, and that old Chihuahua cart of -his will be better than walking back." - -Quartel got up and turned to climb the bank toward the brush. Merida -started after him, but Crawford caught her arm. - -"Out there in the thickets," he said. "I didn't quite get it. You were -all mixed up. Something about not knowing what you'd wanted all your -life, and knowing now." - -"Maybe seeing those chests of gunpowder made me realize it fully," she -said. "It could be symbolical, in a way, of money. You seek it all your -life, and when you finally get it, you realize it isn't what you want, -after all." - -"What _do_ you want?" - -"Don't you know?" - -He gazed at her without speaking for a moment. Her face had taken on -that feminine softness. Her eyes met his widely, shining a little. He -was suddenly swept with the desire to shout or cry or laugh or take -her in his arms, he didn't know which, the realization swelled so -swiftly within him. It had all been so broken and aborted and bitterly -frustrating between himself and Merida before, and now it was so -complete. Yet, somehow, it was too poignant to express here. He reached -out and took her hand. - -"Let's go," he said. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Treasure of the Brasada, by Les Savage - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREASURE OF THE BRASADA *** - -***** This file should be named 63159-8.txt or 63159-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/1/5/63159/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Treasure of the Brasada - -Author: Les Savage - -Release Date: September 9, 2020 [EBook #63159] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREASURE OF THE BRASADA *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<h1>TREASURE OF THE BRASADA</h1> - -<p>PERIL AND INTRIGUE ON THE BORDER</p> - -<h2>By LES SAVAGE, JR.</h2> - -<p>DELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.</p> - -<p>George T. Delacorte, Jr.<br /> -<i>President</i><br /> -<br /> -Albert P. Delacorte<br /> -<i>Vice-President</i><br /> -<br />Helen Meyer<br /> -<i>Vice-President</i><br /> -<br />261 Fifth Avenue<br /> -New York 16, N. Y.</p> - -<p>Printed in U.S.A.</p> - -<p>DESIGNED AND PRODUCED BY<br /> -WESTERN PRINTING & LITHOGRAPHING COMPANY</p> - -<p>Copyright, 1947, by Les Savage, Jr. Reprinted by arrangement<br /> -with Simon and Schuster, Inc., New York, N. Y.</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence<br /> -that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h2>Persons this <i>Story</i> is about—</h2> - - -<p>GLENN CRAWFORD, whose pallor and feverishly glowing eyes mark the three -months he has just spent in a hospital as the result of an accident -he suspects was planned, has the restless animal lines of body and -negligible hips of one who has been much in the saddle. Hotheaded, once -fearless, he is presently trying to overcome an unreasoning panic and -pain which rack his body whenever he goes near a horse.</p> - - -<p>MERIDA LOPEZ, whose presence at the Big O ranch is surrounded by -mystery, has a faintly exotic beauty and slumberous, provocative eyes -which both irritate Crawford and stir something primal in him. He -isn't sure of her game, but he knows a woman like Merida doesn't trail -through the wild brush country just for the scenery.</p> - - -<p>DR. FELIZ HUERTA, who looks as though he's in the process of -disintegration, has strongly arched brows and a graying peak of hair -which gives him a satanic cast. His eyes hold a dull, jaded lackluster, -and even the slightest movement seems to cost him infinite effort. For -his own reasons, he is extremely interested in Crawford's symptoms.</p> - - -<p>QUARTEL, come to wind up affairs at the Big O, is a huge hunk of thick -brown flesh with sensual lips and shoulders like sides of beef. He -boasts he can rope better, ride farther, drink more and cuss dirtier -than any hombre between Texas and Mexico City.</p> - - -<p>OTIS ROCKLAND, whom Crawford makes no bones about hating, is the -owner of the Big O. As Crawford looks at it, Rockland's dealings with -Crawford's pal, old Delcazar, were no less dirty for being legal.</p> - - -<p>DELCAZAR, who fears his friend Crawford is mixed up in the most -dangerous thing that ever hit the wild brush country, is an aged, -gnarled, and skinny Mexican who lives alone in the back country. He has -rheumy eyes in a face seamed as an old satchel.</p> - - -<p>CABEZABLANCA, so-called for his head of pure white hair, is one of the -Big O crew. He has a reputation for being deadly dangerous, but for -some reason Huerta seems to have him under his thumb.</p> - - -<p>JACINTO (LITTLE HYACINTH) DEL RIO, the big, fat, grumbling cook, -listened to his father when he told him there were two sins in the -world, working and fighting, and if he avoided both of them he would -surely go to heaven.</p> - - -<p>BUENO BAILEY, a tough bronc-buster, gaunt as an alley cat, has milky -eyes, and parts his long yellow hair in the middle, slicking it down -with bacon grease. Crawford suspects him of being responsible for his -"accident."</p> - - -<p>AFORISMO, who has a sinister proverb for every occasion, is a thin, -stooped man whose eyebrows, slanting toward the middle of his forehead, -give him a mournful expression. His favorite motto, cut into his -razor-sharp knife, is <i>Tripe is sweet but bowels are better</i>.</p> - - -<p>WALLACE TARANT, Otis Rockland's lawyer, has a broad-shouldered, -narrow-hipped frame, a square brow and a wide, thin-lipped mouth -which should have held a palpable strength. But his eyes won't meet -Crawford's, and his voice is small for such a large man.</p> - - -<p>SHERIFF ED KENMARE, weary lawman of San Antonio, whose duties hang -heavy upon him, has a bulbous nose prominent among heavy, weathered -features.</p> - - -<p>FORD INNES, Cabezablanca's saddlemate, is a red-bearded redhead with -shrewd little eyes and a short square body which holds all the lethal -threat of a snub-nosed derringer.</p> - - -<p>AFRICANO, a big black devil of a horse, is a killer nobody has been -able to break. Just the thought of him drives Crawford into a trembling -frenzy of fear, but he knows he must conquer Africano or go crazy.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2>What this <i>Story</i> is about—</h2> - -<p>Being caught, bloody gun in hand, leaning over the body of the man he -had threatened to kill forces bronc-buster Glenn Crawford to turn up at -the Big O ranch, a weary, footsore fugitive with more than one score to -settle.</p> - -<p>Even the murder of the ranch owner in San Antonio had not prepared -Crawford for the state of affairs he finds at the ranch. His sudden -presence there seems to scare some of the crew half to death and lead -others to try to kill him every chance they get.</p> - -<p>For the moment, however, Crawford is more interested in the state of -affairs in his own body than in those of the Big O and the murderer he -is sure the ranch harbors. A veteran of the saddle, Crawford discovers -that since an accident which he suspects was planned, he goes into a -frenzy of pain and trembling panic whenever he gets near a horse. But -in spite of the torture it costs him, Crawford stays on at the ranch. -He knows he cannot be a free man until he finds the murderer of Otis -Rockland. Nor can he be a whole man until he conquers the black devil -of a killer horse, Africano. After he meets Merida Lopez, an exotic -beauty whose presence at the Big O is surrounded by mystery, he has a -third motive for staying around, although he stands to lose his reason -if not his life.</p> - -<p>Trapped by forces which he cannot understand, and half-crazed by the -torturing pain and panic which he tries desperately both to overcome -and to hide, Crawford gets himself more and more hopelessly entangled -in what, as old Delcazar points out, looks like the most dangerous -thing that ever hit the wild brush country. Crawford is offered a -strange proposition by sinister Dr. Huerta; he listens to Merida's -spellbinding tale of Santa Anna's chests—and as he listens, the jagged -third of a map he possesses, plus a dying man's painfully gasped -out words, take on a new and important meaning; he waits, trapped, -weaponless, for a killer to come nearer, nearer—And he delivers to -his other pursuers the body of one sent out to kill him—only to -become more deeply enmeshed in new and still more terrifying trouble. -Crawford's irritation at being stirred by Merida, whom he alternately -respects and suspects of playing him for a fool, doesn't prevent him -from riding secretly with her in the night in search of a place so -malicious few men have ever stepped foot in it. Nor does it later -prevent him from risking an agonizing death to follow her into it.</p> - -<p>Before the true murderer reveals himself, and before Crawford can again -call himself a whole man, much violent action takes place. Set against -the exciting background of the untamed Texas border country, this is a -thrilling brew of suspense, quick death, adventure, and love.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/map.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2>List of Chapters—</h2> - - - -<table id="toc" summary="List of Chapters"> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_One">I.</a></td><td>Circumstantial Evidence</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Two">II.</a></td><td>Santa Anna's Chests</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Three">III.</a></td><td>Huerta Was Right!</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Four">IV.</a></td><td>Unreasoning Fear</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Five">V.</a></td><td>Huerta Makes a Proposition</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Six">VI.</a></td><td>"Tell Us What Happened."</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Seven">VII.</a></td><td>Sunday Celebration</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Eight">VIII.</a></td><td>Best Roper in the World</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Nine">IX.</a></td><td>Still in the Throes of Fear</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Ten">X.</a></td><td>Flight From Snake Thickets</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Eleven">XI.</a></td><td>Old Friends Reunited</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Twelve">XII.</a></td><td>Conqueror and Conquered</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Thirteen">XIII.</a></td><td>Violence in the Bunkhouse</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Fourteen">XIV.</a></td><td>Challenging Snake Thickets</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#Chapter_Fifteen">XV.</a></td><td>Treasure Hunt Climax</td></tr> -</table> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2>Treasure of the Brasada</h2> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_One" id="Chapter_One"><i>Chapter One</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Circumstantial Evidence</span></p> - - -<p>Crossing Alamo Plaza, Glenn Crawford was almost to the Manger Hotel -when he became aware of Sheriff Ed Kenmare standing in the entrance -to the patio. Crawford felt the hesitant break to his stride. Then, -deliberately, he went on, feeling for the first time the sweat -glistening on his unshaven upper lip and forming dark blue spots in the -armpits of his faded ducking jacket. It might have been the sun. It was -a hot spring for San Antonio.</p> - -<p>"How about the riding, Glenn?" asked the sheriff, casually.</p> - -<p>"My legs are all right, Ed," said Crawford, halting momentarily.</p> - -<p>"I noticed you still limped a bit," Kenmare told him. "You got off -easy, I guess. Horse mashed my cousin's legs rolling on him that way up -in Deaf Smith. He never did heal so he could ride any more."</p> - -<p>"My legs are all right," said Crawford, turning to go past him and -through the patio gate.</p> - -<p>"You got other things to heal besides your legs," said Kenmare, -shifting his dusty, tobacco-odored bulk in front of Crawford. "Why -don't you think things out a bit longer before you see Otis Rockland -again?"</p> - -<p>"This isn't my idea," said Crawford. "Otis sent me word he was here and -wanted to talk."</p> - -<p>Kenmare's watery gray eyes met Crawford's, and he put a gnarled hand on -the younger man's arm. "Then give me your gun, Glenn, before you go up."</p> - -<p>A strange, defiant withdrawal drew Crawford's body up, accentuating -for the first time its restless, animal lines. In his brass-studded -levis, he had the lean catty legs and negligible hips of a man whose -work had been much in the saddle, and though his shoulders were narrow, -their muscularity was apparent beneath the denim jacket. His forehead -was high and bony and pale below the short curling black hair; and, -set deep within their sockets, his eyes held a sunken, almost feverish -glow, which could have come from the recent sickness, or something -else. His rope-marked fingers tightened about the brass receiver of his -old Henry.</p> - -<p>"I'll keep the rifle, Ed," he said. "Now let me by."</p> - -<p>Kenmare did not release Crawford's arm. He dropped his gaze to one -side, reaching up to rub the sweat exuding from the large, greasy pores -of his rather bulbous nose.</p> - -<p>"Something I never did get straight, Glenn," he said, looking at the -worn boot he was scuffing in the earth. "This whole thing between you -and Rockland seems to have started with the way Rockland got hold of -Delcazar's land."</p> - -<p>"Del was—"</p> - -<p>"I know, Glenn, I know." Kenmare's fingers tightened momentarily on -Crawford's arm. "You and Delcazar was pretty close friends. And you -think Rockland gave Delcazar a raw deal."</p> - -<p>"You know he did," said Crawford. "Del had a small spread, but it had -the best water in that section of the brush. Rockland had to have that -water. And he got it."</p> - -<p>"But he did it all legal, Glenn."</p> - -<p>"Legal." Crawford's voice was bitter. "He knew Del only held his spread -with one of those old Spanish grants they call a <i>sitio</i>. His lawyers -found out that this one was so mixed up through the years that Del -couldn't prove ownership. He petitioned the state, had it declared -public domain, and got it for a song. Yes, it was legal all right."</p> - -<p>"Those things happen," said Kenmare wearily. "It wasn't your spread, -Glenn."</p> - -<p>"No. But Del was my friend. I was busting broncs for Otis Rockland at -the time. I went to him and told—"</p> - -<p>That hand tightened again. "I know what you told him, Glenn. Maybe -you were right. Maybe Rockland even had that cinch cut on the black -killer so it would roll you. But listen, Glenn—" Kenmare took a weary, -wheezing breath—"this ain't the way."</p> - -<p>"What isn't the way?" said Crawford with growing heat. "I told you -Rockland sent for me, Ed."</p> - -<p>"There must have been half a dozen Big O hands heard you threaten to -kill Rockland after that bronc rolled you under," Kenmare told him -heavily.</p> - -<p>"Don't you think three months in the hospital cools a man off some, -Ed?" said Crawford. "Now get out of my way. It's too hot for an -argument. I'll buy you a beer on the way out."</p> - -<p>He shoved past the sheriff and into the tiled patio. The alamo tree -dropped its deep, dappled shade over the cattlemen sitting tilted back -in the line of peeling cane chairs against the adobe wall. Their lazy, -sporadic conversation died abruptly, and the only sound was the hard -beat of Crawford's heels against the tiles. His lips formed a thin, -bitter line against his teeth as he passed the speculation in their -lifted gazes and entered the foyer. The cool, inner chill struck him -with a distinct physical force, after the stifling heat of the day -without, and caused him to draw in a quick breath. He skirted a potted -palm and went up the broad, carpeted stairs to 211, the room Otis -Rockland always took when he came to San Antonio.</p> - -<p>He had lifted his hand to knock, when the sound came from inside. It -was muffled and dim at first, rising to a thumping crescendo, with -someone calling something, the whole thing ceasing then, abruptly. -After a moment of silence, Crawford seemed to hear heavy breathing. He -let his knuckles strike the pine panel of the door. It rattled mutedly. -That was his only answer.</p> - -<p>"Otis?" he called.</p> - -<p>He waited a moment longer, then turned the knob. The door opened into -the sumptuous parlor of the suite. The wine overhangings were drawn -across the windows against the sun, casting into semi-gloom the spidery -pattern of white and gilt furniture in the room. He heard a shutter -clack in the bedroom and knocked his knee against a low marquetry table -in front of the sofa as he headed for the door. He took his Henry in -both hands and shoved open the door with its tip. The first thing he -saw was a pile of blue chintz on the floor. It was the hanging, torn -off the tester of the four-poster, and Otis Rockland must have clutched -it when falling, for his hand was still gripping it in terrifying -desperation. The portieres had been pulled back by an opened shutter, -and the avenue of bright light, splashing across the rich Brussels -carpet, touched Rockland's feet and led Crawford to turn momentarily -toward the window.</p> - -<p>"No—Crawford—"</p> - -<p>He wheeled back to see Rockland's eyes open. The man made some feeble -effort to rise. Crawford dropped to one knee beside him, laying the -rifle down.</p> - -<p>"Delcazar?" he said.</p> - -<p>Rockland's lips twisted in what could have been a smile.</p> - -<p>"Like you, to think of that."</p> - -<p>"I guess more than one has good cause to want you dead, Otis," said -Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Yes." It came out of the man in a hoarse, strained way. But there was -a look of macabre humor or malice, or both, in his face as he spoke. -"They'll think it was Delcazar, won't they? Or you, Glenn."</p> - -<p>"I'll get someone—"</p> - -<p>"No. No." Rockland reached up to grab at his shirt as Crawford started -to rise. "Won't do any good. Too late." He fought for breath for a -moment, then went on, slowly. "Reach—inside—coat."</p> - -<p>Crawford could see the thick, viscid blood forming beneath the back -of Rockland's iron-gray head now. There was a brutal slash across the -man's face, slicing deep into the bridge of his dominating, avaricious -nose. Even as Crawford watched, the eyes closed and the breathing grew -stertorous. The man was obviously beyond help. With a swift movement -Crawford reached beneath Rockland's expensive steel pen, drawing a -wallet from the inner pocket. He was starting to go through it, when -Rockland's eyes opened.</p> - -<p>"Rip lining, Glenn," he whispered. "What he was after—you scared him -off—'fore he could find it."</p> - -<p>Crawford fumbled with the soft doeskin flap of the wallet, finally -managing to rip it out, revealing a piece of faded, yellowed paper. He -pulled this out. Unfolded, it formed a triangle, the bottom straight, -the other two sides jagged and torn. "Looks like some kind of a map," -he said.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Rockland, feebly. "<i>Derrotero.</i> Santa Anna's chests."</p> - -<p>"Whose chests? What are you talking about, Otis?"</p> - -<p>Rockland's lip drew back over his teeth, more a grimace than a smile. -"Don't lie, Crawford," he murmured. "Why else were you so het-up when I -got Delcazar's spread? You knew about this <i>derrotero</i> then."</p> - -<p>"About what?" said Crawford hotly, clutching him. "How is Del mixed up -in this?"</p> - -<p>But Rockland's head had fallen back once more; and for a moment -Crawford thought he was gone. Suddenly he found himself shaking -Rockland in a fever of impatience. "Otis," he cried, "Otis, did Del -give you this? Where did you get this map?"</p> - -<p>Once more Rockland's eyes opened, but a glaze was on them. "Mexico," he -whispered. "Mexico City."</p> - -<p>Suddenly Crawford knew. The Delcazars had come from Mexico City -originally. And their family papers must have been in the hands of a -lawyer there. When Rockland got Delcazar's spread, he had sent his own -lawyer down there to make sure there was nothing to obscure his title -to the land. Evidently Tarant had found this part of the <i>derrotero</i> -among the papers. But this was only a third of it. Where was the rest -of it? The light grew brighter. So this was why Rockland had sent for -him. He thought that he, Crawford, knew about the map—knew, perhaps, -who held the missing pieces. Santa Anna's chests, Rockland had said, -Santa Anna's chests. All at once he found himself muttering the words -aloud, "Santa Anna's chests—"</p> - -<p>As though the words were a magic Sesame, Rockland opened his eyes. -Drawing on some hidden reservoir of strength, he pulled himself to a -sitting position. "Where's the rest of it, Glenn?" he gasped. "Does -Delcazar know? Glenn, Glenn, where's the rest—"</p> - -<p>Crawford caught at the man as Rockland sank back. "Otis?"</p> - -<p>It was the muted footsteps, then, coming across the Brussels carpet -in the outer room. Crawford had allowed Rockland to drop back when -Ed Kenmare's bulk filled the doorway. A vague pain moved over the -sheriff's heavy weathered features.</p> - -<p>"The manager heard a ruckus up here," he said. "I guess he was right. -No, Glenn—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Ed," said Glenn, violently, scooping up his Henry and whirling -back toward the man. Kenmare had his own six-shooter only half out of -its holster. He stopped that way, staring at the .44. There were other -men behind the sheriff now, several of the cowmen from the patio and -lobby, the hotel manager in a white morning coat.</p> - -<p>"I guess there's no use denying it, is there?" said Crawford, through -his teeth.</p> - -<p>Kenmare let his eyes drop to the Henry's wooden butt. Crawford felt it -then, sticky against his fingers, and realized the wood must have been -lying in the blood from Rockland's head. A nausea swept him.</p> - -<p>"Ed," he said, unable to keep from it, "I didn't, I didn't—"</p> - -<p>His bitter voice trailed off as he saw resignation in Kenmare's faded -eyes. "Listen, son," the man told him. "It won't do you no good this -way. Give me that gun now."</p> - -<p>"No." The finger lever made a sharp click, cocking, and with his hand -holding it down, Crawford started backing toward the window. "Think -I'd have a chance? It's all here, isn't it? All right here, cinched up -tighter'n a bucking rig. No loose lashings even. Everything to hang me. -I'm not going to be taken for that, Ed."</p> - -<p>"Glenn," said Kenmare, with that same weighty reluctance, "for once, -don't be a hothead. You go off half-cocked like this and bugger your -bronc every time. This just won't do you any good—"</p> - -<p>"Don't do it, Jason," Crawford shouted, turning his gun toward one of -the cattlemen behind Kenmare. Harry Jason stopped trying to shift back -of Kenmare where Crawford wouldn't see him draw his gun, and moved his -hand carefully away from the wooden butt of the weapon. There was no -intelligent reasoning in Crawford now. Only a terrible consciousness of -that dead body on the floor, and a blind, animal urge to escape this. -He lifted his leg over the iron railing of the balcony onto the ledge -outside. There was the first violent movement among the men in the room -as he crouched down to drop off the ledge, and he heard someone shout. -Then he jumped.</p> - -<p>It was not a long fall, and he broke it by catching the edge of -the balcony with his free hand and hanging there till his arm was -stretched out with his weight, then letting go. One of his high heels -turned under him as he struck the flagstones below, and he let himself -go down on his knees and then roll it off to keep from spraining an -ankle. As he leaped to his feet, Kenmare appeared on the balcony, gun -out. Crawford was already running toward the front entrance, past the -line of cane chairs. There were still half a dozen cattlemen sitting -there, and two of them were standing at the end, and Kenmare was -apparently fearful of hitting them if he shot.</p> - -<p>"Stop him," shouted the lawman. "Crawford. He killed Rockland. Get him, -you fools—"</p> - -<p>The men standing made an abortive shift to block Crawford's passage, -but he was already opposite them, and surprise held the other men in -their chairs till he was almost to the door. He saw several pulling at -their guns, but Mexicans and cowhands were passing by outside in the -street, or stopping farther beyond in the Plaza to gape curiously, and -a bullet might have struck one of them. There were half a dozen cow -ponies at a cottonwood rack in front of the Manger, and as Crawford -reached them he noticed that the reins of the first were tied in a -hitch that could be knocked free. He did it with the tip of his gun, -throwing the ribbons over the animal's neck. Excited by Crawford's -running up like that, the hairy little black started to whirl inward. -Crawford jumped for the stirrup with one foot, letting the centrifugal -force slap him into the saddle as the horse whirled on around.</p> - -<p>"Hey," shouted one of the cattlemen, streaming out of the patio behind -him. "Get off that horse, Crawford, he's mine—"</p> - -<p>But Crawford was already turning the animal into Blum Street. Halfway -down the block he cut through an alley onto Commerce and turned at -the corner of Commerce and Alamo, wheeling into another alley that -led directly down to the river. He crashed through a line of washing -hung behind a squalid Mexican hovel and scattered a bunch of cackling -hens, tearing a white <i>camisa</i> off his head, his hat going with it. A -Mexican woman ran from the hut, waving her arms and squealing at him, -and behind that he could hear the dim sounds of running horses. He had -gone down Blum to make them think he was heading west out of town, and -hoped they would not discover his true direction till he had left by -the south. He slid the pony down the stone coping banking the river, -letting the current carry him beneath the Market Street bridge before -trying to reach the opposite bank. He got out of town following back -alleys and side streets, and then broke into South Flores Street. And -now, as he pushed the laboring pony toward the twin spires of Mission -Concepción, it began to come.</p> - -<p>There had been no room for it in the violent excitement of those first -few minutes, with all his concentration on escape. But now, with the -steady beat of running hoofs beneath him, it began to grow in him. -First, perhaps, it was a consciousness of that steady shuddering -pound of hoofs beneath him. Then, the constant, heated movement of -the horse's muscles, the dim sense of its flanks, rising and falling -with the heavy breathing, the feel of its shoulders beneath the saddle -moving back and forth. And finally, more than the movement and the -sound outside him. Something within. He did not know where it started. -In his legs, perhaps. Or his groin. Somewhere down there. A strange, -thin, hollow sensation.</p> - -<p>"No—"</p> - -<p>He didn't know whether it had been in his mind or whether he had said -it. He turned in the saddle, staring down the road behind, trying -to blot it from his consciousness. He was past the fields of white -niggerheads about Concepción, and was approaching the second mission, -San José de Aguayo, which had been established by the Spaniards here in -1720. But it was growing in him. He was sweating beneath the armpits -now. It was recognizable now. Pain. More than that—hollow, nebulous -sickness at the pit of his stomach. Pain. Pinpricks of it, shooting up -his legs. A hoarse, strained sob escaped him. How could it be? They had -told him, no. He was healed. How can it be? <i>I'm healed, damn you, I'm -healed.</i></p> - -<p>The roof of San Aguayo had fallen in, and only a few windows were left -in the south wall, protected by the remains of delicate iron <i>rejas</i>, -their tarnished panes flashing dully in the sun as Crawford passed -by. He was barely conscious of this. He was sweating now, his fists -gripping the reins so desperately the knuckles gleamed translucently -through the skin. The pain seemed to have sound now. His head was -roaring with it. He was shaking violently now, and the horse felt it -and began reflecting his lack of control, breaking its stride, shifting -from side to side down the road.</p> - -<p>The stepped belfries of San Francisco de la Espade rose into view. -The last ruins of the <i>baluarte</i> built for the defense of the mission ran -parallel to the road, sections of this bastion crumbling off into the -ruts of the highway. The horse changed leads to side-step some of the -adobe fallen onto the road, and Crawford lurched out of the saddle, -barely recovering himself. He heard someone making hoarse, guttural -sounds, and realized it was himself. And now, more than the pain, -something else was rising in him. The hot, sweaty fetor of the horse -filled him with a violent nausea. He had a wild impulse to escape it. -He caught himself actually stiffening up to throw himself free of the -running horse.</p> - -<p>"No!"</p> - -<p>Again, he did not know if it was in his head, or if he had shouted -it. The very sound of the running horse seemed to fill his brain now. -Each thundering hoofbeat was a separate note of agony. And more than -the agony which filled him, that other something he could not define, -or would not, so confused with the pain now he could not tell the -two apart. Finally he could stand it no longer. Brutally, he reined -in the horse. The animal brought himself to a series of stiff-legged -halts that almost jolted him over its head. He swung off the lathered, -heaving animal, and then, standing with his face toward its hairy wet -hide, he was filled with that nausea again. He wheeled away from the -horse, stumbling across the road to a pile of rubble that marked the -remains of the aqueduct. With a hoarse exhalation, he lowered himself -weakly to the adobe, dropping his head forward into his hands, so that -the black hair fell through his grimy fingers in dank, sweaty tendrils.</p> - -<p>"I <i>can</i> ride," he said aloud, in a desperate voice, "I <i>can</i> ride!"</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Two" id="Chapter_Two"><i>Chapter Two</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Santa Anna's Chests</span></p> - - -<p>It had a million faces. At dawn it was a dim, foggy mask. At noon it -leered in brassy, burning malignance. At night it was a cunning visage, -sometimes filled with bizarre mutations by the caprice of moonlight, -sometimes cloaked in the unrelieved sin of utter blackness. This was -the <i>brasada</i>.</p> - -<p>Glenn Crawford did not know how many weeks of weary travel lay behind -him since he had left that cow pony by the mission and had struck out -on foot for this borderland which had provided sanctuary for so many -fugitives. Now, crouched in a thicket of black chaparral, with the -late afternoon sun falling through the branches to cast a weird shadow -pattern across his back, Crawford was filled with an oppressive sense -of its infinite mystery. It was a Spanish word, <i>brasada</i>, and there -was no English equivalent. For it was not brushland in the ordinary -sense. Not scattered clumps of mesquite dotting an arid prairie, -or small thickets of sage in a sandy plain. It was a jungle. A dry -jungle, as vast and unexplored as the Amazon jungles, stretching -through southern Texas between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande -for uncounted miles, in many places so thick as to be impossible of -penetration.</p> - -<p>Until he had reached its safety, Crawford's primary instinct had been -the simple animal urge of escape. But once within its borders, a desire -to get at the root of this thing, and to clear himself, began to grow -in him. And though he knew the dangers involved, it had inevitably -drawn him to the Big O, where the whole thing had started.</p> - -<p>Otis Rockland's father had established the spread here in the <i>brasada</i> -just before the Texas Revolution, shipping lumber for his house from -New Orleans. It was a strange building, in a land where most structures -were low adobe hovels. Its two stories rose gaunt and lonely against -the dark horizon of brush, the flat gambrel roof supporting a pair of -glassed-in cupolas over the front. Crawford had been here since noon, -watching it, not yet knowing what he had meant to do when he reached -the spread. The sun had burned bronze streaks through his shaggy mane -of black hair, and a scrubby, matted beard grew up into the hungry -hollows beneath his high cheek-bones, rendering his face gaunt and -wolfish. His whole body jerked with the sudden crackle of brush behind -him, and he started to whirl and rise from his hunkers and pull his gun -around all in the same violent movement.</p> - -<p>"Never mind, Glenn, you'd never do it in time," said the man standing -there. He waited a moment, grinning, and then spoke again with a -deliberate, slow irony. "If you'll drop that Henry, we'll be able to -talk comfortably."</p> - -<p>Crawford let the rifle slip reluctantly from stiff fingers, and then -straightened his legs out until he was standing, faced toward the man -they called Cabezablanca for his head of pure white hair. His face -was as smooth and unlined as a coffee bean, and he wore a pair of -tight buckskin leggings they called <i>chivarras</i> this near the border, -and a blue cotton shirt, and Crawford had never seen him without the -Winchester he carried now.</p> - -<p>"It's been a long time since you busted broncs for the Big O, Glenn," -said Cabezablanca. "Ain't you going to say something? <i>Buenos días</i>, -for an old <i>amigo</i>, or how are things?" He waited a moment, the smile -slipping from his thin, beardless lips. "You better be civil to me, -Glenn. I'm a very dangerous man." He halted again, and when he realized -Crawford would not answer, a sullen anger tightened his lips. "Very -well, let us go and see what they want to do with you."</p> - -<p>Crawford turned around, moving from the screen of brush in stiff, catty -steps, the tense forward thrust of his shoulders giving them that -narrow appearance. He was aware that Cabezablanca stooped to pick up -the Henry as he followed. Crawford had been watching the crew working a -bunch of horses in the corrals, and now, as he drew near, he saw that -they had pulled a new animal into the tight chute between the smaller -pen where the animals were held and the larger one where they were -worked. It was a big black animal the Mexicans called a <i>puro negro</i>, -throwing itself crazily against the bars of the chute, the whole -structure shuddering with its violent struggles. Crawford was not aware -that he had stopped till Cabezablanca came up beside him.</p> - -<p>"Yeah, Crawford," said the white-headed man, watching him narrowly. -"Africano. Sort of brings back things, doesn't it? That black devil's -still rolling them, and nobody's broke it yet."</p> - -<p>A man threw a dally rope over the top of the chute, noosing the black -animal's neck and pulling it tight against the bars. The beast fought -wildly a moment, banging its skull against the cedar poles. The corrals -shook again, and yellow dust rose about that section, obscuring the -horse. When the dust settled, the <i>puro negro</i> had quit battling, and -stood with its forelegs stiff, breathing heavily through its nose. A -tall, slat-limbed Mexican climbed to the top of the chute, and the -men below handed him up a double-rigged Porter. He dropped the heavy -saddle on the horse, and a man below reached through the bars to get -the front girth, pulling the latigo through the cinch rings and yanking -the girth tight. Africano squealed shrilly, trying to jerk away again. -Then another Mexican climbed up the bars of the chute and stood at -the top, pulling his belt up. He was so broad he appeared short, -his close-cropped hair beginning to gray at the temples. His great -shoulders bunched like sides of beef beneath the strained wool of a -faded <i>charro</i> jacket with a few tattered remnants of what might have -been gold embroidery on its lapels. He wore a pair of tight rawhide -leggings, and the rolling muscles of his thighs had burst the seams in -several places between hip and knee.</p> - -<p>Crawford licked dry lips. "Who is it?"</p> - -<p>"Quartel," said Cabezablanca. "When you killed Rockland in San Antonio, -a lot of the Big O crew drifted. Bueno Bailey and me are about the -only ones left of the old bunch. Rockland didn't have no heirs. So -his lawyer was given the job of cleaning up the estate. There's a lot -of cattle to be choused out of that brush and Tarant had to get a new -ramrod. And Quartel's him."</p> - -<p>"But—" Crawford moved his hand vaguely toward the horse—"Africano—"</p> - -<p>"The nigger sort of fascinates Quartel, I guess," grinned the other. -"He's been trying to break it ever since he got here. That black devil -almost stove him up a couple of times."</p> - -<p>Quartel was straddling the bars of the chute with his feet, leaning -down to tug at the saddle a couple of times and test the cinches. They -finally got the bit in and pulled the rawhide reins up to where Quartel -could take hold of them. He waved his free hand, and the man below -pulled out the drop bar which held the door of the chute closed. Then -they untied the rope from the black's neck and swung open the door. As -the beast lunged forward, Quartel dropped into the saddle.</p> - -<p>Africano was larger than most brush horses, though not any taller, -standing maybe fifteen hands, with a prodigiously muscled rump that -indicated more than a little quarter blood, and a savage, vicious -action to its every movement. The animal boiled over almost before it -had left the chute. Quartel had not found his right stirrup as the -beast erupted, but by the time Africano hit the top of its first buck, -the man's foot was in the oxbow, and when the black stiff-legged down -into the ground, Quartel was set for it.</p> - -<p>Even then, his broad, heavy body trembled to the awful jar of it. -Crawford's face twisted, and his hands were gripping the bars of the -corral with a strange desperation.</p> - -<p>The black raced down the corral with a high, collected action and then -stopped abruptly with its forelegs jamming the ground like ramrods, -pin-wheeling in its own billow of dust. It was all balance with -Quartel. Crawford did not think he had ever seen such a relaxed seat on -a bucker. The man shifted his weight back and forth almost delicately, -gauging each violent movement of the horse to perfection.</p> - -<p>"There it goes," said Cabezablanca.</p> - -<p>Crawford rose up on his toes against the bars. Africano had started to -roll. Quartel stepped off with an incredibly lithe movement for his -heavy body, as the horse went down. The black rolled completely over, -and Quartel was there ready to swing onto its back again as the animal -came up, jamming his feet into the stirrups and raking the animal's -dusty, lathered flanks with great Mexican cart-wheel spurs. The black -screamed in a frenzied, crazy way as it realized the man was still -on its back. With a shrill whinny, it began rolling again, madly, -cleverly, devilishly, watching Quartel out of its glassy eyes, heavy -chest briny with lather. Crawford watched with a terrible fascination, -unaware of how tightly he was hanging onto the bars or how loud and -harsh his heavy, labored breathing was.</p> - -<p>On its fourth roll, Africano twisted while still on its back and -switched ends before coming up, kicking at Quartel with its hind feet. -Quartel dodged the kick, shouting something, and slapped the animal's -rump to come up over the legs as they struck the ground, hitting the -saddle with a jar that drew a gasp from Crawford. Africano raced -forward, halted abruptly, pivoted on one hind foot. Quartel was thrown -off balance by the spin, and while his weight was still on the off -side, the black reared up and fell back deliberately. Quartel had to -kick free and jump to keep from being mashed beneath twelve hundred -pounds of vicious black demon, and he lost control completely.</p> - -<p>The animal came up with a triumphant whinny, whirling toward Quartel. -The dust billowed up about the dim shouting movement filling the corral -then, and Crawford could see only dimly what happened. A red-bearded -hand was galloping in on one of the cutting horses to try and reach the -black before it trampled Quartel. But the rider spun the big loop over -his head once before throwing it, and the wily black saw it coming and -wheeled away.</p> - -<p>"Damn you, Innes, why don't you go back to snagging fence posts," -shouted Quartel, stumbling to his feet and lurching for the rope. He -caught that end and jerked it violently, almost unhorsing Innes as the -rope was torn from his hands. Then Quartel whirled around, snaking -in the rope with quick, skillful flirts until he had the other end. -The red-bearded rider had wheeled and was trying to run into Africano -broadside now to force it away from Quartel. But Africano leaped ahead, -dodging the man, and wheeled toward Quartel again, that maniacal intent -plain in its bloodshot eyes. "Get out of the way," Quartel roared -hoarsely at Innes. "I swear you don't know any more about handling -horses than a woman. Get out of the way——"</p> - -<p>The Mexicans called it a <i>mangana</i>, and not many men could have done -it in such a position. The black horse had outmaneuvered Innes, and -was racing a dead run at Quartel. Quartel stood there with the rope -in both hands, not even spinning it, a confident grin on his face. -When the black was so near it looked certain to run Quartel down, the -man made his toss. It was a California throw, down low without a spin -so the horse could not spot it until the loop was actually in the -air. Quartel snapped the rope behind him at his hip, then dragged it -forward with a swift flirt of his wrist, hand pointed down and the -loop swinging out so that it practically stood on edge. It was timed -perfectly. Quartel took one step away like a bullfighter, and the <i>puro -negro</i> thundered past him, so close its lathered shoulder twitched -his <i>charro</i> jacket, and ran headlong into that loop standing there. -Quartel turned away with the rope across his hip, and his thick body -jerked hard as the horse snapped the rope taut and fell headlong. Then -he casually dropped the rope to the ground and walked away, while other -hands ran in with the short tie ropes they called peales, to hog-tie -the vicious beast while it was still down.</p> - -<p>Crawford realized only then how his fingers ached. He released them -from the cedar-post bar. His shirt was sticking to his back with -sweat, and he heard that heavy, labored breathing. Him? And something -else. The same thing he had known on that cow pony up by San Antonio. -Not pain exactly, though there were those little spasms twitching at -his legs. But something more insidious than that, down in his belly -somewhere, a thin, nauseating consciousness. His eyes went to the -black horse, still kicking and squealing as they hog-tied it within -the corral, and a new wave of it swept him. He turned away, clenching -his teeth, trying to drown it with anger. Then he became aware of how -Cabezablanca was looking at him.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Crawford? You look like it was you riding the -African instead of Quartel." The white-headed man waited, that sly -grin fading as he saw Crawford was not going to speak. He indicated -the house, finally, with the tip of his Winchester. "Let's go. Maybe -Huerta will want to see you."</p> - -<p>"But I've already seen him," said a heavy, jaded voice from behind -them. "I've been watching him for some time now."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The overdrapes of green striped satin had been pulled aside from the -front windows of the dining-room to let the last shafts of afternoon -sunlight cross the dark Empire Aubusson and gleam brazenly on the -brass-headed nails which studded the green morocco upholstering of the -chairs. The man who had stood behind Crawford and Cabezablanca at the -corrals was Doctor Feliz Huerta, and he followed Crawford into the -dining-room now.</p> - -<p>Crawford did not think he had ever seen such infinite dissolution in -a face. The minute pattern of blood vessels was faintly visible in -Huerta's heavy lids, giving them a bluish cast. His eyes, when they -were visible behind these lids, held a dull, jaded lackluster in their -black pupils, and his flesh was smooth and soft-looking, lined about -the mouth and eyes like an old satchel. His black hair was parted in -the middle, graying at the temples and receding there to form a peak -down his forehead which, added to the strong arch of his brows, gave -his features a satanic cast.</p> - -<p>"You may go now, Whitehead," he said.</p> - -<p>Cabezablanca shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, you don't seem to -understand. This is Glenn Crawford——"</p> - -<p>It seemed to cause Huerta infinite effort to turn toward the man. For -a moment, their eyes met. Whitehead's mouth was still open from his -words, and he drew a small, surprised breath through it. Then he began -to back out of the room.</p> - -<p>Huerta moved his glance around to Crawford when Cabezablanca had left. -"They say he is a very dangerous man," he murmured, moving languidly -to the old English sideboard. Lifting one of the brass rings on the top -drawer, he pulled it open, taking a silver plate out and putting it on -top. There was a small pile of reddish beans, and he selected one from -this, popping it into his mouth. "You'll excuse me. An old complaint."</p> - -<p>Crawford could retain it no longer. "What kind of horse you on?"</p> - -<p>Huerta's face revealed some small surprise. "I thought you might like -to have dinner with us. Jacinto will bring it in a few moments."</p> - -<p>"No," said Crawford, moving his hand viciously. "Something else. What -is it, Huerta? What are you doing here?"</p> - -<p>One of Huerta's sardonic black brows lifted quizzically. "You are such -a suspicious man, Crawford. I have known Otis Rockland for some time. -He invited me to visit him. I arrived to find him murdered in San -Antonio. It was quite a shock. Ah—" his glance had passed Crawford and -was focused on the doorway—"Merida, Wallace, I'm glad you've come. We -have a dinner guest."</p> - -<p>Crawford turned around. Wallace Tarant had been Otis Rockland's lawyer -a long time, and Crawford knew him well enough. But it was the woman -who commanded his attention. Her beauty struck him with such an impact -that he felt a distinct physical reaction pass through his body. Not -many women could have worn their hair in such a severe coif without -detracting from their allure. It was so black it looked blue, parted -in the center and drawn back to a shimmering bun at the nape of her -neck. It gave accent to the faintly exotic planes of her face. Her only -jewelry was a large cabochon emerald in an onyx brooch that rode the -mature swell of her breasts just below the low-cut top of her black -silk dress.</p> - -<p>Her slightly oblique eyes held a candid interest, meeting his. The -blood thickened in his throat. A vague irritation swept Crawford that -she should affect him so strongly.</p> - -<p>"This is Merida Lopez, Crawford," said Huerta. "She came with me from -Mexico City."</p> - -<p>"Crawford." It escaped her on a throaty breath, and those large black -eyes took in the tense line of his body, and a faint smile stirred her -rich lips. "I imagined you, somewhat—like this."</p> - -<p>Wallace Tarant took a step that placed him at the woman's side. He -had a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame that looked good in -his tailored town coat. His face, with its square brow and wide, -thin-lipped mouth, should have held a palpable strength. But his eyes -would not meet Crawford's. His voice was small for such a large man.</p> - -<p>"What's the idea, Huerta?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Whitehead found him in the brush watching the house," said Huerta. -"I thought perhaps we might like a little talk with him. You, as -Rockland's lawyer, should appreciate the value of that."</p> - -<p>"Isn't it a little dangerous," said Tarant.</p> - -<p>"I think Crawford knows how little chance there is of escape," said -Huerta. "By whatever door a man leaves this house, he has to cross -several hundred yards of open compound before reaching the protection -of the brush. At the present moment, there are half a dozen men out -there, just waiting for the chance. As for his presence among us, you -aren't afraid of him, are you, Wallace?"</p> - -<p>Tarant flushed, moved stiffly to pull out a chair for Merida. Crawford -could not tell if it was deliberate, but in passing him the woman's -body touched his hip. His whole frame stiffened with the momentary, -warm, silken pressure, and he could not help the sharp breath he drew. -Then she was by, and he saw the faint, ironic smile twitch at Huerta's -lips. Crawford turned angrily toward the table, but before he could -reach a chair, the whole room began to tremble. He knew who was coming -before the man appeared. Jacinto del Rio had cooked for the Rocklands -as long as anyone in the brush could remember. The three dominating -factors of his life were apparent enough as he rumbled into the -doorway from the entrance hall. His prodigious belly was a remarkable -edifice to <i>tortillas</i> and frijoles. The blue network of broken -veins patterning his flushed jowls indicated a singular capacity for -tequila and pulque. The reluctance of his every movement reflected his -veritable passion for the national pastime of siesta. He held a great -silver tureen of soup on a tray high before his face, and it prevented -him from seeing Crawford at first.</p> - -<p>"<i>Trabajo, trabajo</i>," he grumbled, "always work. First it's breakfast -in the bunkhouse. 'Hyacinth cook some more eggs.' 'Hyacinth this coffee -tastes like alkali.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Then breakfast for -the big house. 'Hyacinth you're late.' 'Hyacinth you didn't put enough -clabber in the biscuits.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Me, who was -made for nothing but wassail and song and laughter, sweating like an -<i>esclavo</i> all my life. You know what my father he tell me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes," said Huerta wearily. "If you don't set that tray down soon -we'll be eating breakfast instead of dinner."</p> - -<p>"He tell me, 'Hyacinth, there are two sins in the world—working and -fighting, working and fighting—and if you avoid both of them, you will -surely go to heaven.'" Jacinto set the tray down, his eyes rolling -upward in a fat face. "Por Dios! it looks like I'll never get there -now. My poor <i>padre</i> must be turning over in his grave to see how I -have desecrated his wishes. To think of me, little Hyacinth of the -River, meant for nothing but——"</p> - -<p>His eyes had focused on Crawford for the first time, and his words -ended in a bleat. He held up a fat hand, trying to say something, but -nothing would come out. He turned toward Huerta, sweat rolling down -his face with his effort to speak. He whirled back to Crawford, his -whole body twitching. Then he looked to Huerta again.</p> - -<p>"<i>Por Dios!</i>" he croaked. "Doctor. Please. Crawford. That's him. I -was born for laughter and wassail and song. You aren't going to do -anything. How did he get here? No <i>violencia</i>. Please. My delicate -sensibilities would revolt. You won't—"</p> - -<p>"My dear Hyacinth," said Huerta. "There won't, I assure you, be any -violence. Now please go and bring the rest of the meal." Jacinto backed -out of the room, sputtering, and Huerta's sardonic glance slipped -around to Crawford. "Won't you sit down? You make me nervous."</p> - -<p>Crawford moved across to pull out a chair across from the woman, -feeling her eyes on him, and lowered his tense body onto the green -morocco leather. They were all watching him now.</p> - -<p>"Would you serve, Wallace?" said Huerta, leaning back in his chair. -He surveyed Crawford for a moment. "You know," he said finally, "most -people think your motive for killing Otis Rockland was revenge. But -somehow, that doesn't satisfy us."</p> - -<p>"Doesn't it?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>The woman's laugh was as throaty as her voice. It caused his glance to -shift to her face with a jerk. She sat there with that smile, making no -effort to explain her amusement. It drew a reasonless anger from him. -He gripped his knees with his hands, beneath the linen cloth.</p> - -<p>"Did you ever hear the story of Santa Anna's chests, Mr. Crawford?" -Merida Lopez asked, finally, a strange, obscure mockery coloring her -voice.</p> - -<p>"No," answered Crawford stiffly.</p> - -<p>She tasted her soup, eyes still on him. "In April of 1826, at the close -of the Texas Revolution, General Santa Anna had led his Mexican army -halfway across Texas after General Houston's forces, finally catching -him at San Jacinto. There were two major political parties in Mexico -at that time, the Federalists and the Centralists. The Centralists -had been trying for some time to break Santa Anna's growing power in -politics. For four or five months they had managed to have the army -pay withheld, but Santa Anna finally got a pay train sent from Mexico -City. The battle of San Jacinto was in progress when this mule train -arrived, and a party of Texans cut it off before it could reach the -Mexican army, chasing it westward into the brush somewhere south of the -Nueces. The Texans finally caught the Mexicans, and in the battle that -followed the greater part of the Mexicans were killed. But the mules -had disappeared. They have not been found since."</p> - -<p>"Neither has the Lost Nigger Mine, or Steinheimer's millions," said -Crawford. "I been listening to windies like that since I was a button."</p> - -<p>"Ah, a skeptic." Again that mockery, more palpable this time. She toyed -with her soupspoon. The faint movement of her wrist drew his glance, -and he found himself wondering how the soft white skin would feel. -"And still, Crawford, doesn't it intrigue you?" Her voice penetrated -his attention, and he raised his gaze self-consciously. Just her hand. -Just the movement of her hand like that. What the hell? "Five months' -pay for an army, Crawford. Does a man like you have any conception -of that kind of money? Men would kill for it. Even governments. And -there is more than just the story. There is what the Mexicans call a -<i>derrotero</i>."</p> - -<p>She let her eyes lift momentarily from the spoon, but he had kept his -face carefully blank. He was beginning to notice her enunciation now. -The accent was discernible sometimes. Her careful precision seemed an -effort to hide it.</p> - -<p>"This <i>derrotero</i>," she said. "Literally a map, a chart. It was made -by the captain of the mule train. When he realized the Texans would -inevitably catch him, he secreted the pay chests somewhere in the -brush, making the chart. Fearing that, if he entrusted the whole of the -chart to one man, that man might be captured, he divided it into three -portions. Thus, if one or even two of the men were caught, the chests -would still be safe, for the hiding place could not be located without -all three portions. One section he sent with an Indian to Santa Anna -himself at San Jacinto. The second part he gave to his lieutenant, to -carry to the Federalists in Mexico City. The third he kept himself."</p> - -<p>"Yeah?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said, smiling in dim amusement at his acrid reticence. For -a moment, her eyes were half-closed, studying him, and they held a -slumberous, provocative temptation. It stirred something primal within -him. He had felt it before. But not this way. Not just looking in a -woman's eyes.</p> - -<p>"The captain of that mule train was the uncle of your friend Pio -Delcazar!"</p> - -<p>It went through him with a palpable shock, and it was not till after -she had finished speaking that Crawford realized what she had been -doing, with those eyes. They had turned hard and speculative, now, and -with the spell broken, Crawford felt the twisted expression her words -had drawn to his face. He tried to regain that inscrutability, but knew -it was too late. There was a certain triumphant satisfaction in the way -Merida allowed her gaze to drop to the table as she began eating the -soup again. And now the two men were watching him. He felt the sweat -break out on his palms.</p> - -<p>"<i>Carne adobada, carne adobada?</i>" said Jacinto, waddling in. "You don't -know how long I pickled it in brine. I fry the spices and chile till -the juices stream out of the pork, and—" he trailed off, seeing how -they were all watching Crawford. He turned to Huerta, wringing his -fingers. "Doctor, please, I beseech you—"</p> - -<p>"The coffee, Hyacinth, the coffee," murmured Huerta, waving a languid -hand at the cook without looking away from Crawford.</p> - -<p>Jacinto almost choked on the breath he took, and backed out, staring -wide-eyed at Crawford. "<i>Sí.</i> The <i>café</i>. <i>Sí.</i>"</p> - -<p>Tarant began to serve the meat dish Jacinto had brought. "When you had -that ruckus with Rockland in the living-room here, Bueno Bailey said it -was over Delcazar," he said.</p> - -<p>"You know what it was over," said Crawford. "You got Del's land for -Rockland that way."</p> - -<p>Huerta leaned forward slightly. "Was it just the land?"</p> - -<p>"Del's my <i>compadre</i>," said Crawford. "You're Mexican. You know what -the word is."</p> - -<p>"Crawford," said Huerta, bending farther forward, "we should, of -course, send you back to San Antonio. But there are other things which -could be done."</p> - -<p>"You're riding a muddy creek."</p> - -<p>"A colloquialism," murmured the woman. "How quaint."</p> - -<p>Crawford's narrow, dark head turned toward her with an angry jerk. -She was watching him from beneath her brows in that mocking way, chin -tucked in, and it formed a small crease in the rich flesh beneath her -jaw. There was something concupiscent about it.</p> - -<p>"We think your quarrel with Rockland was over more than the way he -acquired Delcazar's land," said Huerta.</p> - -<p>Crawford found it difficult to take his eyes off Merida. "Do you?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Huerta," the woman muttered petulantly, "can't you see you'll -never get anywhere beating about the bush with him—"</p> - -<p>"You'll never get anywhere with him anyway," said Wallace Tarant. "I -know Glenn Crawford, Huerta. We'd better send him back to San Antonio -right now."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no," said Huerta, leaning back. "Not at all. I think if we kept -him here long enough, we would find a way of convincing him that it -is to his advantage to—ah—" he moved his hand, as if seeking the -word—"cooperate, with us. Yes. Co-operate. Don't you, Merida?"</p> - -<p>The woman's laugh held a husky sensuality. "Perhaps. Even if not—it -would be interesting."</p> - -<p>Wallace Tarant put down his fork angrily. "Don't be a fool, Huerta. -Having Crawford here is like sitting on a keg of powder with a lighted -match. What would Kenmare do if he found we'd caught Crawford and -hadn't notified the authorities?"</p> - -<p>"Kenmare won't find out," said Huerta, turning toward the man, "unless -someone tells him. Ah, our coffee."</p> - -<p>Jacinto set the urn down hesitantly, glaring about at them. He started -to speak, then caught Huerta's eye, and backed out of the room, -muttering to himself. Smiling faintly, Huerta indicated that Tarant -should pour. Then he held out a cup.</p> - -<p>"Mexican style, Crawford. Perhaps you'll like it. Boiled in milk and -water and sweetened in the pot with <i>poloncillo</i>, our brown sugar. I -was surprised to find how few of the hands here drank it like this. I -know Quartel sweetens it with molasses sometimes." His eyes dropped to -his own cup, and he stirred it absently. "Speaking of Quartel, that was -quite an exhibition this afternoon, wasn't it? I don't think I've ever -seen such a vicious horse. And what a magnificent beast a man would -have if he could break it." He looked up abruptly. "Oh, excuse me, -Crawford, I—" he moved his hand in an apologetic gesture—"I wasn't -thinking—"</p> - -<p>The woman frowned at him. "Hm?"</p> - -<p>"The horse," said Huerta, looking at Merida, "the horse."</p> - -<p>"What about the horse?" she said.</p> - -<p>"I don't mean that," said Huerta. "I—"</p> - -<p>"Never mind," said Crawford. "My legs are all right."</p> - -<p>"Oh?" Huerta's arched brows rose. "I got a different impression. You -weren't riding."</p> - -<p>"I lost my horse on the Flores Road."</p> - -<p>"It was hit?"</p> - -<p>"I lost it, that's all," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Oh." Huerta took out a jade cigarette holder, fitting a smoke into it. -He leaned back, looking at Crawford. "You were watching Africano out in -the corral, that way."</p> - -<p>"What about the way I was watching it?"</p> - -<p>Huerta's eyes dropped meditatively to the coffee cup, and he allowed -twin streamers of smoke to leave his nostrils. "I guess I got the wrong -impression, Crawford. You'll have to pardon me."</p> - -<p>"Impression about what, Huerta?" said Tarant.</p> - -<p>Huerta seemed to rouse himself with an effort. "Ah, nothing. Nothing, -Tarant. You're not drinking your coffee, Crawford. Is it too sweet -for you? Pour him another cup, Tarant." The woman was watching him -narrowly now, and Huerta let his eyes meet hers momentarily before he -leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. He took a sip of his own -coffee, looking down the middle of the table in that meditation again. -"They say a man is getting old when he starts reminiscing, but I can't -help being reminded of an instance I ran across in Monterrey some years -ago. After the war I chanced to be employed by a Mexican firm with -interests in a mine north of the city. I had been company doctor some -months when one of the lower shafts caved in, killing half a dozen of -the men. I managed to patch up most of those who escaped with minor -injuries. There was one miner, a huge giant of a fellow, whose legs had -been crushed somewhat beneath the slide. My operations were singularly -successful, and within five or six months he was as good as new, the -bones knit perfectly and the muscles gave no sign of the damage. During -his convalescence, there had been no pain. Yet, the very first day he -went back to work, he experienced the most acute agony in his legs."</p> - -<p>The little muscles jumped out all along Crawford's jaw suddenly. Huerta -looked up, smiled faintly. "Yes—the most acute agony. I could find -nothing organically wrong with him, absolutely nothing. In my office, -he did not feel the pain. I took him back to the mine. As he approached -the mouth of the shaft in which he had worked, the agony returned. All -the symptoms of genuine pain. Sweating, trembling, tears in the eyes. I -could not account for it. There was utterly no reason for him to feel -the pain. I administered drugs, enough to deaden the greatest agony. It -had no effect. Then I took him away from the mine. As soon as it was -out of sight, the pain receded, disappeared."</p> - -<p>Merida's face had lifted as he spoke, a tight furrow appearing between -her brows. "You mean—his mind—"</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí</i>," said Huerta. He was adjusting a fresh cigarette carefully in -its holder. "I came to that conclusion finally. The mind plays funny -tricks on us sometimes. That cave-in had been such a ghastly experience -that he actually felt pain when he returned to the scene. And worse -than the pain. Fear. He could never work at his trade again; he could -never get near a mine without feeling that pain. And that fear. He -tried to fight it. He had been a brave man once. He tried to force -himself back into the mines. But in the shaft he became a sniveling, -gibbering coward, crying and puking like a baby, unable to speak -coherently even. Yes, the mind does play funny tricks on us—" Huerta -held his cigarette holder out abruptly. "Crawford, you've spilled your -coffee!"</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Three" id="Chapter_Three"><i>Chapter Three</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Huerta Was Right!</span></p> - - -<p>The bunkhouse and cookshack stood a few hundred yards south of the -house, two adobe structures connected by a covered dog-run. Rockland's -father had put them up to live in while his large dwelling was being -built, constructing their walls not with mud bricks but by the older -Indian method of making forms out of willow shoots and cotton sheeting, -pouring the mud into these forms, and peeling off the cotton after the -adobe had dried. Unless these walls were replastered every six months -or so, they began to crack, and the inside of the cookshack was already -beginning to show a network of minute fissures across its whitewashed -surface. It was here Crawford had spent the night, an oppressive sense -of the hostility which surrounded him keeping him from much sleep. -After breakfast, all the crew had left the bunkhouse but Bueno Bailey.</p> - -<p>He was gaunt as an alley cat, and he parted his long yellow hair in -the middle and slicked it down with bacon grease, and he sat in the -stilling morning heat of the shack, idly spinning the cylinder of his -six-shooter.</p> - -<p>"Will you stop that, Bueno?" snapped Crawford.</p> - -<p>Bailey looked up at Crawford, who had been standing against the -doorpost, staring outside. "I've seen cattle look out between the bars -of a pen that same way, Glenn," he said, putting his long forefinger -against the cylinder of his gun to give it another, deliberate whirl. -"You don't need to get ideas. Why do you think they left me here?"</p> - -<p>"I'll bite," said Crawford. "Why?"</p> - -<p>"They haven't decided what to do with you yet," murmured Bailey. -"Tarant was for taking you right back to San Antonio, but Huerta didn't -want that, for some reason. Either way, it's a cinch they don't want -you to get away. <i>Sabe?</i>"</p> - -<p>"What's Huerta got to say about it?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"He's some friend of Rockland's," Bueno told him.</p> - -<p>"That doesn't seem to me enough reason for the way he assumes authority -around here," Crawford muttered. "I thought Quartel was the ramrod."</p> - -<p>"There's some kind of deal between Huerta and Tarant," Bailey answered, -giving the cylinder another spin. "Quartel's tried to buck Huerta a -couple of times and Tarant stood behind the doctor. Quartel almost lost -his job the second time. Tarant gave us the idea we'd better do what -Huerta liked if we wanted to keep on working here."</p> - -<p>Crawford glanced at the gun. "I asked you to stop that."</p> - -<p>Bueno leaned forward on the three-legged stool, placing his elbows on -his knees to look up at Crawford. "So you had to come back, Glenn," he -said. "Why?"</p> - -<p>"Maybe I came back to pay a few debts," said Crawford thinly.</p> - -<p>The oily click of the cylinder stopped abruptly. "You owe somebody -something?"</p> - -<p>"Still snipping cinches, Bueno?"</p> - -<p>The stool crashed to the floor, and Crawford whirled from where he -had been standing in the doorway to meet Bailey as the man came up -against him. The only thing that prevented their bodies from meeting -was the gun Bailey held against Crawford's body. The man's milky eyes -were slitted, and the smell of that bacon grease in his hair nauseated -Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Chew that a little finer," said Bueno, through his teeth.</p> - -<p>"Africano never could have rolled me under if that rigging hadn't -come apart," Crawford said thinly. "I saw the cinch on that saddle -afterward. It hadn't pulled loose by itself."</p> - -<p>"Glenn—" Bailey let it out on a hissing breath—"I think you better -change your mind about that."</p> - -<p>"I know who did Rockland's stable jobs for him," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>The gun dug into his belly. "Glenn—"</p> - -<p>"Yes?" said Crawford. "Make it a better job than that first time, -Bueno."</p> - -<p>Bueno stood there a moment longer, his breath hot and fetid against -Crawford's face. Then his weight settled back onto his heels. He turned -around and set the stool upright and lowered himself onto it once more. -He began twirling the cylinder again with his forefinger. Crawford saw -it tremble against the blued steel.</p> - -<p>"When the time comes, Crawford," said Bueno, not looking up, "I will -make it a better job, you can depend on that. I'll finish the job."</p> - -<p>The harsh laugh from the doorway caused Crawford to turn back that way. -He wondered how long Quartel had stood there. The man moved on into the -room, a pawky smile on his sensuous lips. The pores of his cheeks and -nostrils were large enough to be clearly discernible, and they exuded -a heavy sweat, lending a greasy look to the thick brown flesh of his -face. He stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his dirty <i>chivarras</i>, -leaning back slightly.</p> - -<p>"It seems that you haven't got one friend left on the Rockland -<i>estancia</i>, doesn't it, <i>Señor</i> Crawford?" he said.</p> - -<p>"<i>En la cárcel y en la cama se conocen los amigos</i>," said the man who -had come in with Quartel.</p> - -<p>"Did I ask for any of your stupid proverbs, Aforismo?" said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"It is just a saying they have in Durango," said Aforismo. "In jail and -in bed we know our friends."</p> - -<p>He was a thin, stooped man, Aforismo, his white cotton shirt soiled -with dirt and horse-droppings, his eyebrows slanting upward toward the -middle of his forehead to give him a habitual expression of mournful -complaint.</p> - -<p>"Maybe you got a proverb that tells how to find out where a man pins -his badge," said Quartel, looking at Crawford.</p> - -<p>"I know one about a stitch in time—"</p> - -<p>"Knew a Texas Ranger once who pinned it to his undershirt," said -Quartel.</p> - -<p>Bueno Bailey had looked up. "What saddle you in now?"</p> - -<p>"It would be a good reason," said Quartel. "He had to have some reason."</p> - -<p>"Listen," said Bueno. "That's Glenn Crawford. Sure he had some reason. -A lot of reasons. But not that. He's—"</p> - -<p>"I know who he is," said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"Then why—"</p> - -<p>"Innes took Tarant back to San Antonio last night," said Quartel. -"Innes heard a lot of talk. There's rumor of a government marshal in -the <i>brasada</i>."</p> - -<p>"If that's so, it's because of Crawford," said Bueno. "Kenmare couldn't -get him. I wouldn't doubt they'd send a marshal after him."</p> - -<p>"Maybe you got it inside your boot," said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"What makes you so touchy about a badge-packer?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>Bailey had stood up. "Listen, Quartel, can't you get it through your -thick skull, whatever Crawford is, he ain't a lawman."</p> - -<p>"Isn't he?" Quartel studied Crawford a moment. Then he threw back -his head to emit that short, harsh laugh, so loud it seemed to rock -the room. It died as swiftly as it had come. His glance dropped to -Crawford's legs. "So you got reasons to come back. Africano, maybe?"</p> - -<p>"<i>You</i> haven't broken him," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>Quartel flushed. "I will. There isn't any horse I can't break."</p> - -<p>"He would have rolled you if you'd been a second later with that -<i>mangana</i> yesterday."</p> - -<p>"Well, I wasn't a second later," said Quartel. "Did you see that -<i>mangana</i>? Nobody else could have done it so close." He thumped his -barrel chest with a hairy fist. "I'm the best damn roper in the world, -Crawford. I can rope better and ride farther and drink more and cuss -dirtier than any <i>hombre</i> from here to Mexico City. Now let's go. I got -a lot of cattle to clean out of that brush and I'm not wasting a man -here to guard you."</p> - -<p>Jacinto had come through the covered dog-run from the kitchen in time -to hear Quartel. "The <i>señorita</i> will not like that," he said.</p> - -<p>Quartel turned angrily toward him. "You in Merida's <i>corrida</i> or mine."</p> - -<p>"Yours, Quartel, <i>madre de Dios</i>, yours," said Jacinto. "Still she -won't like that. Only last night I heard her say—"</p> - -<p>"<i>Punta en boca</i>," said Quartel. "Shut your mouth. All right, Crawford. -We got the horses saddled."</p> - -<p>Crawford's boots made a hesitant scrape on the hard-packed adobe floor; -then he took a breath, and walked toward the door. Jacinto waddled -after him, sweat glistening in the wrinkles between the rolls of fat -forming his face. He caught Crawford's arm, trying to stop him.</p> - -<p>"Listen, <i>señor</i>," he said breathlessly. "Don't let them take you out -there. Merida is against it. I heard her and Huerta arguing about it. -Just wait till I tell her and she'll stop Quartel. Don't let them get -you out there." Quartel had moved outside to let Crawford through -the door. The heat of the sun struck him like a blow on the face as -he stepped out with Jacinto still tugging at him. "I'm telling you, -<i>señor</i>, don't be a fool. If they get you—"</p> - -<p>"Dammittohell!" screamed Quartel, and stepped in to spin around with -his arm held out. The backhand blow caught Jacinto squarely in the -face. Jacinto's hand clutched Crawford's arm spasmodically as the blow -knocked him backward, jerking Crawford off balance. Then Jacinto's -three hundred pounds of sweating brown flesh struck the wall of the -bunkhouse. The building shuddered, and a shower of pale adobe flakes -descended on the huge Mexican as he slid to the ground.</p> - -<p>Quartel stood there a moment, his face diffused with blood till it -looked positively negroid, his whole body shaking with rage. For the -first time, the utter, primal violence of the man struck Crawford. -Without a word, Quartel turned and walked across the compound.</p> - -<p>The true suffocation in all this heat seemed to close in on Crawford -as he moved to follow Quartel. He found himself breathing with a heavy -effort. Cabezablanca was standing by the group of horses near the -corral. The white-headed man held his Winchester tenderly.</p> - -<p>"How are you, Crawford?" he said softly. Crawford glanced at him -without answering, and Cabezablanca's eyes narrowed and he ran one -finger up and down the gleaming barrel of his carbine. "You still -refuse to be civil with me. That is unfortunate. I am a very dangerous -man, Crawford."</p> - -<p>"That's your horse." Quartel nodded at a ewe-necked old paint standing -near the corral fence. It had rheumy eyes and rope scars all over its -gaunt shoulders and a saddleback the shape of hickory bow and the -weediest legs Crawford had ever laid eyes on. Yet, standing even this -near the animal, Crawford could feel that nebulous excitation begin to -rise in him. Or was it excitation? The sweat broke out on his palms. In -a sudden burst of anger, he clamped his fists shut.</p> - -<p>"What kind of crowbait is this?" he said.</p> - -<p>Quartel shrugged. "I thought—I mean your legs—"</p> - -<p>"I told you that was over." Crawford did not know whether the anger was -at himself or at Quartel. He might not have said it under more control. -"I can ride anything you can!"</p> - -<p>"Africano?" said Quartel. He saw Crawford stiffen and grow pale, and -his laugh had a scraping sound. "Never mind, Crawford, never mind. You -won't have to fork the <i>puro negro</i>. He ain't broke yet. You saw that -yesterday." Then the laughter left Quartel. He jerked a thumb at the -paint. "Get on."</p> - -<p>"The hell." Crawford had bent forward slightly, his whole body rigid. -That bitter intensity had drawn the flesh taut across his cheeks -beneath his scrubby beard. He turned abruptly toward the corral.</p> - -<p>"Where you going?" shouted Quartel.</p> - -<p>"To get a decent horse," said Crawford, without turning back. "You want -to try and stop me?"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He was sweating again. It was a little sorrel pony with a running walk -so relaxed Crawford could hear the teeth pop at every step like a -Tennessee walker, and a rocking-chair would have been harder on a man. -Yet he was sweating again.</p> - -<p>"They say the <i>hombres</i> who curse the <i>brasada</i> most love it the best," -said Aforismo. "You must love it like a woman."</p> - -<p>Crawford turned his head sharply toward the man. He hadn't realized -he had been swearing out loud. It hadn't been at the brush. It was so -confused now, inside and out. It was hard to breathe, and the muscles -across his stomach were tight as a stretched dally, and he could feel -the pain spreading from his hips. <i>All the symptoms of genuine pain.</i> -Was that what Huerta had said? <i>Sweating, trembling, tears in the -eyes.</i> The doctor's voice was in his ears, suave, insidious. <i>The mind -plays funny tricks sometimes.</i> It couldn't be. Not his mind. Not <i>my</i> -mind, Huerta, not <i>my</i> mind.</p> - -<p>"Yeah," grinned Bueno Bailey, forking a big dun on Crawford's other -side. "There never was a man could cuss the brush like Crawford. I'd -rather listen to him talking his way through a <i>mogote</i> of chaparral -than hear music."</p> - -<p>Crawford hardly heard him. The perspiration was sticky beneath his -armpits, his shirt clung to his back with it. And now it was that -other, stirring in him, so confused with the pain at first he could -not define it, or would not—the same thing he had felt there at the -corral, watching Africano. <i>And worse than the pain.</i> No. He wasn't -afraid. <i>I'm not afraid, Huerta.</i> How could he be? <i>How could I be? -Living with horses all my life. How could I be?</i></p> - -<p>"Take it easy," snapped Bueno. "What's the matter?"</p> - -<p>Crawford jerked the reins against his horse, realizing he had allowed -it to sidle into the dun. The sorrel shifted uncertainly the other way, -thumping into Aforismo's animal. This time Crawford's reining was even -more violent and it caused the sorrel to shy.</p> - -<p>Crawford was clenching his teeth now with the effort at control. His -knees were like vises against the animal's sides. Just a trot, and his -knees were like vises. <i>Oh, damn you, Crawford. Just a trot, and you're -bouncing like a satchel in a spring buggy.</i> He felt a desperate relief -sweep him as Quartel drew up ahead of them, running a finger around the -inside of the red bandanna he wore.</p> - -<p>"God, it's like a furnace," he said.</p> - -<p>"The drier the spring the more mesquite beans in the summer," said -Aforismo.</p> - -<p>Quartel glanced keenly at Crawford, then waved his hand at a big -thicket of black chaparral starting a few yards away. "That <i>mogote</i> -covers two or three miles. We been through once, but it's so thick -a lot of the <i>cimarrónes</i> got away from us. Crawford is riding with -Bailey and me. Whitehead, you take a line through the north flank of -the <i>mogote</i>. Meet us at Rio Diablo about sundown."</p> - -<p>Cabezablanca looked at Crawford before he wheeled his horse and trotted -off into the brush, followed by Aforismo. Quartel forked a big brown -animal with white hairs in its tail; they called it a <i>pelicano</i>. He -reined the horse violently around, flapping his stirrups out wide. He -did not have to kick the animal. As soon as the <i>pelicano</i> saw those -feet fly out, it bolted into a wild gallop straight for the thicket. -Crawford nudged the sorrel with a heel and followed, stiffening in the -saddle as he broke into a trot. Quartel made a great ripping sound -tearing through the first thin fringe of mesquite. Then they were in -the dry heat of the thicket.</p> - -<p>There was no more wily animal in the world than the <i>ladino</i> of the -<i>brasada</i>. These outlaw cattle made nests for themselves in the -thickest <i>mogoles</i>, lying there for days at a time when hunted, their -food the very thicket that surrounded them. They ate off the prickly -pear and other brush within the <i>mogote</i> until it formed a veritable -room, with the walls and roof of entangled chaparral and mesquite so -dense that they were invisible from without. This larger thicket the -men rode through was in reality formed by many smaller thickets, with -game trails and open patches throughout the thinner brush surrounding -the minor <i>mogotes</i>. Quartel followed one of these game trails for -some time without any apparent effort to find sign. Then, abruptly, he -pulled up on his reins. The heavy <i>pelicano</i> reared to an instant's -stop, head jerking up to the brutal jerk on its cruel spade bit. -Quartel leaned toward the <i>mogote</i> of black chaparral and Crawford was -close enough now to see the man's thick nostrils flutter.</p> - -<p>"<i>Cimarrónes</i> in here," whispered the Mexican, finally. "Outlaws. You -go around to the other side, Bueno. You'll get the first chance at -whatever Crawford and I scare out from here."</p> - -<p>Bailey pulled his dun around and cut through an opening between this -smaller <i>mogote</i> and another, disappearing. Quartel wiped sweat off his -face with the back of his hand. He grinned pawkily at Crawford.</p> - -<p>"How's the sorrel?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Good enough," said Crawford. He tried to relax. But he knew what was -coming. It would be fast now. If there were <i>ladinos</i> in there, it -would be fast.</p> - -<p>"Hola!"</p> - -<p>Quartel's hoarse shout startled the sorrel so much it almost pitched -Crawford off. Grabbing wildly with his legs, Crawford saw the Mexican's -stirrups flapped out that way. The <i>pelicano</i> bolted into a headlong -gallop and crashed bodily into that dense mass of chaparral, ripping -a great hole in the <i>mogote</i>. Crawford knew a moment's painful -hesitation, fighting his spooked sorrel, then he gave the animal its -head and booted it in the flanks.</p> - -<p>The horse went through the hole Quartel had left. The brush formed -but a thin wall, and the sorrel burst into the opening beyond with a -startling abruptness. In these first few moments Crawford felt nothing -but a blurred impression of externals. He saw Quartel's <i>pelicano</i> -ahead, trailing white brush from its scarred hide and dripping mesquite -berries in its wake. He had a vivid picture of three gaunt cattle -leaping to their feet beyond, and knew a faint, transitory surprise -that he should notice such an insignificant detail as the hair rubbed -off the knees of the white heifer, showing that she had been crawling -the brush instead of walking, in order to remain hidden from the recent -roundup. Then the trio of <i>cimarrónes</i> had wheeled away from Quartel's -horse and crashed through the opposite wall. The deafening sound and -the swift, blinding movement stunned Crawford's senses as he went -through after Quartel.</p> - -<p>"<i>Bueno!</i>" screamed Bailey, appearing from somewhere beyond with his -dally rope spinning in a California throw, coming up from underneath -so it would not catch on the overhanging brush, "<i>bueno</i>," the loop -snaking about the forefeet of the lead steer. The ground shook as the -steer went down and Bailey's horse was stiff-legging to a stop, Bailey -swinging down to run for the kicking steer with a peal. He had done the -whole thing with such incredible speed that before Crawford had passed, -Bailey had the steer's hind legs hog-tied with the short rawhide peal -and was dragging him to a coma tree, where he would leave him hitched -until they were ready to take him back to the spread. Then Bailey was -behind, and Quartel and Crawford were smashing through a thin stretch -of mesquite after the other two.</p> - -<p>No riding in the world could compare with popping the brush. A -<i>brasadero</i> might easily take a job on a spread outside the brush and -make good, but a hand used to the prairies seldom succeeded in becoming -a brush hand. It took consummate skill to ride at a dead run through -the brush after cattle like this. And Quartel had that skill. Ahead -of Crawford, he made a bobbing swaying figure on that big <i>pelicano</i>, -rarely holding his seat on top of the saddle, incessantly swinging off -to the side or ducking down forward or jerking back and forth. The -two <i>ladinos</i> raced beneath a post oak branch so low it scraped hide -off their backs, and Crawford expected to see Quartel rein violently -around it. But the Mexican merely swung one leg off and hung down the -side of his horse like an Indian, his thick right arm hooked over the -<i>pelicano's</i> neck. The oak branch knocked Quartel's sombrero off his -head—he would have lost it but for the tie-thong—and tore at the -cantle of the saddle so violently the whole rigging shrieked. There was -a great mass of thorny junco just beyond the tree, growing as high as -the <i>pelicano's</i> head, and a less skillful man would have been ripped -to bloody shreds before he got back onto the saddle. Crawford could -hear Quartel's violent grunt and thought sure the man was swinging up -too soon and would be knocked back down by that branch. But Quartel had -gauged it to a nicety. His spasmodic lurch upward took him back into -the saddle just in time. The junco merely scraped his left leg as he -thundered by.</p> - -<p>"Hola," he shouted wildly, "hola, you crazy <i>cimarrónes</i>, I'm right on -your tail, hola!"</p> - -<p>Something within Crawford rebelled as he neared that spot Quartel had -passed through. He felt his hands tugging on the reins, and the sorrel -lost all its collection, thrown off balance as it tried to pull out of -its mad gallop into a trot. Crawford was panting in a heavy, frustrated -way as he shifted through the spot beneath the post oak branch and past -the junco bush. And now it was strong enough in him to have a palpable -grip, like a great hand squeezing his vitals. The first action had been -violent enough to carry him along with it, but now that was over, and -slowing like that had been the final error.</p> - -<p>The muscles across his stomach were knotting with nervous tension, and -his legs quivered against the side of the sorrel. He leaned forward, -and the horse gathered itself to break into a gallop ahead. But somehow -he could not move his feet against the animal's side. Somehow his hands -would not relax their hold on the reins.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>It was Bueno Bailey, tearing in from behind, and Crawford realized -he had been sobbing to himself, huddled over his horse that way. -"Nothing, damn you, nothing," he shouted and booted the sorrel so hard -it whinnied in surprise and pain, rearing up and then bolting headlong -after Quartel. Crawford had one more glimpse of the Mexican before he -disappeared from sight, chousing after those two animals. A malignant -branch of chaparral reached out for Quartel's head, and he dodged that -and then swayed back the other way in time to miss being blinded by a -clump of mesquite berries. Then he reined his horse around a growth of -prickly pear and swung down off the flank as the animal burst through a -last dense growth of chaparral with branches so low the <i>ladinos</i> had -found trouble going through, and then he was out of sight.</p> - -<p><i>Keep your eyes open, keep your eyes open.</i> It kept spinning through -Crawford's head like that, the fundamental dictum of brush-popping. If -a man closed his eyes once he was lost. Crawford had seen more than one -hand knocked from his horse because a branch appearing suddenly out of -nowhere had caused him to shut his eyes and dodge blindly.</p> - -<p>The sorrel was going at a frenzied, headlong pace now, caught up in -the wild excitement of the chase, with the drumming pound of Bueno -Bailey's dun off to the flank and the deafening crash of mesquite and -chaparral echoing about them. All he could do was dodge and duck. He -found himself gripping the horn with one white-knuckled hand. Cursing -bitterly, he tore it off, jerking violently aside just in time to miss -being raked by a thick mat of mesquite. And all the time it was going -through him, <i>keep your eyes open</i>, and he couldn't.</p> - -<p>A branch of chaparro <i>prieto</i> loomed before his face and he jerked -aside and blackness blotted out sight. He heard someone yelling and did -not know it was himself till he had opened his eyes again. It could not -have been from pain because he had missed the chaparro. But the instant -he opened his eyes, leaning off to one side that way, junco and retama -were clawing at his face. With his eyes open he would have been able to -see them in time to dodge. As it was, the myriad claws of the allthorn -raked his flesh like the stroke of a jaguar's paw. Again his eyes -clamped shut, and he tore himself out of the tangle. If it had been a -post oak it would have knocked him off.</p> - -<p>He did not know whether the screams were inside his head now or whether -he actually voiced them. He felt his hands jerking desperately on the -reins, but the sorrel was running wild, and he had lost control of the -horse as well as himself. He was swept with violent, spasmodic waves of -virulent anger at himself and pain that grew more knifing each time it -struck from his loins and fear that turned his mind to a kaleidoscope -of uncontrolled sensations. He was clinging with both hands to the horn -now, his eyes closed, sobbing and screaming. The sorrel sideswiped -a post oak. A low branch knocked Crawford backward with the blow. -He reeled back to an upright position, swimming in a stunned agony. -Somewhere, dimly, in what was left of his consciousness he realized -there was only one thing to do. If he tried to keep on the horse any -longer this way he would be battered into pulp. Yet, knowing it, there -was no will left in him to act. Even that swift thought of it caused a -new spasm of awful fear.</p> - -<p>Reeling, swaying, his eyes clamped shut, his ducking jacket ripped -and torn, he rode on madly through the thicket. He crashed through a -mesquite thicket, and the brush clawed his cheeks to shreds. Chaparral -beat him aside time and time again. His screams were hoarse and -incoherent now, hardly human. The lathered, frothing wild-eyed horse -was in a frenzy, its hoofs drumming the ground in a dim tattoo beneath -the deafening, incessant crash of brush. Then that last blow caught -him, square across the belly. It must have been a low branch. His -desperate grip was torn from the saddle horn, and he was swept over -the cantle and off the sorrel's rump, doubled over. He had one lucid -thought before his head struck the ground, blotting out all thought.</p> - -<p>Huerta was right!</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Four" id="Chapter_Four"><i>Chapter Four</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Unreasoning Fear</span></p> - - -<p>Dusk held its own singular aspect. There was something hushed about the -brush at this time. Not the dead oppressive silence of noon. There were -many small sounds, but the bizarre, velvety clutch of twilight seemed -to subdue them. A hooty owl called tentatively from a hackberry down in -some yonder draw. An invisible jack rabbit made a dim, staccato thump -hopping through a distant clearing, then halted. Nearer by a lizard -rustled sibilantly through the foot-deep layer of decaying brush, which -for eons had been dropping from the bushes to pile up on the ground.</p> - -<p>It was these sounds, one by one, which impinged on Glenn Crawford's -consciousness. Then the fetid odor of the mold beneath him. His face -felt stiff and painful. It caused him a great effort to reach up to his -cheek. The rips and tears made great gaps in his beard and his whole -face was covered with dried blood. Finally he sat up, shaking his head -dully. Three hours? Four hours? What time had it been? It was hard to -think. He shook his head again. Early afternoon anyway. And this was—</p> - -<p>That brought him up straight. They hadn't found him? It was strange. -It was wrong, somehow. They hadn't found him. Wrong. They were better -trackers than that. All of them. If Quartel could ride like that he -could track like that.</p> - -<p>He got up with great difficulty and fell down again. His head was -spinning. When he got to his knees once more, the shreds of his ducking -jacket bound his arms, and when he fell that second time, he went full -on his face, unable to get his hands in front of him. In a fit of -anger he tore the remains of the jacket off. The third time he managed -to remain upright. As he stood there, the first thought of the horse -came to him. He felt that pain begin in his loins. Just the thought of -it!</p> - -<p>With a sobbing curse he broke into a stumbling run at the first thicket -of brush. He halted himself before he had reached the <i>mogote</i>. He -was breathing heavily and his lips were pinched. He held out his -hand before him. It shook visibly. He closed his eyes a moment, face -twisted. Then he took a deep breath and opened them again, staring -about the clearing. There was a great torn place in one thicket on the -other side. He moved over there at a deliberate walk. The hole in the -brush was big enough to walk through; beyond that was another open -patch and then a second small thicket torn asunder by the passage of a -heavy body. It was full night by the time he found the sorrel that way, -following the trail it had made bursting through the brush. The animal -stood in a clearing, head hanging wearily, dried lather forming dirty -yellow patterns on its freshly scarred hide.</p> - -<p>Crawford was about to step into the open when he caught himself. There -was a dim rustling in the brush to his left. His face turned that way -sharply. The noise ceased after a moment. He shook his head and went -out to get the horse.</p> - -<p>"Stand still, you crazy fool," he said, "stand still now, I'm not going -to hurt you, just stand still, that's it, hold it."</p> - -<p>The animal had started to shift away, but his soothing voice quieted -it. He moved in close and ran his hand reassuringly along its rump -and down its side. Then, as he stood with his face toward it that -way, close enough so that the heat of its body reached his belly, it -began to come again. That insidious, stirring, prickling sensation -deep in his loins. That hollow sickness growing in his stomach till it -approached nausea; the sweat breaking out on his face and beneath his -armpits.</p> - -<p>The curse had a strangled sound in his throat, as he bent to get the -trailing reins. He wouldn't walk back to the spread. No matter what -else, he wouldn't give them that satisfaction. He stopped, with his -hand not yet touching the end of the reins. Even in the dark, bending -over like that, he could see the footprints. The sorrel's hoofs had -made their dim impression all over the decaying vegetation covering -the gound. But here and there, where the horse had not blotted it out, -was a smaller, deeper imprint, like that of a boot heel. He remained -stooped over it for a moment that way. Then, slowly, he started to lift -the reins. They were caught on something. He reached down and found -the ends tied about a long stake of wood embedded deeply beneath the -rotting brush.</p> - -<p>Crawford slipped the reins off the stick and rose beside the horse. -Slowly he put his weight against its neck. His breath had a small, -swift sound. The horse gradually shifted around under that pressure -until it stood broadside between Crawford and the direction that small -rustling had come from when he first entered the thicket.</p> - -<p>"Now." He spoke to the horse softly, sliding his hands up the reins -till they were directly beneath the bit, and pulling gently forward. -"Let's go. Let's go. Take it easy. Let's go."</p> - -<p>The animal moved toward the fringe of brush surrounding the clearing. -Crawford walked close in by its side, tugging incessantly forward on -the reins, talking in that soft low tone. The animal's hoofs crackled -in the brush underfoot. It snorted once, pulling peevishly at his tight -grip on the shanks of the bit. He twisted them upward slightly and the -horse responded to the bit against its roof, quieting. They had almost -reached the edge of the <i>mogote</i> when the shot crashed.</p> - -<p>The horse was jerked over against Crawford by the force of the bullet -going through its body. Then it reared into the air, screaming. -Desperately Crawford tried to retain his hold on the reins, yanking -the horse on ahead, throwing the whole weight of his body into it. -He managed to fight the plunging, rearing animal a couple more steps -toward the brush. Then the beast's violent spasms tore his grip loose -of the reins. With the animal still forming a shield in that last -instant, he threw himself in a headlong dive for the thicket. Another -shot roared behind him, and the horse screamed again, and then Crawford -was rolling into the crackling, tearing mesquite thicket. He came to -his feet, pawing a cluster of berries out of his face, and plunged -blindly on into the <i>mogote</i>.</p> - -<p>For a long, blind run, the only sound was that incessant deafening -crash of brush all about him. He burst through that first thicket -and crossed a game trail and clattered into another <i>mogote</i>. Black -chaparral this time, and stabbing junco and maddening prickly pear. -Then an open patch. And another <i>ramadero</i>. White brush and golden -huisache that filled the air with a vague, viscid odor of honey. Then -that was gone and the spines of the agarita tore at his face. He broke -through the agarita into a game trail that wound its secretive way -through the <i>mogotes</i>, and he stumbled down that till it petered out -into more mesquite. Halfway through, the spread of mesquite became -entwined with chaparro <i>prieto</i> and Spanish dagger that met his -every movement with a vicious stab of its dirklike growth. He found -himself fighting a frantic, useless battle to penetrate this thicket -farther; it had brought him to a complete stop and, standing there, -chest heaving, face dripping sweat, he could see that the impenetrable -<i>mogote</i> was on the rim of a draw, and that it grew on down into the -bottom of the draw, choking it full. Even if he could manage to fight -his way through the thicket, he would be exposed, crossing that draw. -The realization came to him in a dim, spasmodic way, with no true -reasoning behind it, for he was still filled with that animal panic.</p> - -<p>He whirled back and fought his way out of the mesquite. And then, -crossing the comparatively open space of the game trail, it came to -him. He stopped there. Tears squeezed from his eyes with the effort -it caused him to control his breath so he could hear more clearly. It -came again, small, distant, yet distinct enough. The faint rattle of -mesquite berries, brushed by a passing body. The soft snap of decaying -vegetation beneath a careless foot. Again it was no reasoning process. -Just a wave of instinctive, animal realization of how he was trapped. -Face twisting with frustrated rage, Crawford backed slowly, almost -involuntarily, across the game trail into the mesquite thicket again. -He moved as far back as he could, upright, and then he got down on his -belly and crawled in until the roots and trunks and foliage became too -thick even for that, and then he stopped.</p> - -<p>His shirt was drenched with sweat and the perspiration dripped into -his eyes, blinding and stinging. Gnats began to float in, attracted -by the sweat and the blood of his scratches. At first he fought them. -He rubbed his palms viciously against his face, mashing the maddening -insects. He slapped wildly, gasping virulent curses. It only seemed to -draw more. With a myriad of the gnats mashed wetly against the cut, -bleeding, stinging, itching flesh of his face, and with a veritable -cloud of them buzzing about his upper body, he put his head at last -into his arms, and a bitter, hoarse sobbing arose mutedly from him.</p> - -<p>At last he stopped even that. He lay there in utter, hopeless defeat. -His crashing passage through the brush had frightened all the small -animals into silence, but now the sounds of them began again. A hooty -owl started to call, somewhere far out in the brush. Then, a coyote -mourning in some distant draw. The singing of a mockingbird that had -stayed awake to welcome the rising moon. The rustle of lizards through -the decay. And that other sound. That desultory, intermittent sound of -someone moving out there.</p> - -<p>A thin scream rang out with terrifying abruptness, jerking Crawford's -head up. He lay that way a moment, up on his hands, rigid, trembling -with strain. Then he lowered himself again. Only an ocelot, somewhere, -out there, a big cat down from the mountains across the Rio maybe. And -now, lying there, with the first awful sense of defeat losing its edge, -the other began to come. They thought they had him? Damn them. Whoever -it was, damn them. The anger grew in him till it struggled with the -defeat. It thickened the blood in his throat till he almost choked. -Had him trapped? The hell. Kill him like that? Without a gun, without -anything. Think he'd just wait? <i>Try it. Come on, try it. I'm here. Try -it.</i></p> - -<p>It was going through his head while he squirmed about beneath the low -overhanging branches of chaparral, scratching his face and hands anew -on barbed nopal and the harsh mesquite. Finally he found a maguey -plant, close to the trail. He had no knife, and he had to tear at it -with his fingers. They were ripped and bleeding by the time he had torn -the first strip of the leathery plant.</p> - -<p>The Mexicans cured the strips in brine and in the sun to supple -it for their ropes. Crawford could do nothing but braid the stiff -lengths together. And all the time, out there, approaching with the -deliberateness of a man knowing the confidence of complete advantage, -those sounds, rising with deadly intermittence over the other sounds. -The soft crunch of a boot heel driving through the layer of rotting -vegetation that covered the ground. The sibilant harshness of mesquite -scraping leather. Crawford worked with swift desperation till he had -a line long enough; then he knotted a hondo into one end and formed -a loop. It took him half a dozen throws across the game trail to snag -one of the low chaparral branches in a <i>mogote</i> over there. Then he -hooked the line beneath a root on the opposite side of the trail so -that it crossed the trail itself on the ground. He moved back into his -own thicket as far as the line would permit. Then it was the waiting. -Working with the rope that way, there had been no time to think. But -now it had begun to come.</p> - -<p><i>En la cárcel y en la cama se conocen los amigos.</i></p> - -<p>Crawford felt his whole body grow rigid with a palpable jerk. He almost -turned his head to see who had spoken. A muffled sound escaped him as -he realized it had only been in his mind. The <i>brasada</i> could do that -to a man, this way. In bed and in jail we know our friends? Sure. Maybe -it was Aforismo. What did it matter.</p> - -<p>The hooty owl stopped for a while, and there were only small rustlings -in the underbrush. Then the sound again, returning. A sibilant, -crushed, snapping sound.</p> - -<p><i>I am a very dangerous man, Crawford.</i></p> - -<p>This time he did not stiffen. It jumped through his brain so vividly he -could have sworn it was spoken. Yet he did not stiffen. All right. So -maybe it was Whitehead. All right.</p> - -<p>Moonlight spilled through his thicket suddenly, and he realized how -long he had lain there. The rising moon made skeletal monsters of the -chaparral bushes across the yellow river of the game trail, only adding -to the haunted tension filling Crawford. Thoughts moved uncontrollably -through his head now.</p> - -<p><i>Please, no violence. I was born for laughter and wassail and song—</i></p> - -<p>No. Not Jacinto. Anybody else. Even Wallace Tarant. But not big, fat, -grumbling Hyacinth of the River. The gnats had found Crawford again. -He dared not move as they buzzed fitfully about his face, stinging, -maddening. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Then he opened them -again. That would not do.</p> - -<p>He thought he would go crazy. His hands twitched with the impulse to -slap at them. His body cried out for movement to escape their insane -buzzing. Each sting made him jerk spasmodically.</p> - -<p><i>Bueno—</i></p> - -<p>Sure, Bailey. Sure. Crawford could imagine Bailey doing that sort of -thing. All right, Bailey. Come on, Bailey. Let's get it over with, -Bailey.</p> - -<p>He tried to stop thinking like that. There were so many possibilities. -He tried to stop considering them. A man could go loco that way. He -could go loco and jump right up out of the thicket and run screaming -down the game trail right into the arms of that bushwhacker, whoever it -was. A man could go loco anyway. The ocelot screamed out there again, -filling the night with a thin feral madness. It was all madness. The -gnats and the screaming cat and the howling coyote and the crackling -mesquite and the thoughts Crawford couldn't stop whirling faster and -faster through his head till he wanted to beat it against the ground.</p> - -<p><i>You'll excuse me. An old complaint.</i></p> - -<p>Huerta? Sure, why not? It could be him. It could be any of them.</p> - -<p><i>I knew a Ranger once that pinned it to his undershirt.</i></p> - -<p>Yeah. Even Quartel. The ocelot or Quartel or the hooty owl or any of -them.</p> - -<p>He lay there, wanting to cry, his fists clenched around the rope till -they hurt, his eyes squeezed tight with the terrible effort he made to -control himself. Finally he opened them again, staring down the trail. -It would be getting him, too, out there. If it was getting Crawford -it would get the other man just as much. The <i>brasada</i>. That's what -it was. The <i>brasada</i>. Enough to drive any man loco like this. And it -would be getting him, too, out there.</p> - -<p>The ocelot screamed. Crawford's lips pulled off his teeth in a wolfish -grin. That get you, Bailey? That get you, Whitehead? Like it got me? -The hooty owl began to talk. Crawford's grin spread. That get you? -Huerta? Sort of scary, isn't it? Jacinto? Stop maybe, and look around. -Sweat maybe. Like me. Aforismo? Sure. Sure it got them. They were as -nervous as hell. Whoever it was, he was as nervous as hell. Crawford -wanted to laugh suddenly. He was bathed suddenly in a cold sweat. Then -heat flooded up from his loins. It was like a fever.</p> - -<p>Or was it the waiting? Or the <i>brasada</i>. Sure, the <i>brasada</i>. He'd felt -this way before out in it. At night. Not so much, maybe. But then he -hadn't been waiting for a man with a gun to come and kill him either.</p> - -<p>The decay was damp from his sweat beneath his belly and legs. His -eyes ached from peering into the brush all about him. The gnats kept -clouding his vision. But now the man was closer. Each minute sibilance -crashed through Crawford's head like thunder. He could tell when the -man's clothing brushed a clump of mesquite berries and knocked some to -the ground. There was a peculiar rattling quality to that. He could -tell when the man stepped on a prickly pear. It had a squashing sound. -And when he shoved aside some chaparral. That held a hollow thump. And -pulled aside some huisache. Sighing, like the wind.</p> - -<p><i>I'm a very dangerous man, Crawford.</i> Sure. Sure you are, Whitehead. -Come on. I'll show you who's dangerous. I knew a man once who pinned -it to his undershirt. All right. One more time, Quartel. One more -time around and I'll show you who's dangerous. Made for laughter and -wassail and song? Come on. I'm waiting. An old complaint? You'll have a -complaint, Huerta. In bed and in jail—</p> - -<p>Then it was the shadowy figure moving out of the darkness down the -trail, and Crawford yanked on the maguey and it slipped off the branch -and the branch snapped up with a soft crackle and caused the figure to -whirl that way, his gun crashing, his back toward the thicket in which -Crawford lay.</p> - -<p>"Maybe you're a dangerous man," screamed Crawford in a terrible -release, leaping to his feet and throwing himself bodily at the man, -who was still firing wildly into the opposite thicket, "but this is one -bronc you'll wish to hell you never climbed on."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Five" id="Chapter_Five"><i>Chapter Five</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Huerta Makes a Proposition</span></p> - - -<p>At dawn, it was the birds, mostly, during the spring months, like -this. They filled the dim undulations of brush with a constant, shrill -twittering. Bobwhites shrieked from a draw full of white brush, and -blue quail cooed beneath the <i>cejas</i> of green brazil, and turkeys -gobbled down in a dry creek bed where they were fattening on elm mast.</p> - -<p>Through all this treble cacophony, Glenn Crawford walked heavily up -the road leading the shaggy black cow pony. It was Jacinto who saw him -first. Though the sun had not yet risen, smoke curled from the kitchen, -and the gross Mexican was just outside the door filling the coffeepot -from the water butt. It cost him some effort to straighten up when he -caught sight of Crawford. He stared blankly. Then he dropped the big -coffeepot with a clang and began running his way, grunting as each -foot struck the ground, his short, bandy legs looking as if they would -collapse every time the prodigious weight of his torso descended on -them in a step.</p> - -<p>"<i>Dios</i>, Crawford," he shouted. "<i>Válgame Dios.</i> What happened? <i>Que -hace?</i> Who is it? Are you all right? What happened?"</p> - -<p>He was halfway to Crawford by the time Aforismo stumbled into view at -the bunkhouse door, pulling bare brown legs into his stiff, greasy -<i>chivarras</i> and blinking sleepily. Someone must have asked him what -it was, for he grunted something over his shoulder and came on out. -Jacinto had reached Crawford by the time he got to the front of the -house, and it was there Crawford halted the horse. The tremendous -Mexican stood with his great belly heaving from the run, staring -blankly at Whitehead. He started to reach out and touch the man, then -dropped his hand.</p> - -<p>"Is—is he—"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Crawford, watching Aforismo come from the bunkhouse and -Quartel step out the door now, yawning and cursing. The shutter on an -upstairs window clattered against the dilapidated weatherboarding, and -Huerta leaned out to look down a moment. Then he withdrew his head, and -Crawford could hear movement from within his room. Quartel came across -the compound after Aforismo, slipping a dirty cotton shirt over his -head.</p> - -<p>"What happened?" he said. He looked at the body slung across the horse -without much expression in his face. What lay in his eyes was not -apparent till he got closer. They were narrowed, and the pupils held a -strange oblong felinity.</p> - -<p>"<i>Es muerto</i>," said Jacinto stupidly.</p> - -<p>"I know he's dead," said Quartel. "What happened?"</p> - -<p>"Out in the brush," said Crawford, watching Quartel.</p> - -<p>The Mexican looked at him, then glanced at the horse. He reached out to -pull the Winchester from beneath the stirrup leather, opening the front -end of the magazine and tilting the gun down. Two copper rim-fires -clinked into his calloused palm.</p> - -<p>"Looks like he did a lot of shooting," said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"He always carried that gun in one hand when he rode," said Jacinto. "I -told him he'd fall and break his neck sometime."</p> - -<p>"Did you?" said Quartel. He was studying Crawford, shaking the two .44 -shells up and down in his closed hand. "You still haven't told us what -happened."</p> - -<p>"His neck's broken," said Jacinto hopefully.</p> - -<p>Quartel allowed his narrowed eyes to observe the odd way Cabezablanca's -head hung, twisted around from the line of his shoulders. "That's what -it looks like. Where did you find him?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Doctor Huerta, from the door. "Where did you find him, -Crawford?"</p> - -<p>He had on a gaudy black-and-gold dressing-gown with satin lapels and -slippers of red leather. His face had never looked more dissolute. The -dim light seemed to draw out the singular, jaundiced corruption of his -sallow flesh. His heavy lids were almost closed over his eyes, veined -and pouched, and one of them twitched visibly. He had both hands in -the pockets of his bathrobe, and they were visibly closed into fists. -Merida stood behind him. She had on a house gown of blue cashmere, -evidently donned hurriedly. There was something Indian about her dark, -aquiline face; her black hair hanging long and straight about her -shoulders.</p> - -<p>"I told you," said Crawford. "Out in the brush."</p> - -<p>"You didn't tell me," said Huerta.</p> - -<p>"I told Quartel," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"He didn't tell me what happened," said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"To Crawford," said Merida, "or Whitehead?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Doctor Huerta, moving tiredly across the porch. "What did -happen to you, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>"We ain't interested in that now," said Quartel. "I'd like to know what -happened to Whitehead first."</p> - -<p>"You seemed interested yesterday," said Merida. "You were quite upset -that you had lost Crawford in the brush."</p> - -<p>"What have you got in your hand?" said Huerta.</p> - -<p>"A gun," Quartel told him.</p> - -<p>"Don't be obtuse," said Huerta. "I mean the other hand."</p> - -<p>Quartel opened his fingers. The two shells glinted dully in the growing -light. Somewhere out back of the bunkhouse a rooster crowed. Both -Huerta and Merida looked for a long moment at the two cartridges. -Slowly, Huerta's jaded eyes moved to Crawford, and the heavy, blue -lids were lifted farther open.</p> - -<p>"You say his neck is broken?" Huerta asked nobody in particular.</p> - -<p>"Jacinto said his neck was broken," said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"Well," said the woman impatiently, "is it?"</p> - -<p>Huerta drew a weary breath and came slowly down the sagging steps and -around the horse. "Yes," he nodded, without taking his hands from his -pockets. "Broken."</p> - -<p>"Like in a fall?" That pathetic hope was in Jacinto's voice again.</p> - -<p>Huerta took one of his hands out. His long, pale fingers moved slightly -across Cabezablanca's head and face, sifting the dense white hair and -testing the skull with a professional casualness. "No contusions about -the head or face."</p> - -<p>Huerta was running his forefinger delicately across the back of -Cabezablanca's shirt now, flattening it over the resilient planes of -the man's back. Then he moved around to the other side of the shaggy -horse, tugging at the man's pants legs. "No other wounds either," he -said at last. His head turned slowly till he was looking at Crawford. -Something had begun to dissipate the jaded glaze from those eyes, -something that grew in them as he watched Crawford. He spoke, however, -to Quartel. "How many shots does that Winchester hold?"</p> - -<p>"It's an 1866 with King's improvements," said Quartel. "Thirteen."</p> - -<p>"Oh." It was a soft, hissing intonation. Then Huerta motioned toward -the bunkhouse with the hand he had out. "Better take him down and bury -him out back of the bunkhouse."</p> - -<p>Quartel jerked the Winchester at Crawford. "Let's go."</p> - -<p>"No," said Huerta, putting that hand back in his pocket and walking up -the steps to the porch. "I think Crawford had better stay here at the -house for breakfast. You did such a poor job of keeping tabs on him -yesterday."</p> - -<p>Quartel's face darkened and he took a quick breath before he spoke the -word. "Huerta—"</p> - -<p>"Yes?" said Huerta, turning around at the top of the steps to face -Quartel. He leaned forward slightly, his satanic brows arched upward, -those heavy lids slipping down across his eyes. There was a faint, -inquiring smile on his thin, bloodless lips. For a moment Quartel stood -there staring at him, mouth still open a little. The rooster crowed -again. A chachalaca started scolding his mate out in the thicket. With -an abrupt jerk, Quartel turned to catch up the trailing reins of the -pony and started off toward the bunkhouse in that stiff-legged walk of -his, wooden boot heels thumping in a swift, hard tattoo against the -ground. Aforismo watched him go a moment, scratching his bare stomach -absently.</p> - -<p>"You can't tell a man's been picking tunas just because he has nopal -thorns all over his coat," he said.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Crawford's boots made a soft muffled sound across the Aubusson rug of -the living-room. He lowered himself heavily into the Turkish toweling -which upholstered the movable cushions of the willow chairs by the -front windows. For the first time he felt fully the toll the preceding -night had exacted from him. His black beard failed to hide the gaunt, -driven hollows beneath his cheeks, and there was something feverish -in the glow of his eyes. He stared absently about the spacious, cool -room. Rockland had refurnished this chamber not two years ago, and as -many times as Crawford had been in it, he could never get used to such -luxury in this harsh, barren land. Huerta had followed him into the -house, halting in the entrance hall for a word with Merida, and now the -doctor stepped into the living-room, closing the door behind him. He -stood there a moment, studying Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Merida will dress and be down for breakfast," he said, absently. He -moved to the pier table of rich, figured British oak at one side of -the room, opening one of the doors to lift out a cut-glass decanter. -"Perhaps you would like a drink—after what happened, no?" His face -managed to convey the effort the slightest physical exertion seemed to -cause him, as he poured the liquor. Then his red Chinese slippers slid -over the Aubusson's thick nap to Crawford. As he bent forward to hand -Crawford the drink, their glances met. Perhaps it was a trick of the -illumination from the window. The pupils of Huerta's eyes seemed to -dilate and contract and dilate again, small pin points of glittering -light flaring and dying and flaring once more beneath the jet-black -surface. It filled Crawford with a vague dizziness. "Why did you bring -Whitehead back, Crawford?" murmured the doctor. "It seems to me you -were rather in a position to escape, out there." He waited a moment, -but Crawford did not answer. "When you first came, I considered it -necessary to guard you," said Huerta, finally. "Perhaps I was taking -undue precautions. It seems you would have stayed anyway. Why, -Crawford? Do you still maintain you didn't murder Rockland?"</p> - -<p>"That's right." It came from Crawford in a flat defiance.</p> - -<p>"Then the only way you could prove your innocence would be to find who -really did murder Rockland," said Huerta. "Do you think the murderer is -here?"</p> - -<p>"I have no doubt of it," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Just what did happen out there?" Huerta said softly, bending toward -Crawford with the liquor.</p> - -<p>Crawford took the drink, downed it neat before answering. "What do you -think?"</p> - -<p>"I think you surprised a lot of people," said Huerta. "And gave them a -different estimation of you than they had possessed before." He leaned -backward slightly. "Why should Whitehead want to kill you?"</p> - -<p>"Who said he did?"</p> - -<p>"I never knew such a secretive man," said Huerta. "You refuse to give -one inch, don't you? Very well. Let us assume that Whitehead wanted to -kill you. Why should he?"</p> - -<p>"Whitehead was Quartel's man?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Quartel is the foreman here," Huerta's agile mind had connected -that even while he spoke, and his head tilted forward in a faint -acquiescence. "All right. Why should Quartel want you killed?"</p> - -<p>"He seemed to think I was a lawman," Crawford muttered.</p> - -<p>"Is that sufficient reason?"</p> - -<p>"You haven't been in the <i>brasada</i> long, have you?" said Crawford. -"It's a good form of suicide for a lawman to show up in here."</p> - -<p>Huerta nodded that way again, studying Crawford. "It is interesting," -he murmured, "to watch it."</p> - -<p>That took Crawford off guard. "What?"</p> - -<p>"The way it works in you," said Huerta. "You're conscious of it all the -time, Crawford, whether in the proximity of horses or not."</p> - -<p>"I don't know what you're talking about," said Crawford, getting up -from the chair with such violence that he pulled one of the rich blue -pillows off with him. He paced across the room in swift, inhibited -strides. Huerta watched him a moment, putting the jade holder languidly -to his lips. He did not smile, but the heavy blue lids, narrowing -across his eyes with a feline torpidity, managed to convey a certain -condescending amusement. His pale, pinched nostrils fluttered, emitting -twin streamers of smoke.</p> - -<p>"Did it ever occur to you," he said, "that the legs might not really be -completely healed?"</p> - -<p>Crawford turned to look at him a moment. "Sure," he said, finally. -"Sure it occurred to me. I went to more than one doctor. They all said -I was okay."</p> - -<p>"It's not like an ordinary fracture, you realize," said Huerta. "Not -like you'd take a stick and snap it, or a leg. Mashed. Not a clean -severance. Crushed, Crawford, like you'd take a handful of meal and -grind it beneath—"</p> - -<p>"All right. Mashed. Crushed. All right."</p> - -<p>Huerta allowed him to finish, then inclined his head apologetically. -"It does things to the nerves. Physically, I mean. They get crushed -too. Displaced. Pinched. All manner of derangement. Your bones may -knit—the flesh, the skin. But the nerves. That's different. It would, -ah, take a man skilled in that type of work, now, a man with experience -in such things—"</p> - -<p>"You've had a vast experience, I suppose."</p> - -<p>Huerta shrugged. "Why don't you let me look at them. Maybe we do you an -injustice. Perhaps you have sound reason for feeling the pain."</p> - -<p>Crawford studied the man's dissolute face, trying to read what lay -in the ironic twist of the lips, the narrow occultation of the eyes, -wondering if this was just another variation in the game. Yet, the -possibility of sincerity—</p> - -<p>"Shall we go into the kitchen?" said Huerta. "The parlor is not exactly -the place for such an examination."</p> - -<p>Crawford knew a hesitation. Then, with a decisive abruptness he -turned out into the entrance way and down the hall past the stairs. -The fireplace was of stone rather than the adobe found in the Mexican -dwellings; it ran almost the length of one wall. Jacinto had left a -pot of soup simmering over one of the smaller pot fires to one side of -the main spit. There was a plain Gothic dining-set, and Huerta pulled -one of the butternut chairs from beneath the bare table, indicating -that Crawford should remove his pants. That wary inhibition was in -Crawford's movements.</p> - -<p>"You might sit on the table," said Huerta. When Crawford was seated, -the doctor moved closer and bent slightly, reaching out one pale -hand. It was like a woman's hand, satiny, boneless. "Can't you relax, -Crawford? What's the matter? Feel any pain?"</p> - -<p>Crawford stared in a strange fascination at the slender, spatulated -fingers spidering his hairy calves. "No. No pain."</p> - -<p>"Then why so stiff?" Huerta pressed a spot just below his knee. The -strength of his grip was surprising. Then, still holding the kneecap -between thumb and forefinger, he looked up. It was the same thing, -again, those eyes. The pupils took on an oblique felinity, and the -odd little lights flaring beneath the surface. And he began to talk, -in that soft, bored, insinuating tone. "Nerve ends, you understand. -Pressures. As I said, deranged. Nucleus. So on. Hm? Pain?"</p> - -<p>"No—no—"</p> - -<p>Perhaps it was the gusty vehemence in Crawford's voice which caused -Huerta to look up. For a moment their glances met. Huerta's pupils -seemed to dilate slightly. <i>Sure</i>, thought Crawford, <i>go ahead, make -it good</i>, and he tried to feel the sarcasm, but somehow he couldn't, -because the effect of those eyes was real, distinct, eerie.</p> - -<p>"No pain?</p> - -<p>"No. No pain. No!"</p> - -<p>Those eyes again. Contracting. Little lights flaring and dying. Just -for an instant. The probing fingers. That sibilant, insistent voice.</p> - -<p>"Here, perhaps? The flesh looks rather badly healed. Feel that? Pain?"</p> - -<p>"No!"</p> - -<p>"Take it easy, Crawford. I'm trying to help. Here?"</p> - -<p>"No. I told you. I don't feel pain, damn it, I told you—"</p> - -<p>"Here then. Pain?"</p> - -<p>"No—"</p> - -<p>"Here?"</p> - -<p>"No, damn you, no, I—"</p> - -<p>"Pain?" Huerta's head raised abruptly. "What's the matter, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>Crawford stood where he had stepped off the table, pulling on his faded -old levis with swift, tense jerks. "Nothing. Forget it."</p> - -<p>Huerta leaned back against the table, studying Crawford through the -twin streamers of smoke he emitted. "Why does it disturb you so much, -Crawford, if you feel no pain?" he asked softly.</p> - -<p>Crawford stood there facing him, breathing heavily. "What are you -trying to do, Huerta?"</p> - -<p>"Give you, shall we say, an illustration," said Huerta. "Don't you -think I know what is the matter with you, Crawford? Ever since I first -saw you watching Africano out in the corral. Perhaps the others are -still groping. They sense something not quite right in you, Crawford. -But they don't know for sure, yet. I know, Crawford." He said the last -softly, positively, watching Crawford. He took a drag on the cigarette. -"It must be a terrible thing to live with constantly. It makes two -personalities out of you, really, Crawford. In these flashes of bitter -defiance, I see what you must have been before. The strength. The -courage. But the other is always there, isn't it, working beneath, -stirring in you, weakening you, tearing at you. The pain that comes -whenever you get near a horse. And the fear, Crawford. And more and -more, not just when you're near a horse. All the time. That lack of -confidence, that constant indecision. It won't lessen. It will grow, -Crawford, until you are that way completely, until these flashes -of your former self cease to come. I told you about that miner in -Monterrey—"</p> - -<p>"You told me!" Crawford choked off the shout, staring sullenly at -Huerta. He spoke finally, again, controlling it with hoarse effort. -"Think I don't know."</p> - -<p>"You <i>do</i> know," said Huerta. "However, it is not hopeless. For most -diseases, there is a cure, even for those of the mind. Doctors are only -human beings. They can only cure what they have the knowledge to cure. -If the men you went to were not experienced in this type of thing, it -does not mean there is no hope."</p> - -<p>"Are you suggesting—that you—"</p> - -<p>"Why not?" shrugged Huerta. "I've had experience in such cases. Is it -inconceivable to you?"</p> - -<p>"Why?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>Huerta studied his cigarette. "I don't quite understand."</p> - -<p>"I mean why should you do it," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"I am no altruist," said Huerta. "A doctor usually gets paid."</p> - -<p>"You know I haven't got any money," Crawford said. Huerta did not -answer, leaning against the table and studying Crawford through -narrowed eyes. "You're offering me some kind of proposition?" Crawford -asked him.</p> - -<p>"You might call it that," said Huerta. "As I said before, we think your -quarrel with Rockland was over more than the way he acquired Delcazar's -land."</p> - -<p>"Was it?"</p> - -<p>"You know what I mean," said Huerta.</p> - -<p>"Maybe I haven't got what you want."</p> - -<p>"I think you have," said Huerta.</p> - -<p>"Have you got a license?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>It was the first time he had ever seen Huerta taken off guard. There -was no change of expression in the doctor's face. Just that moment's -hesitation. It was enough to give Crawford a certain satisfaction.</p> - -<p>"License?"</p> - -<p>"M.D.," said Crawford. "Every doctor I've seen had it pinned on his -wall. Two or three, some of them. How about yours?"</p> - -<p>Huerta drew a heavy breath. "I won't dignify that with an answer."</p> - -<p>"I didn't think so," said Crawford. "That's one reason I won't take -your proposition. I don't think you could cure me of the stomach-ache. -I don't think you're a doctor. I don't think you ever were."</p> - -<p>"My dear fellow, I spent fourteen years in the Mexican army—"</p> - -<p>"So did a lot of butchers. If you operated on anybody, I'll bet a pink -cow to a blind hoot owl it was with a machete right up in the ranks."</p> - -<p>"Crawford, my medical reputation has never been ques—" It had come out -of Huerta involuntarily, and he stopped himself with a distinct effort. -He stood there a moment, the anger flushing his sallow face dully as -he must have realized how far he had let himself go. Deliberately, he -allowed himself to settle back against the table. He closed his eyes -when he took a drag on the cigarette, did not open them as he exhaled, -and spoke. "Let us consider the negative side of my proposition, then. -Your condition can be used against you, Crawford. You could be driven -quite mad. Not obvious crudities. Not the type of thing Quartel would -use. Not making you ride a horse or letting you watch Africano. Not -anything as simple to get away from. Merely suggestion, Crawford. Your -mind will do the rest. Little things. Insidious things.</p> - -<p>"Like the story of a miner who got crushed in a cave-in down at -Monterrey. Did that stay with you a long time, Crawford? At night, -perhaps, you'd wake up. Remembering. Wondering. Innuendoes, Crawford. -Insinuations. Things for the mind to retain and savor. Because it -<i>is</i> your mind. I showed you that with the examination. It isn't your -legs. That doesn't give you the fear. It's what a man could work with, -Crawford, a doctor, who knew every stimulus, every reaction." He took -the butt of his cigarette from the jade holder, tossing it absently -into the fireplace. Then, still watching the holder, he spoke again, -sibilantly. "Do you doubt my ability to do it, Crawford, if necessary?"</p> - -<p>Crawford had been watching the doctor with a taut, bleak expression on -his gaunt face, and he answered in a hollow, resigned way. "No."</p> - -<p>"Then perhaps you will reconsider my proposition."</p> - -<p>"No," said Crawford, in that same hollow tone.</p> - -<p>Huerta reached beneath his coat for his silver cigarette case, taking a -smoke from this to fit it in the holder. He did not raise his eyes to -Crawford again as he moved across the room toward the door. He pulled -open the portal, and only then, turning toward Crawford, did his glance -rise. Again Crawford was swept with that strange, hypnotic dizziness, -as he stared into the man's eyes. It struck him as childishly -melodramatic, and he wanted to laugh, and could not.</p> - -<p>"I think you will regret coming back this morning," said Huerta, in a -barely audible voice, before he turned to go out. "I think you will -regret it exceedingly."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Six" id="Chapter_Six"><i>Chapter Six</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1">"<span class="smcap">Tell Us What Happened.</span>"</p> - - -<p>An adobe banco ran down one side of the cookshack on the inside, -forming a bench, and it was upon this that Jacinto had deposited his -generous bulk. He was bent in childish concentration over a block of -wax from which he carefully peeled thin strips, depositing these with -much care into a clay bowl. Small, intimate mutters rumbled up from him -with each process.</p> - -<p>"Ah, so," he mumbled, slicing off a piece, "ah <i>sí</i>," and sliced off -another, and then jumped erect in startled surprise, dropping the block -of wax. "Ah, Crawford!"</p> - -<p>Crawford stepped on in through the door, sniffing. "Smells like -bayberry."</p> - -<p>"How—how did you get out?" quavered Jacinto, grunting painfully with -the effort it cost him to stoop over and retrieve the wax.</p> - -<p>"Nobody stopped me," said Crawford. "They gave me that upstairs -bedroom, but I couldn't sleep."</p> - -<p>"You better not come in here, Crawford," said the gross cook. "Maybe -they're not watching you like they did, but you better get out of here. -Why do you think Huerta kept you up at the house this morning? Didn't -you see how Quartel looked at you? You're just lucky he didn't get you -down here."</p> - -<p>There was a dish of cracklings on the table, and Crawford took one, -pulling a three-legged stool out to sit on it. "Quartel and the others -are out chousing cattle. Making candles?"</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí</i>," mumbled Jacinto, lowering himself back on the bench. "Nobody -can make them like me. That was bayberry you smelled all right. I -didn't have enough sheep tallow. First I make it into blocks and then -cut it into small scraps so it melts quick without burning. I put the -wax in hot water and scoop the grease off as it comes to the top. Then -I strain it through a horsehair cloth to remove whatever dirt I missed -in skimming. I am now heating the wax to pour in the molds. Did you -ever see such fine molds? My father owned that brass one in El Paso. It -holds two dozen candles at one pouring. If you came here to find out -what's going on, I can't tell you."</p> - -<p>The abrupt transition brought Crawford's head up in surprise. Jacinto -set the mold end up in a dishpan, chuckling.</p> - -<p>"I am not as stupid as I am corpulent, Crawford. You didn't come here -just to eat my cracklings." His great bloodshot eyes slid upward in -their pouches till they met Crawford's. "But I can't tell you anything, -Crawford. I know something is going on. Huerta and that woman. -Something not quite right. Tarant too, somehow. Maybe you can tell me."</p> - -<p>"Hyacinth, what did you think of that story about Santa Anna's chests?"</p> - -<p>"I—Santa Maria, that wax is hot." Jacinto sat shaking his finger a -moment. Then he put it into his mouth. "If Santa Anna lost some chests -up here, I guess he lost them, that's all. Mm, you ought to taste that -bayberry. I think I'll season my <i>chiles rollenos</i> with it some time."</p> - -<p>"You heard the one about the map?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"The <i>derrotero</i>? <i>Sí</i>, I guess there was supposed to be a map. Isn't -there always, with something like that?"</p> - -<p>"Ever stop to think of Santa Anna's full name?"</p> - -<p>"<i>Ciertamente.</i> Everybody knows it. Antonio Lopez de San—" Jacinto -stopped, staring at Crawford. Wax dripped from the tin ladle onto the -floor. Crawford popped a last crackling into his mouth.</p> - -<p>"Would that give her a connection?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Lopez is a common name," said Jacinto, almost defensively.</p> - -<p>"A woman like that don't trail through this kind of country just for -the scenery," said Crawford. He closed his eyes, rolling the name -meditatively off his tongue. "Merida Lopez."</p> - -<p>It must have been about then the first sound floated in from outside, -the creak of saddle leather, a man's hoarse cough. Jacinto jumped -across the room, jerking Crawford up out of the chair. "They're back, -Crawford, you got to go, you got to get out of here, if Quartel ever -gets you alone after Whitehead, he'll—"</p> - -<p>He stopped shoving Crawford toward the doorway, and his voice faded -into a series of small, choked sounds. Aforismo stood there, sweat -streaking the dust in his smooth brown face, holding a belduque in his -hands.</p> - -<p>"<i>El amante fiel</i>," he said, running his finger down the keen edge, -"the Loyal Lover. Did you ever see my knife, Crawford? Truly a -remarkable weapon. Handed down in my family for generations. The hilt -was once studded with precious stones, but they have long since been -picked out by various members of my illustrious house who were in -temporary financial destitution." He took a shuffling step toward them. -"Look at the <i>bravos</i> on the blade. See this one. <i>Nothing compares -with my kiss.</i> Isn't that a delectable motto?"</p> - -<p>Jacinto shrank back, staring in fascinated horror at the words cut into -that side of the gleaming blade. Through the dog-run, Crawford could -hear the thump of a chair in the bunkhouse, the clatter of spoons on -the table.</p> - -<p>"Please, Aforismo, please," quavered Jacinto. "Let him go. <i>Madre de -Dios!</i> let him go out the door before they find him in here. You know -what will happen. Quartel would—"</p> - -<p>"And this one," Aforismo said, turning the blade over and pointing -to another motto cut into that side. "This is my favorite <i>bravo</i> I -think. <i>Tripe is sweet but bowels are better.</i> Don't you like that -one, Jacinto?" He took another shuffling step toward them with the -point almost touching Crawford's belly. "Don't you like that <i>bravo</i>, -Crawford? Tell me you like it. It is my favorite, I think."</p> - -<p>"Please, please." Jacinto was cringing behind Crawford, wringing his -hands, sweat dribbling down his coarse face. "<i>En el nombre de Dios</i>, -Aforismo, let him go, he never did anything to you, he never harmed one -little hair of your head, I hate violence so, oh, I do hate violence -so, my father he always tell me there are two sins in the world, work -and fighting, and—oh, <i>por Dios</i>, Aforismo, <i>Santa Maria, nombre de mi -madre</i>, let him go, let him go—"</p> - -<p>"They say down in Durango a coyote always howls loudest in the trap," -said Aforismo, nudging Crawford gently back with that needle point. -"I think maybe we better all go in the bunkhouse, eh? The hands are -getting hungry. Tripe is sweet but bowels are better, eh?" Crawford -did not step back quickly enough, and that needle point went through -his shirt with a soft ripping sound. The stinging bite of steel in the -hard muscle of his belly caused his move back to be involuntary. His -breath left him in a hoarse gust and he bent forward with the impulse -driving through him. That was as far as it went. Aforismo's boots made -that bland shuffle on the hard-packed earth, moving forward. His face -twisted with frustrated anger, Crawford shifted back into the dog-run, -shoving the cringing cook behind him.</p> - -<p>"<i>Dios</i>, Aforismo, <i>por Dios</i>, no violence, please, I could not stand -the sight of blood, it would make me regurgitate, please—"</p> - -<p>Jacinto knocked over a chair backing from the dog-run into the -bunkhouse. It made a loud clatter. Then Crawford was in the bunkhouse, -still bent forward that way, his breath coming out harsh and swift, -and he could see them. Bueno Bailey was seated at the table.</p> - -<p>"I was just showing Crawford the <i>bravos</i> on my belduque," said -Aforismo. "In Durango they say it is an ignorant man who cannot tell -his sons at least one <i>bravo</i>."</p> - -<p>"<i>Bueno.</i>" Bailey trailed the word out in a pleased, nasal twang, -shoving the bench back from the table. "Siddown, Crawford. We was just -about to eat."</p> - -<p>"I guess you never met Ford Innes, did you, Crawford," said Quartel. -"This is Crawford, Ford. He is the one who brought your <i>amigo</i> back -this morning."</p> - -<p>The redheaded man in the doorway emitted a flat, harsh grunt. He must -have just stepped in, for he held his saddle under one arm. The short, -square lines of his body held all the lethal threat of a snub-nosed -derringer. He had a flat-topped hat set squarely on his head. The -bottom of his red beard was dirty from rubbing against the grease daubs -on the chest of a buckskin ducking jacket with square tails that hung -outside his <i>chivarras</i> and which were caught up on one side by the -wooden handle of his Remington.</p> - -<p>"Ford just got back from taking Wallace Tarant into San Antonio," said -Quartel. "As many times as that shyster's been back and forth between -here and town, he still can't find his way through the brush himself."</p> - -<p>The leather rigging clattered against the hard earthen floor when Innes -dropped his pack. His bushy bleached brows formed a reddish dominance -above shrewd little eyes that had not left Crawford's face since he -entered. He moved over and sat down across from Bailey.</p> - -<p>"So you brought Whitehead back." His voice held the same lack of -intonation as his grunt.</p> - -<p>"Ford had been Whitehead's saddle mate for a long time," said Quartel. -"I guess he'd like to know how it happened to Whitehead."</p> - -<p>"Get us some grub, Jacinto," said Aforismo. With his belduque he -indicated a place beside Bailey. "An empty seat there, Crawford. Sit -down."</p> - -<p>Crawford looked at the knife. He sat down.</p> - -<p>The table groaned as Aforismo lowered himself onto it and put his -feet on the bench, running a finger up and down his belduque. Ford -Innes began playing with his spoon on the table. Jacinto came from the -dog-run with a dish of beans. He fumbled the plate at the last moment -and almost tipped it onto the table. His fat jowls were trembling with -his chin.</p> - -<p>"Please, please, let's not have any—"</p> - -<p>"So Whitehead broke his neck out in the thicket," said Innes.</p> - -<p>"Have some beans, Glenn," said Bailey, ladling them onto a plate he had -shoved before Crawford.</p> - -<p>"They call them <i>nacionales</i> down in Durango, because so many Mexicans -eat them," said Aforismo. "It is said of one who is weak that he lacks -<i>nacionales</i>."</p> - -<p>"How did it happen to Whitehead?" said Innes.</p> - -<p>"We don't know," said Bailey, helping the man to beans. "Crawford just -brought him back over his horse with his neck broke and said he found -him out in the brush that way."</p> - -<p>"How did it happen?" Innes asked Crawford.</p> - -<p>"There was eleven shots gone from Whitehead's carbine," said Quartel.</p> - -<p>Innes began eating in a slow, mechanical way, his jaws working steadily -beneath his red beard, looking at Crawford. "Where's your iron?"</p> - -<p>"Whitehead took away Crawford's rifle when he first came," said -Aforismo.</p> - -<p>Innes's bleached eyebrows raised, and he ceased chewing for a moment. -Quartel was standing behind Crawford to one side, and Crawford caught -the sly grin spreading the man's pawky lips.</p> - -<p>"There was no other marks on Whitehead's body," Quartel said.</p> - -<p>"Well," said Innes, still looking at Crawford that way. Finally he went -back to spooning up the beans, his eyes never leaving Crawford's face. -"What happened?" he said again, around a mouthful.</p> - -<p>"Yeah." Bailey nudged Crawford on the shoulder with his spoon. "What -happened?"</p> - -<p>Crawford could hear his own breathing now. It held a harsh, driven -sound. He looked from Innes to Bailey, from Bailey to Quartel, from -Quartel to Aforismo. There was a patent brutal intent in all their -faces. He was hunched over so far now the heat of the beans in his -plate penetrated his shirt and warmed his chest.</p> - -<p>"Where's the sorrel?" said Bailey.</p> - -<p>"What sorrel?" said Innes.</p> - -<p>"The horse he took out," said Quartel. "He never brought him back."</p> - -<p>"Coffee?" It was Jacinto again, waddling in with a big pot. He set it -down, looking around at the men. He wrung his great fat hands together, -speaking in a small, strained voice. "Please, <i>señores</i>, please. -Violence. I cannot stand it. You won't do this. Tell me you won't do -this. My father, he say—"</p> - -<p>Aforismo turned toward him, lifting the belduque. "Would you like my -Loyal Lover to see inside the sack?"</p> - -<p>"No." Jacinto backed out, lugubrious tears forming at the corners of -his eyes. "No, <i>lástima de Dios</i>, tears of God, no—"</p> - -<p>"You ain't told us what happened yet," said Innes, still eating.</p> - -<p>"Yeah." Quartel shoved Crawford from behind. "How did you lose the -sorrel? You could ride any horse I could, remember?"</p> - -<p>Crawford's hands were clasped desperately between his knees. There was -a taut, set expression to his features. Sweat had begun trickling down -his cheeks into his beard. His whole body was trembling.</p> - -<p>"So you brought Whitehead in with a broken neck," said Innes.</p> - -<p>"Yeah." Bueno poked Crawford with the spoon again. "How did it get -broke?"</p> - -<p>"Yeah." Aforismo pricked him from the other side with the knife. "What -happened?"</p> - -<p>"How did it get broke?"</p> - -<p>"How did you lose the sorrel?"</p> - -<p>"What happened?"</p> - -<p>Crawford jerked away as Aforismo bent forward with that belduque again. -It carried him against Bueno, sitting on his other side. Bueno pushed -him back roughly. Quartel shoved him from behind so hard his chest -struck the table. A small, strangled sound escaped him.</p> - -<p>"Tell us what happened."</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí</i>, tell us, Crawford."</p> - -<p>"What happened, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>"Talk, damn you." Bueno's shove was harder.</p> - -<p>"Tell us, Crawford." The knife prick was deeper. He jerked away from -it. Bailey caught him and shoved him back brutally. He made a spasmodic -effort to rise. Quartel put both hands on his shoulders and forced him -back down. He tried to twist around. Aforismo's belduque was in his -face. He jerked back the other way into Bailey. His hands knotted and -writhed between his knees underneath the table. His whole body was -shuddering now.</p> - -<p>"Where's the sorrel?"</p> - -<p>"How'd he break his neck?"</p> - -<p>"Talk, damn you!"</p> - -<p>"Tell us, Crawford."</p> - -<p>"What happened?"</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen!" It came from the doorway, and it stopped them abruptly. -Huerta stood there, bent forward slightly, and those bluish lids were -almost closed over his eyes.</p> - -<p>"I think we all know what happened to Whitehead," he said, "don't you?" -He stood there a moment, but no one answered. He dropped his eyes to -the jade cigarette holder he held in one hand, tapping it to knock the -ash from the cigarette, and still looking down that way, spoke again. -"I think it would be wise, now, Crawford, for you to come with me, up -to the house, don't you?"</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Seven" id="Chapter_Seven"><i>Chapter Seven</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Sunday Celebration</span></p> - - -<p>It was the odor at first. Crawford lay there, staring up at the -ceiling, groping up through the remnants of a sleep so heavy it left -him filled with an oppressive nausea. The hangings had been removed -from the bed and the four reeded mahogany posts reached up through the -semi-gloom to support the bare tester frame above him. He realized -where he was, then. Huerta had stopped them? Yes, Huerta had stopped -them last night, and brought him to the big house to sleep. Strange, -the influence Huerta had over them. Without actually doing anything. -Those eyes? Maybe that was it.</p> - -<p>Crawford sat up abruptly, the heavy chintz coverlet falling away from -him. He held out his hand, staring at the fingers. They were trembling. -He sniffed the air. He pulled the coverlet completely off, swinging his -bare feet out of the bed. His levis were on the russet wing chair and -he grabbed them up and stepped into the legs. It was that sensation -again, stirring within him. It was hard for him to breathe. He sat on -the bed a moment, hands clutching the covers, staring at the wall. Why? -Here. Why?</p> - -<p>He turned his head from side to side, searching the room. It was day, -but the overdrapes had been pulled across the window, and he could make -out the furniture only dimly in the semi-gloom. And still, down inside -him, rising, growing. He bent down to pull on his boots with swift, -desperate tugs, then rose. He looked like a hounded animal, the forward -thrust of his rigid body imparting that narrowness to his shoulders, -his eyes shifting furtively in a gaunt face. Then, on one of those -shallow, indrawn breaths, it came to him, unmistakable.</p> - -<p>Slowly, his whole body so tense it was trembling now, he turned about, -sniffing. He stepped away from the bed, toward the windows, and it -faded. He moved back toward the bed, and he could smell it again. With -a muttered curse he bent down and tore the coverlet off. The dirty, -fetid horse blanket had been laid out flat beneath the chintz spread.</p> - -<p>"Huerta!"</p> - -<p>It came out of him in a strangled, guttural rage, and he bent to clutch -the horse blanket. He had it lifted off the bed before he released -it, throwing it back down and whirling to the door. His boots made a -hard thump down the stairway and into the entrance hall. He had almost -passed the living-room when, through the open door, he caught sight of -Huerta, seated in one of the willow chairs by the window. The doctor -had been reading, and he lowered the book, leaning forward in the chair.</p> - -<p>"You must have slept well, Crawford," he said. "It's nearly noon."</p> - -<p>Crawford started to take a step forward, opening his mouth to speak. -Then he closed it again, his fists clenched tight. There was a faint, -waiting mockery on Huerta's face. Crawford whirled and stamped on out -the front door. As he went down the front steps, he saw the crowd out -by the corrals, and was drawn toward it. He made out Bueno Bailey and -Innes among the men, but the others were new faces to him. There were -half a dozen riders cavorting their horses around in the open flats, -and a big Chihuahua cart was creaking out of the brush, piled high -with onions and apricots and baskets of blue corn meal and squealing -Mexican children and a fat Mexican peon driving. Crawford was part way -across the compound when he saw the woman coming toward him. He had a -momentary impulse to turn away, and stifled that. She held her heavy -green satin skirt up out of the dust with one hand, and the wind -ruffled the throat of her white Antoinette fichu. Her eyes, big and -dark and searching, were held to his face until she reached him, and it -did something to Crawford.</p> - -<p>"They said it was a bull-tailing," she told him, coming to a stop. "I -don't exactly understand."</p> - -<p>"About the only celebration the <i>brasaderos</i> get," he said, watching -her warily. "A bunch of them gather almost every Sunday somewhere to -eat and drink and tail the bull. I think they're celebrating Cinco de -Mayo today. Commemorating some battle at Puebla—"</p> - -<p>He trailed off, because he could see it in her face, and he didn't -particularly want to talk about the bull-tailing either. When she spoke -again, her voice was husky and strained, and it must have been what was -really on her mind, from the first.</p> - -<p>"They were trying to kill you," she said. "Jacinto told me. They got -you in there, and started in on you, and they meant to drive you till -you cracked and fought back, and then they were going to kill you. How -did you stand it so long, Crawford? Jacinto said no other man could -have. Pushing you and shoving you and beating you like that. How did -you stand it?"</p> - -<p>"I'm still here, ain't I?" he said.</p> - -<p>She drew in a breath, staring up at him. "Why did you come back with -Whitehead?" she said finally. "You could have escaped."</p> - -<p>"Maybe a man gets tired running," he said.</p> - -<p>She caught his arm, coming in close enough for him to catch a hint of -her perfume. "Crawford, I want to help you."</p> - -<p>His whole body was rigid now, with that wariness. "I never saw a cow -yet that wanted to get back inside a corral when it was outside."</p> - -<p>"You're so suspicious," she flamed. Then she leaned toward him farther, -looking up into his face. "I guess you have a right to be. You've been -fighting all of them, haven't you, ever since this started. I don't -blame you, Crawford. I know how you feel. I'm in the same position. I -need your help as much as you need mine."</p> - -<p>It had been a long time since a woman stood this close to him, with her -hair shining like that, and her eyes. He felt a weakness seep through -him. He stared at the soft red curve of her lip, and his voice was -hardly audible.</p> - -<p>"What are you talking about?"</p> - -<p>"Have you ever heard of Mogotes Serpientes?" she said.</p> - -<p>"Snake Thickets? I guess so. It's supposed to be somewhere west of Rio -Diablo in that stretch of bad brush."</p> - -<p>"You've never actually been there?" Her voice was tense.</p> - -<p>"I don't know who has," he said. "There's a lot of the <i>brasada</i> -nobody's ever seen, white man <i>or</i> Indian. There's a stretch due south -from here just above the Rio Grande called Resaca Espantosa. Nobody's -ever been through it. I don't know why they call it Haunted Swamp."</p> - -<p>"But there is a good reason for the name Mogotes Serpientes?"</p> - -<p>"So they say. It's supposed to be so full of snakes no man could stay -alive in there more than a few—" He trailed off as he realized how far -he had let her allure carry him, and pulled roughly away from her, his -mouth twisting down at one corner.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," she said, trying to get in close again. "Please. Don't. I -mean it. You've got to believe me. If you believe in anything, you've -got to—"</p> - -<p>"Huerta made me a proposition too," said Crawford. "It didn't pack such -a wallop, but it was along the same lines."</p> - -<p>She flushed, stepping back from him violently. "You fool," she said, in -a bitter, intense whisper. "You fool."</p> - -<p>They were still standing that way, staring at each other, when Huerta -came out on the porch. The woman saw him and turned away, moving back -toward the corrals.</p> - -<p>"Hola, Quartel," someone over by the pens shouted. "When are you -letting the <i>toros</i> out? I got a twenty-dollar pot for the first man to -tail a bull."</p> - -<p>"It's mine." Quartel's bellow came from somewhere in the crowd, and -then he appeared, running in that stiff, saddle-bound stride of his -toward the horses. "Aforismo, let that blue out. He ought to give us a -good run."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Used to working the wild, savage cattle of the brushland, the Mexicans -trained their horses to spin away from the side on which a man mounted -as soon as he lifted a foot to the stirrup. Though this saved many a -<i>vaquero</i> from being gored by a ringy bull which he had just released -after throwing and branding the beast, it took a good man to get on -one of these horses. Each rider had a string of animals, and from his -bunch Quartel had saddled a brown horse they called a <i>trigueño</i>. He -knocked the reins loose of the corral post and snapped them over the -<i>trigueño's</i> head. Then he checked the animal, pulling the nigh rein in -till it twisted the <i>trigueño's</i> head down toward its shoulder so that -the horse's action would be inhibited long enough for him to mount. As -soon as Quartel raised his left foot, the <i>trigueño</i> tried to whirl, -but that checking action held him long enough for Quartel to jam his -foot in the stirrup and swing aboard in one violent movement. Then he -released the tight rein and allowed the animal to spin toward the right.</p> - -<p>From outside the cedar-post corral, Aforismo and several other -<i>vaqueros</i> had goaded and prodded a blue bull until it was separated -from the other bulls within the enclosure. As it neared the gate, -Aforismo let down the drop bar.</p> - -<p>In their natural state, running the brush, these cows were among the -wildest animals of the world, and the several days this cut of bulls -had spent penned up had put them in a frenzied rage. The blue stood -there a moment, glaring suspiciously at the opening, pawing the ground. -His great long curving horns had been scored and ripped and punched -by the brush until it looked as if someone had hacked them over with -a knife, and a pattern of scars formed a network across the gleaming -lathered hide of his forequarters. From the side, he looked deceptively -heavy, his length so extended that his back swayed, but as he lashed -his tail and shifted around to display a rear view, his narrow hips -and cat hams and ridgepole back became apparent. Abruptly, with a -hoarse bellow, he lowered his head, and swinging it from side to side, -galloped out of the gate.</p> - -<p>Quartel yelled something, dug in with his Chihuahuas and whacked his -quirt against the <i>trigueño's</i> rump at the same time. The brown horse -burst into a headlong run, followed by most of the other <i>vaqueros</i>, -shouting and yelling and snapping their quirts against leather -<i>chivarras</i> and fancy <i>charro</i> pants. The blue bull had spotted an -opening in the brush across the compound, and he shook the ground -tearing for it. But the horsemen swiftly closed up on the animal. -Quartel and another <i>vaquero</i> were bunched together in the lead. -Quartel raked his <i>trigueño</i> with those huge Chihuahua guthooks, and -the horse spurted ahead, drawing up beside the bull. Quartel leaned out -of the saddle and made a grab for that lashing tail. But the blue bull -jammed its forefeet into the ground and came to a jarring halt, plowing -twin furrows in the earth. Quartel was several lengths on by before he -could swing back in the saddle and pull his horse around; by that time -the bull had turned in a half circle and cut for the brush.</p> - -<p>The other <i>vaquero</i> had pulled up shorter than Quartel, and was in a -position to run down the bull on its quarter. He was a tall, supple -youth on a short-coupled horse they called a <i>bayo coyote</i>, its coat -a buckskin color with a black line running down the spine, with a -black mane and tail. Quartel spurred and quirted his <i>trigueño</i> in a -last desperate effort to reach the bull first, but just at the edge of -brush, the other <i>vaquero</i> pulled up beside the blue and leaned out to -grab for that tail.</p> - -<p>He caught its hairy end, and dallied it around his saddle horn, -clapping the guthooks to his <i>bayo coyote</i> at the same time. The -buckskin gave a spurt that pulled it ahead of the blue bull, and just -as the horse smashed into the first thicket, the tail of the bull -snapped taut, yanking its hind feet from beneath it. The <i>vaquero</i> tore -the tail off his horn and hunched forward with his arm before his face -all at the same time, and as he disappeared into the thicket the ground -shook with the bull's falling. Huerta had come down from the house, and -he moved in behind Crawford.</p> - -<p>"I understand a good man can break the bull's neck every time," he -said. "Why don't you try it, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>Crawford's hands closed tightly, and he did not look at Huerta. The -inside of his mouth was dry and cottony as he watched the <i>vaquero</i> -come back through the mesquite into the open, prancing his <i>bayo -coyote</i> proudly.</p> - -<p>"You better go back to herding dogies, Quartel," the <i>vaquero</i> grinned, -"and leave the grown ones to men."</p> - -<p>"If you're a man, let's see your <i>reata</i>," roared Quartel, wheeling -his <i>trigueño</i> toward the man and unlashing his 40-foot rope from his -saddle.</p> - -<p>The rider fought his excited buckskin around in a circle as he tore his -own rope from the saddle, and when he had completed the circle, the -rope was free and the two riders were facing each other about a hundred -yards apart.</p> - -<p>"<i>Vamanos, Indita</i>," shouted Quartel, his huge cart-wheel spurs -gouging the brown into a headlong run toward the other man.</p> - -<p>"Are they crazy?" said Huerta.</p> - -<p>"Stay around the border much and you'll get used to it," Merida told -him. "The <i>vaqueros</i> used to do the same thing on the rancho where I -was born. They'd rather rope than eat."</p> - -<p>"Duello," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"With ropes?" It caused Huerta distinct effort to evince even the dim -incredulity.</p> - -<p>"Lot of 'em would rather fight with ropes than guns," Crawford told -him. "More than one lawman has been dragged to death here in the brush."</p> - -<p>It had taken that long for the two riders to meet, passing one another -not 10 feet apart. At the last moment Quartel made a pass with his rope -arm. Indita's own throw caused him a hoarse exhalation that turned into -a shout of triumph as he saw his loop settling over Quartel's head. -Then it happened. As much as he had handled horses, Crawford did not -think he had ever seen one turn so fast. One instant the <i>trigueño</i> was -racing past the <i>bayo coyote</i>, the next it was facing in the opposite -direction, Quartel's own involuntary grunt still hanging in the air to -tell what a vicious effort he had put into the reining. The motion had -carried Quartel from beneath Indita's loop in that last moment, and now -he sat the <i>trigueño</i> perfectly still, facing after Indita's retreating -buckskin.</p> - -<p>Quartel's first pass had been a feint, and he still retained his rope. -It was so slight a flirt of his hand that Crawford barely caught it. -He did not spin the loop above his head. He tossed it underhand, the -way he had thrown it with Africano in the corral. It was a hooley-ann, -spinning flatly out above Indita, seeming to hover above him an -instant, no bigger than the brim of his sombrero; then it was taut -about his shoulders, and he was pulled over the back of his horse with -a resounding thump.</p> - -<p>"I ought to drag you for your presumption," said Quartel, shifting his -horse forward so he could get enough slack in his rope to flirt it -off Indita as the man rose. Then, pulling the rawhide clothesline in -with a series of quick, skillful snaps, he turned the <i>trigueño</i> to -prance it over toward them, grinning at Merida. "How do you like that, -<i>señorita</i>?"</p> - -<p>"I have seen it done before," said Merida.</p> - -<p>Quartel's face darkened. "You don't think I am any good?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't say that."</p> - -<p>"Listen," he shouted, thumping his chest, "I am the best goddam roper -in the world. I am the best goddam rider in the world. I am—"</p> - -<p>"Don't be a boor," said Huerta, in faint disgust.</p> - -<p>"A what?" Quartel wheeled the horse around in a growing rage, the sweat -greasing his coarse face. "I'll show you." He started pounding his -chest again. "I'll show you who's good. I'll make you a bet. I'll bet -you a <i>talega</i> full of gold pesos that I can, blindfolded, with one end -of the <i>reata</i> tied to my own neck and not to be touched by my hands, -riding a bareback horse of your own choosing, forefoot each of any ten -bulls we got in a pen, and break their necks."</p> - -<p>Huerta shrugged, smiling in a faint, vague dismissal. Quartel reined -the <i>trigueño</i> in closer. "I mean it," he bellowed. "Are you afraid to -make the bet? Could anybody where you come from do it?"</p> - -<p>"Frankly, I don't think anyone can do it," said Huerta, disinterestedly.</p> - -<p>"I can," yelled Quartel. "I'm the best—"</p> - -<p>"Don't be a fool, Quartel," the woman told him.</p> - -<p>"You'll kill yourself. One mistake with that rope around your neck and -you'll be dead."</p> - -<p>That was the final impetus. "<i>Hijo de la chingada</i>," shouted Quartel, -whirling his <i>trigueño</i> away from them. "How many bulls you got in that -corral, Aforismo? Seven? Get me three more. Get me three more from that -holding pen across the arroyo. I'll show you what roping really is, -Merida. You're going to see a performance tonight you'll never forget!"</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Eight" id="Chapter_Eight"><i>Chapter Eight</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Best Roper in the World</span></p> - - -<p>The throng about the large cedar-post corral was oddly subdued. Some -of the <i>vaqueros</i> had dragged the blue bull over to the cooking fire -for Jacinto to spit, but the gross cook had left the carcass lying -on the ground. He stood with the middle bar of the fence making a -deep indentation in the incredible protuberance of his stomach as the -crowding <i>vaqueros</i> pressed in from behind.</p> - -<p>"<i>Madre de Dios</i>, Crawford, why do you let him do this thing?" wailed -the cook, running his fat hands nervously up and down the rail. "I -don't want to see a man die."</p> - -<p>"Then why watch?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Please, Crawford, you take such a brutal attitude. Don't you know this -is the way Oro Peso died down in Mexico? He was the greatest roper in -the world, Quartel's boasting to the contrary. Oro Peso used to go -around making this same bet. Then somebody took him up on it. The third -bull pulled him from his horse. His neck was broken like you'd snap a -switch of mesquite. Please—"</p> - -<p>"Hola, <i>compadres</i>!" shouted Quartel, from outside the corral, and -they saw that he had stripped his <i>trigueño</i> of its saddle. Indita -dropped the bar and Quartel trotted the animal in, laughing as the -bulls bunched up on the other side, bawling. "You see, already they are -afraid of me. Who is going to put the blindfold on? Merida, will you -honor me?"</p> - -<p>"Why not?" The woman's voice held a savage undertone that surprised -Crawford. She caught his eyes on her and turned toward Crawford. When -she saw the look on his face, she threw her head back that way, to -laugh. It held a rich, wild mockery. "What's the matter, Crawford? -Don't you like that in a woman? Maybe you haven't known the right -women."</p> - -<p>Still laughing, she reached through the bars to tie the bandanna behind -Quartet's head as the man slipped off the <i>trigueño</i> and turned his -back to her. Then he swung aboard again, and tied one end of the rope -he was carrying about his thick neck in a noose, too small to slip over -his head. Merida's face was flushed excitedly as she watched him prance -the <i>trigueño</i> away, and her eyes flashed in frank anticipation. Huerta -pulled out his cigarette case and put a smoke into his jade holder. -His motions were as languid as ever, but Crawford thought his fingers -pinched the holder more tightly than was necessary.</p> - -<p>"Hola!" shouted Quartel, wheeling his <i>trigueño</i> in the middle of the -corral and kicking its flanks with his heels. The horse charged toward -the bulls, and the animals strung out along the fence. Quartel was an -uncanny judge of distance; when his horse was but half a length from -the fence, he made a quarter turn and raced along the bars after the -last bull in the running bunch.</p> - -<p>"<i>Andale!</i>" yelled the man, and made his toss.</p> - -<p>The loop snaked about the forefeet of that last bull as it turned at -the corner of the corral, and as Quartel felt the rope snap taut, he -let go completely with his hands, pulling his thick neck down into -his shoulders to set it and jerking back with his torso at the last -moment. The bull turned a flip, its shoulder striking the rump of the -running animal in front, and as the falling bull struck, Quartel shoved -his reins hard against the <i>trigueño's</i> neck to wheel inward and give -himself slack on the rope. He clutched for the slackening rawhide -and sent a flirt down the rope that lifted the loop off the bull's -forelegs, and when he turned away, he was pulling the line in.</p> - -<p>"<i>Viva Quartel, viva!</i>" shouted the <i>vaqueros</i>, shoving Crawford up -against the fence with their shifting press and deafening him with -their cheers. Grinning, Quartel kicked the <i>trigueño</i> after the bulls -again. It started them off once more, bawling and running. Quartel's -hearing was as uncanny as his judgment of distance; he rode with his -head lifted, and when a scarred brindle bull broke from the others, -running along the fence and cutting across the middle of the corral, -Crawford could see Quartel's head turn after the animal. The Mexican -reined his <i>trigueño</i> over that way, kicking it into a dead run that -closed the space between himself and the bull in a swift instant.</p> - -<p>"<i>Ahora</i>," he shouted, "now," and tossed. His rope caught the bull's -hind feet instead of its forefeet, and as a strange sighing sound rose -from the crowd, Quartel must have sensed something was wrong, for he -spurred the <i>trigueño</i> brutally, and its frenzied leap into a headlong -run gave him slack enough in the rope for that last moment to send a -flirt down its length that carried the loop off the bull's hind feet -before it could draw closed. The bull stumbled into the other animals -as they turned the corner and milled down this side of the corral. By -that time Quartel had his rope coiled, and he maneuvered the bawling, -excited animals so that they strung out down the fence once more, -and then ran his horse up behind the last one. This time it was the -forefeet, and he dropped the animal, breaking its neck as before. The -end of the rope about Quartel's neck was not a slip noose, but Crawford -could see the rawhide dig into the thick brown flesh of Quartel's neck -as he jerked back, till the skin showed a white ridge above and below -the lasso. He watched in undeniable fascination as the Mexican flirted -in the rope and turned his horse after them once more. Shouting, -Quartel closed the gap between himself and another bull and made his -toss. He released the lasso with his hand as soon as it was in the -air. The instant that loop caught on the running bull's forefeet, -Quartel reined his <i>trigueño</i> in a quarter turn that wheeled it away -from the running bull. The bull's own forward motion would draw the -noose tight about its legs, and the turning maneuver of the horse would -stretch the rope taut between them as soon as that noose was completely -closed. In that instant, with the bull hitting the end of the rope and -flipping, Quartel had to wheel his horse back or be pulled off. He had -already turned the <i>trigueño</i> away from the bull, and the noose was -making its singing sound closing on those churning forefeet, when a big -<i>hosco golondrino</i> cut away from the other animals running along the -fence and turned out into the corral, directly across the head of the -<i>trigueño</i>. Quartel's huge neck sank into his shoulders, and he put the -reins against the <i>trigueño's</i> neck to swerve it back as he felt the -rope snapping taut. But the turn would have run the horse head-on into -the <i>hosco golondrino</i>. It was the first time Crawford had seen that -<i>trigueño</i> fight the bit; its head turned in and its neck arched, it -lurched in the opposite direction from Quartel's reining.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," screamed Merida, and then the full weight of the falling -bull hit the end of that rope with Quartel going in the wrong direction -to take the shock. He made a small, choked sound as he was snapped off -the <i>trigueño's</i> rump. Crawford was not conscious of going through -the bars. He found himself on the inside of the corral, with someone -climbing through the rails on his left. He did not realize who it was -till he had started running toward Quartel where he was rolling across -the ground. Then from the corner of his eye, Crawford caught the white -flutter of Merida's fichu.</p> - -<p>"Get back, you crazy fool," he screamed at her, diving headlong at her -as a couple of crazed bulls charged by. He struck her with his arms -around her waist and carried her back against the bars as a third -animal crashed past where she had been standing. He rolled to his feet, -leaving her there huddled up against the fence, and dodged through -another pair of the bawling, frenzied animals, coughing in the dust.</p> - -<p>The bull Quartel had thrown was scrambling to its feet, the <i>reata</i> -still caught around one foreleg. Crawford saw the slack rope hiss -taut as the animal broke into a stumbling gallop, and knew he could -never reach it in time. If Quartel's neck were not already broken, his -head would be pulled from his body now. Another bull went past behind -Crawford, its shoulder sending him spinning, and he threw himself -bodily toward the rope where it lay tautening across the ground, in a -last desperate effort to try and get it before the bull had stretched -it completely.</p> - -<p>But even as he did so, he saw Quartel had risen to his hands and -knees. Still blindfolded, the man must have heard the sing of the rope -and known what was occurring. He gave his head one dazed shake and -jumped to his feet, sinking his neck in that way and throwing himself -backward. His body was at a three-quarter angle when the rope snapped -taut; he would have fallen completely if the line had not caught him. -The impetus of his jerking back that way and the weight of his body -combined to upset the bull once more. The ground shuddered to the -falling animal. Crawford heard the crack of its broken neck.</p> - -<p>"How's that, Huerta?" laughed Quartel, running forward to slacken the -rope so he could flirt the loop free. "I told you I wouldn't pull on -it by hand. Did you see that? I didn't touch it with my hands, did I? -I'll bet you never saw a roper could do that down around Mexico City. -Even Oro Peso. Did you think I was finished? Not with a neck like that. -I could throw ten bulls all at once. Where's my horse? Bring me that -<i>trigueño</i>. I'm not through yet. Not with a neck like that."</p> - -<p>In a daze, Crawford picked himself off the ground, seeing Indita run -out to corner the <i>trigueño</i> and lead him over to the sweating, roaring -Quartel. Stumbling back to the fence, Crawford watched the whole crazy -performance begin once more. It was a nightmare of shouting <i>vaqueros</i> -and bawling bulls and singing ropes and clouds of acrid russet dust -obscuring the whole pattern every time the animals broke into a run. -Quartel took three casts to nail the seventh bull, and it was obvious -he was tiring.</p> - -<p>"Three more," Crawford heard Jacinto mumbling beside him. "Three more. -Oh, <i>madre de Dios</i>, let him get over with this, will you, and I'll -never forget to say my rosary again. Three more, three more—"</p> - -<p>Two more. One more. "Hola!" shouted the Mexican, "<i>ahora</i>," and -the rope spun, and caught, and tautened, and the ground shook as -the last bull broke its neck. Coiling in the rope, Quartel spurred -the <i>trigueño</i> to the gate, ripping off his blindfold. They were -all running that way, Aforismo catching the man as he slid off the -lathered, quivering horse, pounding him on the back. Even Merida had -lifted her skirts to run that way, drawn by the excitement. Quartel -came through the crowd, sweating and grinning and pounding himself -on the chest with his hairy fist. "I told you. The best roper in the -world. What do you think of it, Huerta? Have you ever seen better? Was -Oro Peso better?" Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he sobered, -looking around at the <i>vaqueros</i>. "When I was pulled off the horse. -Someone was in the corral. I heard them."</p> - -<p>The hubbub sank until there was only the muffled sound of stirring -bodies, and Quartel saw the direction their glances had taken, one -after another. He stared at Crawford in disbelief.</p> - -<p>"You—"</p> - -<p>Crawford shrugged, sullenly. "It was automatic, I guess. I didn't -think."</p> - -<p>"Yes." Huerta allowed twin streamers of gray smoke to escape his -nostrils. "I wonder what would have happened if you had stopped to -think."</p> - -<p>Crawford flushed, turning toward him, but Quartel came forward, -clapping his hand on Crawford's shoulder. "Huerta, I'm surprised at -you. After all, he saved my life. And how about you. A <i>talega</i> of -pesos."</p> - -<p>"I made no wager," said Huerta, tapping ash from his cigarette.</p> - -<p>The blood swept into Quartel's face, and he stepped forward to grab the -lapels of Huerta's coat with one huge hand, jerking the man toward him. -"Huerta, I bet you a <i>talega</i> of pesos—"</p> - -<p>"I made no wager." Huerta had not moved his hands. One of them still -held the cigarette holder at his side; the other rested in the pocket -of his coat. But he was looking into Quartel's eyes, and his own eyes -had opened wider. The veined dissolution of his heavy bluish lids had -lifted until the whole pupil was visible.</p> - -<p>"That's right, that's right," said Jacinto nervously. "Huerta didn't -take up your bet, Quartel. You was so busy shouting and all you didn't -wait to see if he'd made the bet with you."</p> - -<p>"If he had, he'd pay me," said Quartel, still looking into Huerta's -eyes, an indefinable puzzlement drawing a faint furrow through his -brow, and something else. Abruptly he turned around, raising his voice. -"<i>Caramba</i>, if I ain't going to get a <i>talega</i> of pesos, I should get -some kind of reward. You don't see a rodeo like that every day. How -about it, Merida? I want a reward—"</p> - -<p>He had shoved through the crowd toward her, catching her around the -waist. Apparently not divining his intent at first, she had been -smiling, her face still flushed with that excitement. But as he caught -her and bent his face to hers, the smile twisted into a grimace. She -threw her forearm across his neck and tried to lever him away.</p> - -<p>"<i>Vayase con la música a otra parte</i>," she cried, anger causing her to -break into Spanish. "<i>Tu barrachon, largo de aqui, tu chile, no puedo -sufrir su insolencia—</i>"</p> - -<p>"My insolence?" laughed Quartel, grasping her wrist and tearing it from -between them. The force of it drew a gasp of pain from Merida; she -began writhing more violently in his embrace, and tried to scratch his -face with the other hand. But he caught that too, and forced both her -hands behind her until he had her wrists crossed with his arms about -her waist. In that last moment, he quit grinning. Crawford had seen the -same expression in the man's face before, when he looked at Merida, but -never so palpable, never so clearly recognizable. His voice came from -deep in his throat, husky and sensual and demanding.</p> - -<p>"<i>Besame, querida</i>," he said, and lowered his sweating face to hers.</p> - -<p>"Let her go, Quartel!"</p> - -<p>The Mexican stopped, with his lips not quite touching Merida. The -woman's body ceased to writhe; she stood there in his arms, bent -backward like a bow, looking up at him. Without releasing her, Quartel -raised his head and turned it over his shoulder till he could see -Crawford. It had taken Crawford that long to get through the laughing, -shouting crowd; they were no longer making any noise, and they had -spread away from him. He stood there with his boots spread a little on -the hard-packed dirt and the weight of his shoulders thrown forward, -the bitter intensity of his face only accentuating its gauntness.</p> - -<p>"Oh." The word came out softly, slyly on Quartel's breath. "Maybe you'd -rather be the one to kiss her. First he saves my life, then he wants to -take my woman away."</p> - -<p>"Your woman?" gasped Merida.</p> - -<p>"Take your hands off, damn you—"</p> - -<p>"Don't swear at me, Crawford." The hurt tone of Quartel's voice held -that pawky mockery. "I thought we were <i>amigos</i>. I thought you saved my -life in the corrals."</p> - -<p>"Quartel—"</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí?</i>" The man had released Merida and wheeled to face Crawford. For -a moment he stood there, his heavy chest rising and falling gently -with his breathing. The mockery faded from his face, leaving a heavy, -deliberate intent. His shift to the side was unhurried, but Crawford's -effort to keep facing the man came in a swift, spasmodic reaction. Then -Quartel stood there again. "Nobody swears at me, Crawford," he said, -and then, moving with incredible speed for such a bulky man, he leaped -forward. Crawford had been waiting for something, but it came so fast -his move to block it was aborted. Quartel had him by the shoulders, -knocking him off balance, and Crawford had to stumble backward to keep -from falling. "Do you understand that?" Quartel was shouting it now, -hoarsely, allowing his ebullience to escape finally. "I'm <i>amansador</i>, -here, I'm foreman, and nobody swears at me or tries to stop me whatever -I'm doing. I rod this outfit and I can do anything I want and nobody -can stop me, do you hear?"</p> - -<p>It was then Crawford realized what he had brought up against. Stumbling -backward, he had lurched into the <i>trigueño</i> and it had kept him from -falling. He was held against it now by Quartel's hands gripping his -shoulders. The animal heat of it penetrated through his shirt, and -something else clawed at him, somewhere way down in his vitals.</p> - -<p>In a new spasm, Crawford tried to lurch free of Quartel's grip; but -the man had still managed to keep him off balance, and he was held -there, with his knees bent and his body pushed off to one side so that -he had no leverage. He was shoved back hard against the horse again, -and the hot, living, hairy, animal resilience of it against his back -intensified that vague alarm inside him.</p> - -<p>"Do you hear me, Crawford, do you hear me—"</p> - -<p>Quartel's voice came through to him as if the man were far away. -Crawford was writhing from side to side, trying to escape, but he was -still held at that disadvantage. He had his hands on the man's arms, -tearing at them. The effort rocked Quartel from side to side, but -failed to loosen his grip. Crawford's face was twisted, and he was -gasping hoarsely, because it was growing in him now, raking at him -insistently with its subtle, insidious nails. His legs were beginning -to tremble and the muscles across his belly were twisting up into -little involuntary knots.</p> - -<p>"Let go, let go—"</p> - -<p>The violent movement and their shouting had excited the horse, and -it began to shift around behind Crawford. It had been standing there -against the fence where Quartel left it when he slid off. Crawford -had it pinned up against the bars, and the animal whinnied nervously, -trying to get from between him and the fence. Aforismo moved from the -crowd to grab the <i>trigueño's</i> reins and pull its head down.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Juarez?" he said. "Crawford, don't do that, you're -spooking this horse."</p> - -<p>"Yeah, quit shouting!" roared Quartel. "Can't you see what you're doing -to my <i>trigueño</i>? Hasn't he been through enough today? Quit jumping -around like that."</p> - -<p>He realized what they were doing. That had been the intent in Quartel's -face. It didn't help him now to understand. Nothing helped him now. It -had its grip on him. His struggles had become a blind, frenetic effort -to escape. Not from Quartel, now. It was the horse. The shrill sound -of the <i>trigueño's</i> whinny and the rising turbulence of the beast's -nervous movement against him drove Crawford to a new violence in his -attempts at escape. It was no longer small or vague in him. It filled -his whole consciousness. It spread through his legs and lower body in a -clutching, stabbing pain that caused his knees to tremble and jerk. It -filled his chest with a terrible constriction. And as before, the pain -was rapidly turning to something else.</p> - -<p>"Let go, damn you, let go—"</p> - -<p>He was screaming it now, in animal panic, his face contorted, his -whole body writhing and struggling in a blind frenzy that only excited -the horse further. He felt it rear up, and would have fallen backward -beneath it had not Aforismo yanked it down hard with his grip on the -reins. The hot hide was wet with nervous sweat against Crawford's back, -and he could feel the ripple of its muscle with every movement it made, -and every ripple sent a new wave of panic through him. All reason -was gone from his mind and he was sinking into a dark vortex of that -terrible panic like a cow sinking into a black bog.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Crawford? Are you afraid of the horse?"</p> - -<p>"Let go, please, for God's sake, let go."</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>"Leggo, leggo, leggo—"</p> - -<p>He stopped screaming. It took him a long time to comprehend he was no -longer being held against the horse. He crouched there on his knees -where he had fallen when Quartel had stepped back, releasing him. The -movement of the animal behind him raised a flurry of dirty brown dust. -Coughing in it, Crawford stared up at Quartel. The rage had disappeared -from Quartel's face. His lips were spread in that pawky smile.</p> - -<p>"Sure," he said, "I'll let you go. What will you do if I let you go?"</p> - -<p>Aforismo had pulled the <i>trigueño</i> out from behind him now, and -Crawford crouched there on his hands and knees, black hair falling -dankly over his feverish eyes. He looked like a trapped animal, his -breath escaping him in hoarse gasps, his head turning in quick jerks as -his wild glance leaped from one person to another. First it was Merida. -There was a desperate plea in the way she bent toward him, her bosom -rising and falling, her red lower lip dropped away from the shadowed -white line of her teeth, glistening damply. Then Huerta, managing to -convey a bored amusement without actually expressing anything in his -face, as he studied Crawford distantly. And Jacinto, great, lugubrious -globules of sweat sliding down his brown face, wringing his fat hands, -making small, unintelligible sounds of pain.</p> - -<p>A vagrant anger swept Crawford and he tried to collect it and hold it -in him, bitter and acrid and violent. But it held no strength, and a -shift of the wind swept the fetor of the <i>trigueño</i> to him once more, -and the anger disappeared. There was none of the spasm of panic now. -It was heavy and oppressive in him, holding him down like a physical -weight, robbing him of all resolve, dominating all other emotion. He -was still shaking violently, and the salty tears blinded him. He felt a -dim impulse to move twitch at his legs, and he knew a moment there when -he thought he could rise. Then he heard the guttural, frustrated sound -he made, and knew he was still on the ground, and felt an overpowering -impulse to give way and cry.</p> - -<p>"I thought so," said Quartel, and turned to take the reins from -Aforismo. He checked the animal to prevent its whirling away from him, -and jumped onto its back. He released the rein, and the <i>trigueño's</i> -head came around with a snap as it spun to trot off toward the fires. -The other <i>vaqueros</i> followed one by one, in an uncomfortable silence. -Huerta patted a yawn.</p> - -<p>"They've got some cane chairs over under those coma trees," he said. "I -think I'll watch the proceedings from there. Coming, Merida?"</p> - -<p>She did not answer. She was looking at Crawford, her face pale. Huerta -shrugged, moved languidly across the dusty compound. Then it was just -the two of them, with Crawford finally gaining his feet, unable to meet -her eyes. Merida's weight had settled back onto her high heels slowly. -That ripe lower lip had contracted against her teeth till her mouth was -twisted across them faintly. Her husky voice was barely audible.</p> - -<p>"I had hoped Huerta was wrong."</p> - -<p>He stared at her, wanting to turn and run, unable to, somehow, and -finally it came from him, guttural, hardly recognizable. "Whadda you -mean?"</p> - -<p>"About that fellow in the mine," she said.</p> - -<p>"Whaddaya mean?" Had that been him? Shrill, and cracked, like that?</p> - -<p>"You know what I mean," she said. "Not only pain. Fear. And not only -fear of what originally caused the pain."</p> - -<p>"No—"</p> - -<p>"Yes!" she said thinly. "Yes! It's not just the horses any more. It's -everything. You're a coward, Crawford. You're a coward!"</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Nine" id="Chapter_Nine"><i>Chapter Nine</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Still in the Throes of Fear</span></p> - - -<p>The girandole candelabra on the mantel looked like a brooding ghoul in -the evening gloom which shrouded the living-room of Otis Rockland's -house. The French windows at the front extended completely to the -floor, double-hung sashes forming the upper half, paneled gates of -unpolished oak being the lower section. The damask hangings had been -pulled across during the afternoon to shut out the sun, but the windows -themselves were partly ajar, allowing the sounds from the corrals to -enter the room. Someone was playing a guitar over there where they were -still roasting the bulls that had been killed. A woman's laugh came -dimly.</p> - -<p>Crawford raised his head a moment where he sat in a willow chair by the -window; then he lowered it once more into his hands. His face was bleak -and empty. He did not know how long it was since he had come here, -unable to face them out there.</p> - -<p>When the creak of the porch came mutedly to him, he gave no sign. Then -there was more sound, louder, more recognizable. His head lifted as the -noise terminated with a muffled crash.</p> - -<p>"Crawford!"</p> - -<p>Just once like that, shrill and cracked. He got to his feet and ran to -the door, tearing it open. It was the side table in the entrance hall -which had made the crash. Merida must have pulled it over, falling. The -marble top had smashed, and a piece of it lay on the floor beside her. -The front door stood open wide.</p> - -<p>"Merida?" he said, dropping to one knee. "You fell?"</p> - -<p>"No." She stirred feebly, rising to one elbow with his help, hanging -her head over against his knee a moment. The kitchen door opened, and -her maid padded down the hall in bare feet, a small, wizened Indian, so -dark she looked negroid, dressed in nothing more than a white cotton -shift.</p> - -<p>"It's all right, Nexpa," Merida told her. "A little accident. Crawford -will help me to my room."</p> - -<p>She allowed him to help her up the stairs, leaning heavily on his arm. -The warmth of her body flowed through Crawford, and when they reached -the second floor he was breathing heavily. Beyond the last step, Merida -pulled away from him, her eyes meeting his in a swift, unreadable way.</p> - -<p>She turned and moved toward her room, halting a moment outside Huerta's -closed door, as if listening. Then she opened the door of her bedroom. -He had kept from asking by an effort, but now he followed her in -hesitantly, speaking.</p> - -<p>"Huerta came up?"</p> - -<p>She closed her door softly. "He wasn't at the corrals when I left."</p> - -<p>"Maybe he got hungry for his red beans." Her face lifted to him, eyes -widening, and he shrugged. "Jacinto said something about dope."</p> - -<p>She pursed her lips, moving around him toward the table. "Couldn't you -see it? Opium when we were in Mexico City. Peyote now."</p> - -<p>"Those beans."</p> - -<p>"Yes. You've heard it. The Indians call it <i>raíz diabólica</i>. Devil -weed. They've been using it for centuries in Mexico. Even the Aztecs -knew of it. They called it peyotl. It's effect isn't as marked as -opium. He seems capable of eating those beans all day. They make a -drink of it that's more potent."</p> - -<p>"He said something about a complaint," Crawford told her.</p> - -<p>Her mouth twisted somewhat. "Maybe he has an old wound. He's been -around. He'd take dope anyway. That's just the kind he is. You saw the -kind. Dissolute? I don't know. Whatever you want." She had got a punk -off the table and was lighting the candles in the porcelain candelabra -supported by oak wall brackets. Then she saw how he was looking at her, -and turned part way. "What is it?"</p> - -<p>He looked away. "Nothing."</p> - -<p>She caught his arm, turning him back.</p> - -<p>"No," she said. "It is something. Huerta?"</p> - -<p>Crawford pulled away from her hand, uncomfortable, somehow. "I just -can't see you with him. You're not the type."</p> - -<p>"What type do you think I am?"</p> - -<p>He started to answer. Then he moved his shoulders again, letting out a -muted, rueful sound. "I guess I don't know, really, do I?"</p> - -<p>"Don't you?" She was meeting his glance with a wide, candid demand in -her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Santa Anna's chests?" he said.</p> - -<p>She drew in a long, slow breath, and nodded, finally. "You do know, -then," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "You have known, all along." She -hesitated, studying him. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. -"That's inconceivable to you, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>"No—"</p> - -<p>"Yes!" She blew out the punk with the word. "You've lived in the -<i>brasada</i> most of your life. Money to you represents no more than a -barren, lonely ranch like this and a herd of cattle to support it. You -have no conception of what riches can really mean. Not just the horses, -the servants, the jewels. The grace, Crawford, the ease, the beauty, -the way of life." An intensity had gripped her voice, and her face was -flushed. "Do you know what it is to be a peon in Mexico? No. You've -never seen it, have you? You've seen the women in the brush here, -living like animals in a one-room mud house with nothing but a cotton -sheet for a dress. That's nothing. They're rich. They're hidalgos -compared with a real peon. I should know. I was one, Crawford. I won't -be one again. I'd rather steal and lie and cheat. I'd rather murder. -Can you understand that? I will, if it's necessary. I—"</p> - -<p>She broke off, breathing deeply, looking wide-eyed up at him. Then -a short bitter laugh escaped her, and she turned away, the line of -her shoulders bowing faintly. Light drew a soft glow from the rich -black hair drawn tightly across the back of her head. With a new -understanding of the woman, he stepped in behind her.</p> - -<p>"All right," he said.</p> - -<p>The simple acceptance of that drew her around. They were standing so -close her breast touched his when it stirred faintly to her breathing.</p> - -<p>"You were going to tell me what happened downstairs," he murmured.</p> - -<p>"<i>Derrotero?</i>" she said, watching his face narrowly.</p> - -<p>It was an effort to keep it expressionless. "The map?"</p> - -<p>"It's why Huerta wanted to keep you here in the first place," she said. -"Quartel and Tarant were against it, but Huerta thought you had some -reason for coming here. He was right, Crawford. Nothing else could make -you take what they've been doing. You've got part of the <i>derrotero</i>, -and you think one of us has the rest. Well, one of us has!"</p> - -<p>She turned around and did something with the waist of her dress, -beneath the fichu. When she turned back, she held a piece of torn, -yellowed paper in her hand.</p> - -<p>"There are three pieces to the map," she said. "This is one of them."</p> - -<p>"Lopez?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes," she muttered. "Santa Anna had many wives. My mother was one. -You will recall that the captain of the mule train sent one third of -the map to Santa Anna himself. It was about all my mother got out of -Santa Anna's estate when he died."</p> - -<p>"Who was it downstairs?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"He came from behind. It was dark. I did not see."</p> - -<p>He stared at the section of paper a long time, scratching his dirty -beard with a thumbnail. "Huerta's been trying to find out all along if -I have the <i>derrotero</i>. The fact that he doesn't know for sure has kept -him from making any definite move, one way or another. What would he do -if he found out, for sure, one way or another?"</p> - -<p>"Why should he find out?" she said.</p> - -<p>"You're with Huerta."</p> - -<p>"Am I?" she said, moving in close again. "Maybe I <i>was</i>."</p> - -<p>"You tried that before," he said.</p> - -<p>"No," she said hotly. "Will you never trust me, Crawford? I want to -help you. Not just the map. That doesn't matter, now. Out there, with -the <i>trigueño</i>. I'm sorry for what I called you."</p> - -<p>"Maybe you were right," he said, bitterly.</p> - -<p>"No! You're not a coward, intrinsically. Can't you see what they were -doing? Maybe Huerta was the first to see how it was—about your legs. -Now they all know. They're using it, Crawford. Quartel used it today. -He shoved you up against the horse and held you there till you were -half-crazy with panic. He knew you wouldn't fight him in that state. -It wasn't fear of him that demoralized you. It was horrible to watch." -She reached up to grasp his elbows with her hands, lifting her weight -toward him. "But I've seen what you used to be, too. When you brought -Whitehead back. No coward could have done that. Come back, with -Whitehead that way, knowing what you would have to face, here. Do you -realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that morning and -see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing what it meant. -It doesn't happen to a person often in her life, Crawford. That sort -of feeling. Let me help you, Crawford. I want to. I can't if you don't -trust me."</p> - -<p>She was up against him now, almost sobbing it, and his hands had slid -around her waist, the flesh hot and silken against his palm through -her gown. For one last moment he tried to fight it. But he had fought -so long, so alone, without anyone, and the warm resilience of her body -against him filled Crawford with a giddy weakness.</p> - -<p>"Merida," he muttered thickly, bending her back, "Merida—"</p> - -<p>She pulled away, her face flushed. "I can't—if you don't trust me—"</p> - -<p>He held her that way, breathing heavily, her back arched away from him -by the pressure of her hands against his chest. He searched her wide, -dark eyes, and found no guile there. Still filled with that desire -and driven by it, he made a guttural, inarticulate sound, releasing -her, and took one step to the bed, lowering himself on the embroidered -muslin coverlet. He bent to take off his right Justin. The fancy -stitching across the top of the boot unknotted, and he pulled it away -from half a dozen eyelets in the leather, revealing a double thickness -which formed a pocket.</p> - -<p>"Used to keep my money here," he said, pulling out the piece of -parchment Rockland had given him. The woman's hand trembled as she -took it from him, laying it on the bed beside her piece, fitting them -together. Then her pale finger crossed the map until it reached a word -printed on his section. Her voice was no more than a whisper.</p> - -<p>"Mogotes Serpientes."</p> - -<p>"Yeah," he said, watching her. "Yeah. I never got around to using the -map. Kenmare was on my tail a lot since I left San Antonio. I didn't -take too much stock in the story anyway. Del never told me anything -about it, and it was his uncle supposed to have been captain of that -mule train. How did Rockland get hold of this portion?"</p> - -<p>"Delcazar's uncle escaped to Mexico City, where he died, his effects -being turned over to the family lawyer down there," she said. "Rockland -originally wanted the Delcazar land up here for the water. He sent -Tarant down to Mexico City to make sure there was nothing in the -Delcazar papers which would prevent having clear title to the land when -he got hold of it. Tarant found this part of the chart when he was -going through those papers." She straightened slowly, allowing her gaze -to reach his face. "Do you know who has the other piece, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>"No," he said.</p> - -<p>Her eyes grew blank; and he stood swiftly, grasping her hand. "I've -trusted you, Merida. Now you've got to trust me. I don't know."</p> - -<p>"It's got to be more than trust now," she said. "We're in it together, -Crawford. If I'm to help you, you've got to help me. Will you?"</p> - -<p>"Haven't I proved that?" he said, trying to pull her toward him with -that hand. "Anything, Merida—"</p> - -<p>She held back, calculation hardening the planes of her face. "Perhaps I -should have said, <i>can</i> you?"</p> - -<p>Just the feel of her wrist in his fingers that way, soft and satiny, -started it up again in him, and he quit trying to pull her in, and took -a step in toward her. "What horse you on now?"</p> - -<p>"I mean, maybe you can't. Maybe you're incapable of it. You can't do -much the way you are now, Crawford. You're only half a man. It's not -just the horses any more. It's your whole life. Everything you do is -affected by it. I've thought of trying to get you a gun. A dozen times. -It would be hard, but I might be able to do it. To stay unarmed here, -like this—" She put her free hand against his chest to stop him. "What -good would it do, Crawford? If you'd had a gun, would you have used it -today? Quartel carries one. Would you have pulled yours on him?"</p> - -<p>No woman had ever affected him so violently before. Hardly aware of -what she was saying, the blood pounding through his head, he sought to -force her hand aside and bend his face to hers, wanting only to feel -her against him again.</p> - -<p>"Merida," he said, the blood so thick in his throat it made him sound -strangled, "I told you—anything—"</p> - -<p>She took a deep, ragged breath, and he could not tell whether she -was fighting him or herself, now. "No, Crawford. It wouldn't be any -different with a gun. Not the way you are now. A gun wouldn't do you -any more good than your bare hands. Quartel wanted you to fight him -with your hands. You wouldn't even do that. Nothing will do you any -good until you can step on a horse again without feeling that pain in -your legs—that fear." She forced herself away, saying it in a cold -tone, "Africano?"</p> - -<p>It was like throwing ice water on a fire. All his ardor disappeared -before the abrupt clutch of fear that word engendered in him. He -stiffened for a moment, still holding that one hand. Then he dropped it -and stepped back, his mouth twisted. Just the word, like that. Just the -name.</p> - -<p>"Yes." The heavy rise and fall of Merida's breast abated as she studied -him, the candor gone from her face now, a cold, critical speculation -filling her eyes as she studied him. "Perhaps I was wrong, Crawford. -Perhaps you can't help me. Perhaps I can't help you."</p> - -<p>"No? Let me show you," he said desperately.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Ten" id="Chapter_Ten"><i>Chapter Ten</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Flight From Snake Thickets</span></p> - - -<p>This time of night did strange things to the brush. The moon had not -yet risen enough to light fully the trails winding their secretive -way through the jealous chaparral, and what vague dim light did seep -through the gloom held a reflected, synthetic quality. Most of the -<i>vaqueros</i> were in a drunken stupor when Crawford and the woman left -the house, getting one of Rockland's prized copperbottoms and a pinto -mare from the corrals without being detected. They rode north from the -spread, following one of the ancient game traces which the <i>vaqueros</i> -used when working the cattle. In the eerie illumination, the berries -ripening on the granjeno bushes formed yellow shadow patches against -the velvet backdrop of darkness farther back, and the white filament -of the horse-maimer was turned to a sick erubescence where it crouched -on a stony ridge. Crawford caught the dim glow of the cactus's silky -blossoms, and pulled his reins in a hard jerk against the pinto's neck. -The animal shied to the right, away from the horse-maimer.</p> - -<p>"Crawford!"</p> - -<p>The woman said it softly from behind him, a controlled anger in her -voice. She moved the copperbottom up beside him, peering at his face.</p> - -<p>"It's all right," he said impatiently.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," she said again, in that low, insistent tone.</p> - -<p>He tried to relax his legs against the pinto. Just a walk, and they -were like that. He felt his shirt sticking to his armpits and knew the -sweat was showing on his face. That terrible frustration was biting at -him.</p> - -<p>"I told you it was all right," he said harshly.</p> - -<p>A savagery entered her voice, struggling with that restraint. "Will you -quit trying to hide it, Crawford. From me. From yourself. I know all -about it now. I've seen it. There's no use being ashamed of it with -me. It's there. We both recognize it. Admit it. That's the first thing -you've got to do."</p> - -<p>"All right. I'm afraid. Every time it moves. Every time it bats an -eyelash. Every time it—"</p> - -<p>He stopped, realizing how violent the release had been, and it seemed -the mocking echoes of his voice were dying down the sombrous lanes of -the brush. He turned away from her, feeling a new wave of shame.</p> - -<p>"That's better than nothing," she said. The tone of Merida's voice made -him turn back to her. She must have been waiting for that, because -the movement brought his eyes around to hers. "When you wouldn't meet -Quartel back at the bull-tailing," she said, "I condemned you for being -a coward. I'll never do it again. You may be afraid, but I'll never -condemn you for it. The only thing I'll condemn you for is refusing to -face your fear."</p> - -<p>He felt his legs relaxing slightly, and for a moment the beat of his -heart diminished. He had never talked with anyone about it like this -before. He had kept it locked within himself, refusing to look at it, -refusing to admit it even to himself.</p> - -<p>"Do your legs hurt now?" she said.</p> - -<p>"A little." His voice was tight.</p> - -<p>"Crawford—"</p> - -<p>"All right. A lot. They hurt like hell. I hurt all over. Does that -satisfy you?"</p> - -<p>"This the river?" she said.</p> - -<p>He pulled the pinto to a stop and stepped off stiffly. He stood there -a moment with his face into the horse, trembling faintly. When he -moved away from the animal, the nebulous pain subsided somewhat in his -loins. Yet the animal's very proximity kept the irritation in his -consciousness. When he pulled the map from his shirt, his hand twitched -spasmodically, and he almost tore the paper. She took the paper from -his uncertain hands, moving into the best of the bizarre light. They -had ridden north in order to strike the Nueces River where the route -on his portion of the <i>derrotero</i> started. The woman hunkered down on -the ground, spreading the paper out. There was something wild about -her figure, crouching there like that, her dark head brooding over -the chart. She looked up abruptly. It caused him to make a small, -involuntary movement, realizing how he had been watching her. He -squatted down beside her, seeing the scarlet tip of her finger descend -to the words printed in Spanish at one end of the chart.</p> - -<p>"Montezuma Embrujada?"</p> - -<p>"Yeah," he said. "You can see them right across the river. I don't know -why they're called the Haunted Ruins. It's just an old Spanish fort -they had here to guard the gold trains coming from the San Saba Mines."</p> - -<p>Her finger moved down the line on the paper to the next spot. "Chapotes -Platas."</p> - -<p>"Silver Persimmons. A bunch of persimmon trees growing about five -miles south of here that look silver in the moonlight. I been by there -sometimes chousing cattle with Delcazar."</p> - -<p>"Tinaja de la Tortuga." Her finger had passed on to the third spot -marked on the upper portion of the map.</p> - -<p>"Turtle Sink, we call it," he said. "There's the biggest old granddaddy -turtle you ever saw living there, but I never saw any water."</p> - -<p>"Veredas Coloradas—"</p> - -<p>"You got me now," he said. "I told you nobody's seen all of the -<i>brasada</i>. Delcazar knows more about it than anybody else I ever knew, -but he can't tell me where Snake Thickets are, or what's in Lost -Swamp."</p> - -<p>"This is still on the portion of the map you had," she said.</p> - -<p>He nodded. "It's new brush to me and thicker'n heel flies in spring. It -takes a machete to get through."</p> - -<p>Her finger was trailing on down the line, crossing the jagged tear -in the paper, marking the spots noted on the second portion of the -<i>derrotero</i>. "Llano Sacaguista, Puenta Piedra, Resaca Perdida—you -don't know any of these?"</p> - -<p>He shook his head. "I told you. I've never been down that way. I've -heard of some. Puenta Piedra, for instance. There's supposed to be a -natural stone bridge somewhere along the Rio Diablo. And most everybody -in the brush has heard the tales about Lost Swamp."</p> - -<p>"Puenta Piedra is beyond that thick brush," she said. "Why not skirt -that section of the <i>brasada</i> until we strike Rio Diablo? If Puenta -Piedra is somewhere along Rio Diablo, we should find it by following -the river's course. Then maybe we can follow the chart from Puenta -Piedra on down to the Snake Thickets."</p> - -<p>"We won't get back before daylight," he said.</p> - -<p>"I don't care." She rose with a toss of her head. "Let them know we've -been hunting the chest. I told you there wasn't any time left to beat -about the bush."</p> - -<p>"And what have we got when we do reach Snake Thickets?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Don't ask me!" She seemed to allow herself full release for the first -time. Her face was flushed and she swung aboard the copperbottom -viciously. "All I know is I can't sit around that house and wait for -something to happen. The only way to find something is to go out and -hunt for it—"</p> - -<p>She stopped, as she saw him standing there staring at the pinto. It -had a little roan in its black coloring which caused the dark spots to -run over into the white patches, giving a sloppy, splotched effect. It -stirred faintly, snorting. Merida saw what that did to him.</p> - -<p>"Crawford—"</p> - -<p>There was a plea in her voice. She sat quiescent, waiting. His lips -flattened against his teeth. He moved slowly to the pinto, standing -there, staring at the sweaty saddle. The smell of it grew in his -nostrils. He was filled with the impulse to turn and run. His body -twitched with it.</p> - -<p>"Crawford—"</p> - -<p>He put his foot in the stirrup and stepped aboard.</p> - -<p>Silver Persimmons, Turtle Sink, Rio Diablo. They were names on the -chart. They were spots in the brasada. They were names in his head and -their reality blended with black letters on faded parchment. He lost -all sense of time. His only consciousness was of movement. No telling -how long it took them from Haunted Ruins to Silver Persimmons. The -weird brush floated past in a sea of mingled pain and trembling and -sweating. The stark arms of chaparral supplicated the night on every -side. The <i>cenizo's</i> ashen hue had turned a sick lavender from recent -rain, and it reeled biliously into vision and out again. Then Chapotes -Platas were gleaming like newly minted coin beneath the risen moon. The -woman talked sometimes, watching Crawford, in a low, insistent way.</p> - -<p>"My mother was the <i>curandera</i> of the village. You have no idea how -many plants those herb-women can make medicine from. On Saturday we -would go to the river a mile away and gather herbs. I used to enjoy -that. It was as far away from home as I got. The rest was mostly work. -Nothing very nice to remember. Choking to death in the fumes of the -herbs my mother had cooking constantly in the big brass kettle in our -jacal. Rubbing my eyes all day in the smoke. She was stone blind from -that. Grinding corn on the metate. I must have spent half my waking -hours with that metate. Do you blame me for marrying Capitán Mendoza -when he asked? I didn't love him. He was brutal and ugly. But he was -stationed in Mexico City. I was fourteen at the time—"</p> - -<p>Turtle Sink ceased to be inked words on yellowed paper and rose -abruptly from the shadowed depths of the brush—a stony water hole -with sand white as bleached bones covering its bottom and the scarred, -mottled shell of a huge turtle barely visible in the black shadow -beneath one end. They were beyond that when the sound of his breathing -slid momentarily across the uppermost reaches of his consciousness. It -was not as labored, or as harsh. Then it was her voice, floating in -again.</p> - -<p>"After Mendoza died, riding with Diaz, I got a job entertaining in a -cafe near Collegio Militar. It was there I first met Huerta. He taught -me to speak English, gave me my first taste of what money can do. -Tarant had known Huerta before, and when Rockland sent him down to -look into the Delcazar papers, Tarant contacted Huerta to help him. -Huerta was there when Tarant came across the portion of the <i>derrotero</i> -Delcazar's uncle had possessed. That's how Huerta knew Rockland would -have it. When Huerta told me about it, I showed him the portion of the -map I had—"</p> - -<p>Now it was his legs. First it had been his breath, now it was his legs. -He realized they were hanging free against the stirrup leathers. He was -sitting a horse without tension for the first time since Africano had -rolled him. He turned toward Merida. Maybe it was in his face.</p> - -<p>"Your legs don't hurt now, do they?"</p> - -<p>He was almost afraid to speak. "No," he said, with a strange, husky -wonder in his voice. "No."</p> - -<p>He had never seen her smile with such rich sincerity, and her voice -trembled with a strange, joyful excitation. "Then we can, Crawford, we -can!"</p> - -<p>He stared at her, unable to answer. Then he averted his head, lips thin -against his teeth. Could they? He was afraid to answer it. Yet the pain -was gone. He could sit there with the movement of the horse beneath him -and its sweaty fetor reaching his nostrils in vagrant waves and feel no -pain. And with the cessation of his pain, the other things became more -vivid in his consciousness.</p> - -<p>He caught the faint honeyed odor of white brush from a draw to his -right, and drank in its full sweetness for the first time in months. -The woman saw that, and her lips lifted faintly. They reached Rio -Diablo and turned northward on its banks. It was the best water between -the Nueces and the Rio Grande, yet it was no more than a stream, its -mucky course following a sandy bottom that wandered in lazy loops -through the <i>brasada</i>.</p> - -<p>"We're crossing Delcazar's old spread now," Crawford told her. "You -can see how much better watering you'd get here than where Rio Diablo -turns into Rockland's holdings. That's why Rockland wanted to get hold -of this stretch. When Rockland's dad first got the Big O, they say the -river was bank full from one end of his pastures to the other. Couple -more years and it will be completely dry there."</p> - -<p>They passed the borders of what had once belonged to Pio Delcazar and -came across a grass-grown pile of stones on a clay bank while it was -still dark, a broken, hand-hewn timber thrusting its jagged end skyward -from the rubble. Crawford dismounted and moved about the area, bending -now and then to squint at certain spots. Then he stared across the -river to where another heap of stones stood on the far bank.</p> - -<p>"Puenta Piedra," he mused, tugging idly at his scraggly black beard. "I -wonder if those stories about a natural stone bridge could have started -from one the Spaniards built on the route south from San Antonio."</p> - -<p>"How does this line up with Tinaja de la Tortuga?"</p> - -<p>He looked upward, turning his head till he found Lucero, and raised his -hand to it. "There's the Shepherd's Star. And the one the Mexicans call -La Guía. They're always fixed in relation to each other. That leaves us -almost due south of Turtle Sink."</p> - -<p>"That tallies with the map," she said, spreading the parchment out -against her horse's neck. "Red Trails must be right in the middle of -that thicket we skirted. And this is the Puenta Piedra they mean. We -have to turn east a little now to strike Llano Sacaguista."</p> - -<p>He got onto the pinto without hesitation this time, and led down -into the brown muck of the shallow water and up the other bank. -Llano Sacaguista proved to be a vast open flat covered with greening -sacaguista grass. He had never traversed these particular flats, and -beyond this was a stretch of brush entirely foreign to him. They left -Rio Diablo for a mile or so and then struck it again. A block in the -river caused by some ancient upheaval rendered the land boggy here. The -hollow boom of bullfrogs mingled with the other night sounds. A 'gator -bellowed somewhere from the depths of the exotic brush.</p> - -<p>"Looks more like East Texas," Crawford muttered. "I wonder if this -could be Lost Swamp."</p> - -<p>He could see the glow of excitement in the woman's eyes now. They -pushed on southward with the false dawn dropping an eerie light through -the brush. The boggy section fell behind, and the natural aridity of -the <i>brasada</i> returned. They were still following the river, though it -was nothing but a dry bed now, the trickle of water having ceased where -it ran into Lost Swamp. A true dawn was bringing light to the sky in -the east when they heard the first sound. It was a thin sibilation, -reminiscent of the mesquite sighing in a light breeze. Crawford moved -his pinto over beside Merida's copperbottom, halting both horses, to -sit there, listening. Then he touched a heel to the pinto's flank, -moving it carefully down into the very center of the river bed. The -brush on either bank grew more dense as they moved on up the dry bed, -and began to gather here in the bottoms now. The sound increased, too. -The faint hissing was veritably ceaseless now, rising and falling in -a sibilant tide. Finally the brush was so thick in the river bed they -were having to force their way through. The pinto was beginning to -fiddle nervously. It shied, finally, and Crawford jerked it to a stop, -a vagrant wave of the old panic gripping him. He sat there a moment, -trying to control his breathing.</p> - -<p>"You wanted to know where Snake Thickets was," he said. "It looks like -we're sitting right on the edge of it."</p> - -<p>There was a vague awe in her voice. "It sounds as if all the snakes in -Texas had gathered here. Crawford—"</p> - -<p>"Don't be loco," he said, seeing it in her eyes. "We wouldn't last two -minutes beyond this spot. If those Mexicans cached anything, it sure -couldn't have been inside here."</p> - -<p>"If?" Her tone was sharp; the excited glow fled her eyes, leaving them -narrow and speculative as she looked at him. "You still don't believe -there is any money."</p> - -<p>"I told you I was skeptical to begin with," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"But the part of the <i>derrotero</i> you had—" she moved her hand in a -vague, defensive way—"coming all this way, putting up with all that -back there—Quartel, Huerta, Whitehead—surely—" She stopped as it -must have struck her. A reserve crossed her face, tightening the planes -of her cheek, and that speculation deepened in her eyes, accentuating, -somehow, the oblique tilt of her brow. "Maybe I was right the first -time," she said finally. She leaned toward him slightly. "I guess I -should have seen it before this. You're hardly the type, are you? Money -wouldn't mean enough to you to put up with that." She stopped again, -studying him, and then a faint smile stirred her lips. "Which one of -us do you think murdered Otis Rockland?"</p> - -<p>He met her eyes for a moment, almost sullenly. Then a vague unrest -seeped through him. His saddle creaked as he shifted on the pinto, -and he turned his head upward, sniffing. She must have taken it for a -discomfort arising from her scrutiny, for that smile on her lips spread -perceptibly.</p> - -<p>"I didn't think you were that righteous," she said.</p> - -<p>He brought his eyes back to hers with an effort, staring a moment -before he comprehended. "Look," he said, then, with a careful -deliberateness. "I don't give a damn about Rockland being killed. It's -me, see. It's purely a selfish motive. I told you. A man gets tired -after a while. He gets tired jumping like a jack rabbit every time a -tree toad chirps. He gets tired running the brush all day and all night -to keep one jump ahead of those badge-packers. He gets tired living on -raw meat because he's afraid to build a fire, and sleeping in a bunch -of mesquite because he can't get near enough a house to get a blanket, -and scratching his face off because he hasn't even got so much as a -knife to shave with."</p> - -<p>"Then why didn't you leave?"</p> - -<p>He opened his mouth to say it. Then he closed it again, staring at her. -Finally he shrugged sullenly. "It's my country, that's all."</p> - -<p>"Is it?" she said. "Or maybe I'm wrong again. Maybe Quartel was closer -to the truth than any of us. Where do you pin the badge? On your -undershirt?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't think you'd understand," he said.</p> - -<p>"It would be the most logical reason for your staying, through all -that," she said, studying him. "If you really are hoping to find -Rockland's murderer, that would be the most logical reason."</p> - -<p>"Let's close the poke," he said.</p> - -<p>"And maybe that about your legs is wrong, too," her voice probed -relentlessly. "That would be a pretty good blind. Who would suspect -them of sending in a lawman who couldn't even sit a horse?"</p> - -<p>She must have meant it to sting him. He saw some strange satisfaction -in her face as he stiffened perceptibly.</p> - -<p>"No—Merida—" He held out his hand, losing for a moment all sense of -the heavy antipathy which had fallen between them. Then it was that -restlessness, coming again, through the consciousness of her mocking -eyes on him. The pinto began to fiddle around in the sand, and the -woman's copperbottom raised its head, delicate nostrils fluttering. -Merida looked at the animals, frowning.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" she said.</p> - -<p>A puff of wind ruffled Crawford's ducking jacket against his ribs. He -turned in the saddle, staring northward. It was light enough with dawn -now for him to discern the blackening clouds on the horizon, above the -pattern of brush. The breeze whipped through the <i>brasada</i> anew, strong -enough now to drown out the incessant hissing which emanated from -Mogotes Serpientes. Mesquite rattled mournfully to the wind. A mule -deer broke from chaparral with a clatter behind the horses, bounding -across the river bed in frightened leaps. The pinto snorted and began -fighting the bit, whirling in the sand.</p> - -<p>The woman shivered with the sudden chill, calling again, a vague fear -tinging her voice. "What is it?"</p> - -<p>He could hardly answer. The plunging, rearing pinto had filled him -again with that panic, and he was gripping frantically with his legs, -blood thickening in his throat, choking him up, sweat breaking out on -his face.</p> - -<p>"Norther." He finally got it out. "Hits like this sometimes in the -spring. Better get to shelter quick as we can. It looks like hell is -going to pop its shutters. Delcazar used to have an old jacal on the -Diablo. It's south of us somewhere along the bottoms. He and I used to -hole up there when we were hunting—"</p> - -<p>He was fighting the pinto all the time he shouted, and he could hold -it no longer. Frothing at the mouth from battling the bit, the horse -wheeled wildly, tossing its head, and bolted up the bank of the river. -The wind had risen to a veritable gale already, and the ducking jacket -whipped about his torso with a dull slapping sound as the pinto burst -through the first growth of chaparral. A hackberry rose ahead. Crawford -reined the horse aside desperately, sliding off on one flank to get -beneath the branches. He was shaking with panic now, and the pain was -in his tense, quivering legs.</p> - -<p>"Crawford, Crawford—"</p> - -<p>It was Merida's voice behind him. Her animal made a hellish clatter -going through a <i>mogote</i>. Then that was drowned in the howl of the -rising gale. Crawford was dimly aware of his own choked sobbing as -he fought to stay on the frenzied pinto and turn it southward toward -Delcazar's jacal. His consciousness of the norther was only secondary -to the terrible animal panic in him. The black clouds had risen like a -pyre of smoke over the northern horizon and were descending on the near -brush like an awesome, clutching hand. Already rain was beginning to -pelt the thickets. The howling wind tore a pendent bunch of mesquite -berries off its bush as Crawford raced by, carrying it into his face. -He shouted aloud at it, clawing wildly at the blinding mass. But -mostly it was the horse beneath him. The writhing heat of its frenetic -movement beating against his legs. The dank smell of its wet body -sweeping him. The coarse black hair of its mane whipping into his face. -The awful demoralizing consciousness of its uncontrollable run carrying -him along.</p> - -<p>He could hear his own choked, incoherent cries. The fear held him in a -shaking, writhing vise now. Nopal clawed his face. A post-oak branch -struck his head with stunning force. He clung to the horse, bawling -insanely, no longer trying to rein it, torn off one side by raking -chaparral, beaten at by the trunk of a hackberry, scratched and ripped -by mesquite.</p> - -<p>"Let go, Crawford." It was Merida, calling shrilly from behind him -somewhere. "Jump, Crawford, please, let go, oh please—"</p> - -<p>"No! no!"</p> - -<p>Had he screamed it? Someone was screaming. His head rocked backward -to a blow. Sensations spun in a kaleidoscope about him. The towering -dominance of a cottonwood reeled around its orbit above him. Mesquite -swept into his vision and out again. Sound and sight and feel became a -confused pattern. Red-topped nopal swam past. The crash of chaparral -dinned in his ears. The gnarled curve of a post oak reeled up and -blotted out his vision with a stunning blow in the face. His own hoarse -scream of agony. The drum of hoofs somewhere beneath him. The shrieking -wind. White brush. Green toboso grass. Brown hackberries. Agony in his -legs. The horse whinnying. White brush. Pain. Grass. Screaming. Trees. -Shouting. Blood. Nopal—</p> - -<p>"Crawford!"</p> - -<p>He did not know he had left the horse till he found himself crouched -there in a thicket of mesquite, his face against the wet, earthy smell -of dampened grama grass, making small, incoherent sounds. He seemed -in a void, only dimly aware of sound sweeping around him, his awesome -fear the only real thing to him. It clutched his loins and knotted the -muscles across his belly. His legs were still rigid and trembling with -that pain. He was sobbing in a hoarse, choked way. He heard the creak -behind him but didn't know what it was till the woman's voice came -through the haze of primal panic.</p> - -<p>"Crawford—"</p> - -<p>"There. That's it. You've seen it now. All of it. Can we? Hell. How do -you like it? Isn't it pretty?"</p> - -<p>"You should have jumped." She had dropped to her knees before him and -pulled his face up off the ground. The rain had soaked her clothes and -when she drew his head into her arms he felt the soft, wet contour of -her breast through the damp silk shirt. He was still shaken with that -animal fright, and he had no control over his choked, guttural sobbing, -or his words.</p> - -<p>"I couldn't jump. It's always like that. I'm so scared I want to puke -and the only thing I want to do is leave the horse and I can't." His -voice sounded muffled against the supple heat of her body. He had never -let it out like this before, and with the panic and pain and fear -robbing him of all control, he heard all the agony and anguish and -frustration of the last months flooding from him in a wild release. He -was still crouched on the ground, bent into her lap, his face against -her breast, his fingers clutching spasmodically at the grass on either -side of her.</p> - -<p>She soothed him like a child, stroking his head. Finally, the pain -began to die in his legs. The knotted muscles across his belly began to -twitch spasmodically, and then relaxed. It was no longer his hoarse, -sobbing words against her body. It was only his labored breathing. The -full realization of what had happened struck him, and he forced his -head back in her arms till he was far enough away to see her face. The -flush of a sudden shame swept darkly into his cheeks. She saw it, and -her eyes widened with a tortured compassion.</p> - -<p>"No, Crawford, no, please," she said, in a husky voice, and put her -palms against his cheeks and pulled his head to one side. Her position -gave weight to the leverage of her hands, and he found himself lying -with his back on the ground, with his knees twisted beneath him and -Merida bending over from her sitting position.</p> - -<p>He had thought about it, before, enough times. A man did, with such a -woman. But none of it had equaled this. All the shame was swept away. -The sounds of the storm were blotted out. His whole consciousness -was of the straining tension of her body against him and the moist -resilience of her lips meeting his. Finally she lifted her head, and he -could see that her eyes were closed. She sat that way a moment, without -opening them, her blouse caught wetly across the curving rise and fall -of her breast. He lay staring up at her, and it was not the fear or -the pain or the shame any longer in him, or even the passion which had -swept him in that brief, violent moment. Opening her eyes, she must -have seen it in his twisted, wet face.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," she said in a strained voice. "Crawford, what is it? What -do you want?"</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Eleven" id="Chapter_Eleven"><i>Chapter Eleven</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Old Friends Reunited</span></p> - - -<p>The Mexicans constructed the roofs of their jacals by laying willow -shoots in a herringbone pattern across the bare vigas which formed the -rafters, and then piling a foot or so of earth atop the shoots. It was -this pattern Crawford saw when he first opened his eyes. Then it was -the estufa, built of adobe, in one corner of the room, with a raised -hearth and a cone-shaped opening in front, the hood rounding from the -center to each wall with two mantels terraced back toward the chimney. -It was over this oven that the old man stood.</p> - -<p>"Delcazar!"</p> - -<p>Crawford's voice turned the aged Mexican, a rusty black frying pan -still held in one gnarled fist. His face was seamed like an ancient -satchel, and he squinted with the effort of focusing his rheumy eyes -on Crawford. His soiled white cotton shirt hung slack from stooped, -bony shoulders, and the inevitable <i>chivarras</i> were on his skinny -legs, glistening with daubs of grease. They gazed at each other in an -uncomfortable silence, and finally Delcazar made a vague movement with -the frying pan.</p> - -<p>"Hard to know what to say," he mumbled. "After such a long time, and -all that's happened."</p> - -<p>"Yeah." Crawford put the rotting bayeta blanket off him, moving his -arms and legs tentatively, grimacing with the pain it caused him. Hail -had come after that first downpour of rain, and the white skin of his -shoulders was marked with small purple bruises. He sat up, swinging -his legs off, watching the Mexican. "I remember we had a terrible time -in that storm. Last I recollect is trying to build a fire beneath some -coma trees."</p> - -<p>"That must have been a long time before I find you," said Delcazar. -"I was in my jacal here when I hear somebody yelling my name. You was -carrying Merida across your shoulder. Both near froze to death. I put -you to bed like that time in Austin when the red-eye got you." He saw -how Crawford was looking around the dim room, and Delcazar grinned -hesitantly. "She's out getting water for the coffee."</p> - -<p>They were still watching one another that way, waiting, and Crawford -waved his hand around the room. "I didn't think you'd hide out here."</p> - -<p>Delcazar bent toward him, squinting. "Hide out? How do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"A lot of people know about it," said Crawford. "I should think it -would be the first place they'd look."</p> - -<p>"They?" Then Delcazar seemed to understand. He pointed at himself with -a thumb. "You think—that I—I—" He halted with a confused grunt, -staring at Crawford. "Then—you didn't?"</p> - -<p>"Don't you know?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"<i>Dios</i>, no," said Delcazar. "How could I know? Bueno told me how you -threaten Rockland after Africano rolled you. I thought—" he gave a -short, rueful laugh—"I guess I even hoped—"</p> - -<p>He trailed off, shrugging hopelessly again, and Crawford bent toward -him. "Del, are you trying to tell me you didn't kill Rockland?"</p> - -<p>"Trying!" The old man bristled. "Trying to tell you? You doubt my—" -He broke off, staring at Crawford. When he spoke again, it was simply, -without vehemence. "No, Crawford. I didn't. I thought you did. You're -on Bible Two. There was a couple of Rangers in the brush. Torbirio -spoke with them. He tell me they had you on the fugitive list."</p> - -<p>His face darkened, and he turned away from Crawford, setting the frying -pan down. From one of the terraced shelves he took a grease-soaked -paper, unwrapping it from about the piece of bacon, rubbing the meat -sparingly across the frying pan.</p> - -<p>"Isn't that the same piece of side meat you had when we were here -last?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>Delcazar tried to smile. "Almost, I guess. Some day I have a hog of my -own and we grease the pan with a fresh piece every morning."</p> - -<p>"You said you hoped I had killed Rockland," Crawford murmured, watching -Delcazar's back. "Why?"</p> - -<p>"<i>Nada</i>," said Delcazar. "<i>Nada.</i>"</p> - -<p>Crawford's levis had been drying over the fire, and he rose to get -them. "Because if I had done it, the whole thing could have been -nothing more than the quarrel between me and Rockland?"</p> - -<p>The old man pulled a pot of boiled beans out and dumped them into the -frying pan. "Frijoles <i>fritos</i>, Crawford. You always like them."</p> - -<p>"But if it wasn't me who did it," said Crawford, pulling on his damp -levis, "there would have to be some other reason for Rockland being -murdered. Santa Anna's chests, for instance." He saw Delcazar's whole -body stiffen. The beans started to hiss as the flames licked at the -bottom of the frying pan. "What do you know, Del?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"<i>Nada, nada.</i>" The old man turned around, rising with effort. "I don't -know nothing."</p> - -<p>"Your uncle was the <i>capitán</i> of that mule train," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"My mother tell me that," said Delcazar. "I never seen him. He died in -Mexico City when I was a little <i>niño</i>."</p> - -<p>"Then why are you so het-up if you don't know anything about it?"</p> - -<p>"It's dangerous, Crawford," said Delcazar, catching at his arm. "It's -the most dangerous thing ever hit this brush. You better get out of it -while you're still alive. It's got the whole <i>brasada</i> going now. No -telling how many are mixed up in it now. The Mexican government has an -agent up here somewhere."</p> - -<p>"Huerta?"</p> - -<p>"The man at Rockland's?" said Delcazar. "I don't think so."</p> - -<p>"Huerta was the one who told me about your uncle," said Crawford. -"Funny nobody has come hunting you. You're a logical link."</p> - -<p>"They have," said Delcazar. "I wasn't here to greet them."</p> - -<p>"Who?"</p> - -<p>"That ramrod Tarant hired to clean out the brush," said Delcazar. "Him -and his whole <i>corrida</i>."</p> - -<p>"Quartel?" Crawford's eyes narrowed, staring past Delcazar. "I hadn't -thought of him."</p> - -<p>"You better think of him. You better think about everybody, Glenn. No -telling who's in it, now, and who ain't. No telling who's going to -come up behind you next. I hear they take your Henry away—" He turned -and squatted by the mess of saddle rigging and blankets in the corner, -rummaging around till he came up with a wooden-handled bowie—"Here, -it's all I have. I know it seems silly, but you got to have something. -I wish I had a gun. That old Remington I owned blew up." He stopped -again, clutching Crawford's arm. "Glenn, you ain't going back?"</p> - -<p>"Why else did you give me the knife?"</p> - -<p>The old man let his hand slide off.</p> - -<p>"I guess so. I know you." He sniffled, rubbing peevishly at his -coffee-colored nose with a calloused index finger. "I guess there ain't -any use trying to keep you from it. They couldn't keep you from it with -Whitehead. What are you after there, Glenn?"</p> - -<p><i>Puntales</i> of peeled cedar formed the doorframe. Crawford hefted the -bowie in his hand, flipped it into the cedar post with a deft twist of -his hand. He walked across the room and pulled it free.</p> - -<p>"We found Snake Thickets before the norther hit, Del," he said.</p> - -<p>The old man grunted. "You're doing it wrong for a short throw like -that. Let me show you."</p> - -<p>Crawford had been holding the bowie by the tip of its blade and -throwing it from back over his shoulder, allowing it to flip over once -in the air before it struck. Delcazar palmed the heavy knife with the -hilt against his wrist and the blade on his fingers. He threw it from -his hip, point foremost. It struck with a dull thud. Crawford went over -to the post. The blade was embedded half an inch deeper than his throws -had sent it in. Standing there in the doorway, he turned back to the -old man, squinting at him. Delcazar sniffled that way again, rubbing -his nose, not meeting Crawford's eyes.</p> - -<p>"I told you, Glenn, I never even seen Mogotes Serpientes. If you find -it, okay. But I never even seen it. I thought it was just a story, like -Resaca Perdida."</p> - -<p>"We saw Lost Swamp too," said Crawford. "Snake Thickets was the most -interesting, though. You should have heard it. Sounded like those -beans, only ten times as much. Must be a million snakes in those -<i>mogotes</i>." He paced back to Delcazar, palming the knife as the old man -had this time, throwing it with a grunt. With the blade quivering in -the cedar post, he turned part way to the Mexican. "I guess you know -what the woman came from Mexico for. She thinks it's somewhere in Snake -Thickets."</p> - -<p>Delcazar was shorter than Crawford, and he had to turn his head up to -meet the younger man's eyes. "Listen, Glenn," he said soberly, "I don't -know what you're in this for. I've heard a lot of reasons. Quartel -thinks you got a badge tacked on you somewhere. That might be. A man -can get a new job in the time you been away from the brush. Bueno -Bailey said something about trying to clear yourself of Rockland's -murder. That may be, too. If you didn't kill Rockland, maybe the man -who did is at the Big O spread. Personally, I no care whether you -killed Rockland or not or why you're here. I just no want to see you -messed up in it, that's all. I know you before, and I no want to see -you messed up in it. Take my advice as an <i>amigo</i>. Forget Mogotes -Serpientes. Forget the whole thing. Get out of it. Get out of it right -now."</p> - -<p>Crawford scratched his beard, squinting into the old man's eyes -thoughtfully. "You know, Del, it just strikes me. Two men can be -friends for a long time, and not really know each other very well."</p> - -<p>"Ah, <i>carajo</i>," growled Delcazar, shuffling back to hunker over the -fire.</p> - -<p>Crawford watched him stir the steaming beans. "Is there a way into -Snake Thickets, Del?"</p> - -<p>"<i>Nada</i>," grumbled the old man. "I don't know. I don't know nothing."</p> - -<p>There was a muffled sound from outside, and then Merida was standing -silhouetted in the doorway, staring at Crawford. All his weight lay -in his chest and shoulders, and below the line of dark sunburn that -covered his face and neck, the skin was pale and white and so thin -as to gleam almost translucently over the musculature lying quilted -across his upper back. He became aware of how long Merida had gazed at -him like that, without speaking, and turned farther toward her. The -myriad striations that formed the heavy roll of muscle capping his -shoulders were clearly defined, and the abrupt movement caused a faint -ripple beneath the skin, like the stir of a sleepy snake. Merida smiled -strangely as she entered with a big clay jug of water.</p> - -<p>"<i>Cimarrón</i>," she said.</p> - -<p>"What?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"<i>Cimarrón</i>," she said. "<i>Ladino.</i> I never could quite think of what -you reminded me of. Now I know. One of those wild outlaw cattle Quartel -brings in from the brush. Sullen, like them. Bitter. Even built like -them. Their weight all up in their shoulders, running the brush so -constantly they melt the beef off till—"</p> - -<p>She stopped short, a strange, indulgent smile catching at her mouth as -she saw the puzzled expression in his face. He turned to pull his shirt -off the estufa. Merida moved after him, till she stood close behind. -Delcazar was across the room, pulling a twist of chili from where he -had hung it on a viga. Merida spoke in a low tone that the old man -would not hear.</p> - -<p>"What was it out there, Glenn?"</p> - -<p>"When do you mean?" he said, without turning around.</p> - -<p>"You know when I mean," she said. "After I'd kissed you. The way you -looked. That expression on your face."</p> - -<p>"Nothing," he said stiffly. He couldn't tell her, somehow, if she -didn't know. It just wasn't in him to express his own terrible -incapacity again, to her. For that was what it had been, out there, -after the kiss. The bitter, unutterable realization that no matter how -much he wanted her, he was completely unworthy of such a woman, and -could never have her.</p> - -<p>"It was something," said Merida, tensely, trying to turn him around, -"tell me, Crawford, tell me—"</p> - -<p>"Hola, Delcazar!" shouted someone, from outside, halting Merida. The -old man whirled about, dropping the chili. Quartel had come into view, -outside, across the clearing from the doorway, moving into the open -from the brush in stiff, tentative steps, his Chihuahuas tinkling -softly. He was leading his own <i>trigueño</i> and the copperbottom Merida -had ridden. Crawford made an abortive move toward the door, but -Delcazar caught him.</p> - -<p>"<i>Buenos días</i>," said Delcazar, stepping then into view.</p> - -<p>"I found Merida's horse down in the bottoms," Quartel told him. "I -thought they might—ah, the flash rider himself."</p> - -<p>He must have seen them behind Delcazar. Crawford pushed past the old -man into the open, and saw the morning sunlight catch Quartel's white -teeth in that pawky grin. The brush held a torn, rended look after the -norther, great holes ripped in the mesquite thicket behind Quartel, -mesquite berries littering the ground. The copperbottom shifted -wearily, rattling its bridle.</p> - -<p>"How did you find us?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"I trailed you," said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"That's some trailing."</p> - -<p>Quartel shrugged. "Believe it or not. I don't care. There was someone -at the Big O looking for you."</p> - -<p>"Yeah?"</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí.</i> I misjudged you, Crawford. Let me apologize for thinking -you were a lawman." Merida made a small strained sound from behind -Crawford, and Quartel grinned at her. "<i>Sí</i>, Merida. This man looking -for Crawford don't pin it on his undershirt, either. He has it right -out where everybody can see. He's hunting Crawford all right. He says -he's got orders to shoot him on sight."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Twelve" id="Chapter_Twelve"><i>Chapter Twelve</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Conqueror and Conquered</span></p> - - -<p>It was twilight of the same day that Quartel had found them at -Delcazar's jacal. Crawford and Merida had ridden double on the -copperbottom back to the Big O, where Merida had gone up to her room -to change, while Crawford washed up in the kitchen. No one was in -evidence when Crawford returned to the living-room for a drink, feeling -exhausted and battered from that night in the storm and the long ride -back. He was no connoisseur, his experience with good liquor limited -to the few times he had drunk Rockland's potables here, and he was at -a loss to choose from the array of glittering bottles and decanters in -the sideboard. He sampled one labeled <i>curaçao</i> and found it too sweet -for his taste. Finally he settled on some armagnac, pouring himself -a stiff jolt and moving toward the French windows. He had meant to -sit down in one of the willow chairs, but the strange silence outside -caught his attention.</p> - -<p>It was unnatural for this time of day. There was no wind, and the -mesquite berries hung in motionless clusters from drooping trees. Dusk -clouded farther thickets, and only the nearest growths took form. The -low mats of chaparral crouched like waiting cats in the gloom. The -warped dead hackberry by the wagon road thrust skeleton arms skyward. -It seemed to be waiting for something too. That oppressive sense of -expectancy bore in on Crawford, and he emptied half the glass at one -gulp, squinting his eyes as the brandy burned his throat. It did not -help. Waiting. The sickish sweet scent of the <i>lluvia de oro</i> twining -itself through the lattice of the front porch was so oppressive in the -hot, still air that it nauseated him. Waiting—</p> - -<p>The sound of someone rushing down the stairs caused him to turn toward -the door. It was Merida, and he was surprised to see she had not -changed from the torn, dirty leggings she had ridden in. Then he saw -the expression on her face.</p> - -<p>"Where's Quartel?" she cried.</p> - -<p>"He went down to the bunkhouse I guess," Crawford told her, frowning. -"What is it?"</p> - -<p>"He was right."</p> - -<p>"Who was right?"</p> - -<p>"Quartel," she said, coming across the room in still, tense steps, her -eyes fixed to his face. "Nexpa saw him."</p> - -<p>"Quartel?"</p> - -<p>"No," she said. "Crawford, don't you understand? Nexpa saw him from an -upstairs bedroom. He's out in the brush and he's coming back."</p> - -<p>It struck him, then, whom she meant, and his fingers tightened -involuntarily around the glass. "The lawman?" She stared at him -without answering, her mouth working faintly. He realized his fingers -ached, and he eased his grip on the glass. "That's crazy, Merida. No -badge-packer would come in here like that. Even Sheriff Kenmare was -afraid to follow me this far. Nexpa must be mistaken." She shook her -head, the planes of her face taut and strained-looking, her eyes glued -in that wide, frightened way to his. He made a small, frustrated motion -with the glass, his voice growing hoarse. "She must be, Merida. No -lawman. Not even a Texas Ranger." She shook her head again, emitting -a small, sobbing sound. He bent toward her tensely, his chest moving -perceptibly with the breath passing through it. He was remembering -what Delcazar had said. Bible Two? "It <i>is</i> a Ranger?" Crawford almost -whispered.</p> - -<p>She caught his arm, the words torn from her. "You've got to get out, -Crawford. Before he reaches here."</p> - -<p>"Ranger," he muttered, almost to himself, turning to get past her -toward the door. "It can't be—"</p> - -<p>"Too much time, Crawford," she said swiftly, blocking him from that -direction. "Can't you understand? He's coming back. You won't even be -able to cross the compound before he's here. You won't even be able to -reach the brush. You'll never make it on foot, Crawford."</p> - -<p>He stared down at her twisted face. "What are you saying?"</p> - -<p>"There's one in the small corral," she said. "Nexpa told me. It's one -of Jacinto's, so it won't be spooky."</p> - -<p>It took him a moment to comprehend what she meant, and then it escaped -him in a strangled way. "Think I can do it that way?"</p> - -<p>"You've got to." She was close to crying now, the tears glistening in -her eyes. "There isn't any other way, Crawford. Can't you understand? -You've got to. Right now. You'll never make it to the brush. It's twice -as far as the corral. You'd be out there in the open, and you'd be a -clay pigeon. Your only chance is the corral."</p> - -<p>"No!" He tried to break free of her grip on his arm. "I can't. You know -I can't. You saw, out there in the storm, with that pinto."</p> - -<p>"You can!" she cried. "You've got to, Crawford, you've got to."</p> - -<p>He stared down into her twisted, pale face. Then, with a guttural, -inarticulate sound, he whirled to the French windows, opening one -farther, and stepped out onto the porch. He stood a moment behind the -screen of yellow <i>lluvia de oro</i> covering the lattice. The silence -lay across the compound so thick it almost gagged him. Waiting. There -it was again. His shoulders hunched forward, and his whole tense body -had taken on the look of a hunted animal. He stared furtively down the -length of the porch. His shirt was wringing wet with sweat now.</p> - -<p>"Crawford—"</p> - -<p>It came from Merida, standing in the window behind him. Without turning -around, he moved down the steps, his boots making a clatter in the -silence. Then he was moving across the ground in an urgent, shuffling -gait, his narrow, dark head turning ceaselessly from side to side. He -realized he was still holding the glass, and threw it from him with -a muffled curse. With every step nearer the corral, something seemed -to be contracting about his heart. He was fighting for breath, and -sweat had turned his beard soggy when he reached the fence. In the -semi-gloom, he could barely make out the shape of the horse. This was -the corral they broke broncs in, built in three sections, the largest -section on this side, with a chute at the other end, and beyond that, -a small, tight holding corral not much bigger than a stall, where they -held the animals before putting them into the chute to be saddled. It -had been Otis Rockland's boast that this smaller section was built -so hog-tight and bull-tight it would hold the wildest bronc that -ever double-shuffled. The heavy, reinforced cedar bars were so close -together a man could not crawl between them but had to go through the -gate. This gate itself was built so that it would close automatically, -a rawhide rope run from its frame through a pulley on the overhead -structure with a bucket of sand hanging at its end. Whenever the gate -was open the weight of the sand bucket pulled it closed again, and the -drop bar fell automatically into its sockets on the outside.</p> - -<p>Crawford stopped at this gate, glancing from one side to another at the -brush. There was a small crackle behind the bunkhouse. With a startled -abruptness, he pulled the rope that hoisted the drop bar from its -sockets and lifted it above the top of the gate, allowing the portal -to swing open. The bar would not drop back into position as long as -the gate was ajar. Holding the gate open, Crawford found a rock large -enough to wedge beneath the bottom bar and keep the sand bucket's -weight from pulling the gate closed when he let go. The horse inside -snorted softly. Crawford stiffened by the gate post. Then, his whole -body so tense the muscles ached, he took a forced, jerky step toward -the animal. The horse snorted again, louder. It had been hitched to -the corral and, as Crawford drew near, the animal began tugging at the -reins nervously.</p> - -<p>"Easy, boy, easy." Crawford tried to make his voice soft and -reassuring, but it came out tight, harsh. "You're going to break your -headstall. Easy, you jughead."</p> - -<p>But as he drew near, the horse's efforts to get free became wilder. It -whinnied shrilly and reared up. The sound halted Crawford in the middle -of the corral, his whole body a rigid line. The reins pulled free of -their half hitch on the cedar-post bar, and the animal wheeled away -from Crawford toward the far corner of the small corral. Crawford's -movements were forced, now, as he moved to catch the animal in that -corner. He bent forward slightly to peer at the lines of the beast. The -darkness revealed only a hazy impression of broad rump and viciously -churning hind legs and a roached mane. The stirrup leathers flapped -loosely as the animal moved down the fence, trapped in the corner now -by Crawford's advance. He was close to it when the horse wheeled with a -strangled, screaming sound and broke toward him in a rush.</p> - -<p>"No!"</p> - -<p>It escaped Crawford in a hoarse shout. He stood there a moment longer, -staring at the horse, his whole face contorted. Then he threw himself -to one side, and the animal galloped past. It saw the partly open -gate and was in a dead run by the time it reached that side. But in -its frantic rush, the beast struck the opening partly broadside, rump -crashing against the gate, head slamming into the fence post. The horse -reeled back, screaming in rage, and wheeled to go through headfirst. -But the blow of its body had jarred loose the rock Crawford had wedged -beneath the gate, and the heavy bucket of sand descended with a rush -to the ground, slamming the gate shut before the horse reached it. The -drop bar outside fell into its sockets with a thud, about the same -time the charging horse struck the gate once more. The whole corral -shuddered with the impact, but the gate held firm. The dazed horse -staggered away from the fence, making thwarted, guttural sounds of pain.</p> - -<p>Crawford realized he was trembling now. Pain swept up his legs, and the -muscles across his belly began to jump and knot. Still dazed, the horse -wheeled about wildly. It caught sight of him again, and all its enraged -bestial instincts must have pinned the cause of its pain on Crawford, -for the animal screamed once more and rushed him.</p> - -<p>"No," shouted Crawford, again, his voice choked with the terrible -reasonless fear that inundated him. He whirled and leaped to the high -fence, trying to climb it. But he heard the pound of the animal's -hoofs behind, and realized he would never make the top in time, and -threw himself off. As he rolled to the ground, the animal crashed into -the fence where he had been a moment before. Crawford stumbled to his -feet, starting in a wild run for the gate which led into the chute. -But he saw before he reached it that it was shut tight too. He turned -to the other gate, his whole consciousness filled with the sound of -the panting, whinnying, snorting animal behind him. At the portal, he -tried to reach through and lift the drop bar from its sockets, but the -cedar-post log was too heavy. He grabbed the gate, heaving at it madly. -The horse was trotting back and forth on the other side of the small -corral in a dazed way, shaking its head, snorting. Crouched weakly on -his knees by the gate, trembling and shuddering, Crawford tried to keep -his voice down, hoping he would not arouse the horse again.</p> - -<p>"Jacinto," he called. "I'm in the corral. The bar's dropped on this -gate in the corral and I'm trapped inside with Africano. Jacinto, come -and get me out—"</p> - -<p>There was no sound from outside. He sagged there, panting, the pain -clutching at him spasmodically, clenching his teeth in a desperate -battle against the fear.</p> - -<p>"Merida! Can't you hear me? Somebody. Jacinto! Come and let me out. -The bar's dropped and Africano's in here. That killer's in here and -I can't get out. Merida." His voice rose and he began shaking at the -gate again. "Someone hear me! Merida! Jacinto! I'm locked in with that -black killer—" He was screaming now, throwing himself bodily at the -door like a frenzied animal—"Damn you, come and get me out, damn you, -Merida, you put that <i>puro negro</i> in here, you knew I'd be trapped -in here with Africano, someone, come and let me out, for God's sake, -Jacinto, let me out, Aforismo, can't you hear me, you can hear me, damn -you, oh, God damn you—"</p> - -<p>He stopped, huddled against the door, sobbing uncontrollably, realizing -his own screams had set the black off again. Crawford jumped away as -the horse came at him, stumbling and rolling in the dirt, bawling like -a baby, too far gone to realize clearly what he was doing. He tried to -claw up the fence again. But that pain in his legs and his terrible -fear robbed him of much control. His boots beat a futile tattoo on the -bars, seeking the openings in between. His bloody hands clawed blindly -for holds. And the fence was too high for him to reach the top before -the horse crossed the small corral. Over his shoulder he could see the -animal coming.</p> - -<p>"No! no! no—"</p> - -<p>His wild bellow was cut off as the animal spun broadside against -him. He heard his own crushed roar of pain, and he fell off into the -dirt, his arms instinctively going over his head to protect them from -flailing hoofs as he rolled away. The horse was as wild and frenzied -as Crawford now. Two beasts filled the narrow confines of the corral -with their crazed screams, forming shadowy, thundering, pounding, -running shapes back and forth between the fences, the whole structure -shuddering as one or the other smashed into the sides. Crawford did not -try again to climb the fence. Hands bloody, clothes covered with dirt, -shirt torn, all his wild concentration was on avoiding the mad, blind -rushes of the killer horse. He found himself backed up against the door -leading into the chute, facing the charging horse. He threw himself -bodily aside, and the animal crashed into the door. Panels cracked and -splintered, and corral posts groaned with the strain. The <i>puro negro</i> -stumbled back, blood streaming from its head, eyes showing their whites -in the gathering darkness, foam dripping from its jaw.</p> - -<p>Crawford had rolled across the short space to the side fence. And -crouching there now, watching the horse wheeling and circling, seeking -him, a terrible blinding anger swept him, blotting out for a moment -the awful fear and pain. They thought they could do this to him? They -thought they could lock him in a stall with a killer? The hell—</p> - -<p>He dove aside again as the horse rushed, feeling no pain in his legs as -he landed, feeling no panic, feeling only that utter rage, scalding, -vitriolic, cleansing.</p> - -<p>"You think you can do this to me?" he found himself shouting. "Merida? -You think you can lock me in here like this? Damn you, Merida!" He -moved in front of the door to the chute, yelling crazily at the animal. -"Come on, Africano, here I am, you bastard, here I am, come on, see me, -damn you, come on—"</p> - -<p>Dirt spurted beneath the churning hoofs as the horse charged and reared -above the man. Crawford waited till the last moment, jumped aside. -Panels cracked and split again as twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh -crashed against the gate. The horse staggered off, whirled back to -Crawford.</p> - -<p>Gasping, Crawford pawed sweat from his eyes, dodged aside. The <i>puro -negro</i> caught itself before plunging into the fence there, whirling on -one hind foot and changing its lead in mid-air to rush Crawford again -with a frenzied scream. He put himself in front of the chute door again.</p> - -<p>Once more it was the horse's wild scream and the leap aside and the -maddened animal shaking the whole corral as it crashed into the door. -Another panel cracked, and hinges creaked, and the door sagged outward. -Blood covering its head, the black whirled and came at Crawford -sideways. It didn't give him enough room on either side, and the -black's shoulder caught him as he tried to jump away from the rear -fence. He went down, rolling up against the side with a force that -stunned him.</p> - -<p>The horse had smashed into the rear fence, and it backed away, shaking -its head. Sensing Crawford at its side, the animal turned, shifting its -weight to kick.</p> - -<p>Crawford saw the movement and knew what it meant, and not even hearing -his own shout, he clawed up the fence and threw himself directly at the -horse's rump. His weight struck the black hocks, and, without leverage, -all the kick did was throw him bodily back against the cedar logs. -With almost human cunning, Africano jumped forward to clear the space -between them so it could catch Crawford with the full force of its -kick. He rolled under the hoofs as they lashed out. One of them caught -his shoulder and he screamed in agony. Then he was up against the door -again.</p> - -<p>He didn't know how many more times he drew the black into that door -before the portal collapsed. It was all a wild haze of choking dirt -and soggy sweat and salty blood and lashing hoofs. Time and time again -he waited there at the gate till the last moment, and then jumped -free, allowing the horse to batter on into it. And finally, with the -whole corral shuddering with the impact, the black crashed through -the portal, tearing its lower half clear out and carrying the upper -portion of the gate about its head and neck as it stumbled on into the -chute. The opposite door to the chute had been left open, and the horse -went on through into the larger corral.</p> - -<p>Pawing blood and sweat off his face, drawing in a great gulp of air, -Crawford staggered out after the animal. It was logical that Merida -should have taken this long to hear the racket from the house, but -the men from the bunkhouse should have reached the corrals long ago. -Jacinto was at the fence with Merida, and Quartel was coming up in his -hard-heeled run, followed by Aforismo and the others.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," cried Jacinto, "get out between the bars! You can do it -now. While Africano's still fighting the door. Are you loco? He's a -killer. He'll run you down. You can get away now."</p> - -<p>"No," gasped Crawford, "no," and ran on toward the horse where it had -dragged the chute door clear out into the middle of the corral. He -wasn't finished yet. He knew he had to do it now or never, while the -anger still blotted out his fear. He worked the <i>puro negro</i> into a -corner and got close enough to jerk the shattered door off its neck. -The horse tried to break away, but Crawford threw himself in front of -it, getting the frenzied, lathered animal back against the fence. One -of the hands was belatedly climbing the fence with a rope. Crawford did -not wait; he moved in toward the horse.</p> - -<p>Screaming like a woman, Africano charged straight at him. There hadn't -been enough room between them for the beast to gain much momentum, -however. Crawford met it almost head-on, throwing himself partly aside -only at the last moment, grabbing the roached mane with one hand and -hooking his other arm around beneath the neck and letting the horse's -shoulder slam into his hip, throwing him up and over.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," he heard Jacinto scream, "oh, you fool, Crawford."</p> - -<p>He didn't hear any more, then, except the horse's wild, frenzied sounds -and the horse's drumming hoofs. He didn't see any more except the black -devil beneath him, doing everything within the scope of its vicious -cunning to get him off.</p> - -<p>It bucked, and he took every jarring drop screaming triumphantly at the -agony it caused him. It rolled, and instead of stepping clear off and -waiting till the horse came up again, he rode its belly around, eyes -open wide, dodging the death in its flailing legs. There was an insane -frustration in the black's eyes as it came onto its feet again and -found the man had never left it. The horse rolled again, directing its -kicks this time. Still Crawford was on when it came up.</p> - -<p>He rolled it from one side of the corral to the other, until it had -enough of that, and began going over backward. A man stepping off then -would have ultimately lost his touch with the horse too. But Crawford -rode its neck when it twisted onto its hips and rode its head when it -put its rump into the ground and rode its belly while it was upside -down.</p> - -<p>The horse rose into a veritable orgasm of mad bucking, pin-wheeling, -sunfishing, humping up and coming down with all four feet planted, and -knocking most of the consciousness from Crawford every time it landed. -Crawford was bleeding at the nose and ears, face covered with blood and -sweat, clothes black with dirt. His whole world was one of shocking, -jarring pain and a grim, terrible concentration on finishing this.</p> - -<p>The horse began rolling again, trying desperately to get the man under -its black body, and Crawford went with it, crying openly now, pawing -blindly for holds, head rocking as a hoof caught him, lying over the -animal's back with his nose streaming blood on its dirty hide.</p> - -<p>Finally he felt the animal come to a stop beneath him, legs trembling, -barrel heaving, lather dripping off it white as snow. Crawford slumped -over, hearing his own sobbing, not knowing whether the wet on his face -was sweat or blood or both. He waited for the animal to gather itself -again. It didn't. Finally Crawford slid off and his legs collapsed -beneath him; he grabbed the horse's cannon bone and pulled himself to -his knees, then the mane and pulled himself erect. He bent over and was -sick. Choking weakly, he saw them coming from the corral.</p> - -<p>"Get away, stay away. I'm taking this horse back in. You wanted him for -cow work? You got him." Merida swam into his vision, and he spat out -blood and teeth before he could speak again. "And maybe you don't know -it, Merida, but you did me a big favor. Yeah. A <i>big</i> favor."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Thirteen" id="Chapter_Thirteen"><i>Chapter Thirteen</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Violence in the Bunkhouse</span></p> - - -<p>The morning sun had not yet warmed the mud walls of the bunkshack -through, and the dank reek of adobe filled the dog-run as Crawford -passed down its narrow corridor toward the kitchen, still limping -with the pain of his ride on Africano the evening before. Coming from -the run, he almost knocked over Jacinto, who had been sitting propped -against the wall on a three-legged stool, his head bent forward on his -fat chest.</p> - -<p>"What are you doing?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>The huge cook had barely caught himself from falling, and he blinked -sleepy eyes up at Crawford in surprise. "Sitting on a stool."</p> - -<p>"You been sitting there all night," Crawford accused him.</p> - -<p>Jacinto looked sheepishly at the prodigious butcher knife across his -lap. "No—I—I just—" He waved the blade suddenly at the room. "Well, -why not, you been sleeping up at the big house, and now you come -down here, and after all that about Whitehead, and everything else, -<i>sacramento</i>, how is a man to know what might happen—"</p> - -<p>Crawford gazed at him soberly. "<i>Gracias, amigo</i>," he said.</p> - -<p>Jacinto grinned in embarrassment, turning to shuffle toward the stove. -He put the knife down with a clatter and got the big coffeepot to fill -it with water at the butt. When he had it on to boil, he took three -clay bowls off a shelf and put them on the table. Seating himself at a -bench before the bowls, he spoke again.</p> - -<p>"You feel all right this morning?"</p> - -<p>Crawford was standing in the doorway, staring emptily toward the house. -"No," he said. "Beaten to a pulp."</p> - -<p>"I'll fix you some Romero steak," said Jacinto. From the dull red clay -bowl he fumbled a grain of corn, carefully picking out the black base -with his teeth and spitting it into a second, a blue bowl, dropping the -remainder of the kernel into the third, a yellow container. He gave -Crawford a sidelong glance. "You told Merida she did you a favor last -night. How did you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Never mind," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>Jacinto plucked another grain from the red bowl, picking out the base -with his teeth. "You think she put Africano in there?"</p> - -<p>"What else?" said Crawford. "Did you see any Rangers around?"</p> - -<p>"No," said Jacinto, frowning at him.</p> - -<p>"Neither did anybody else," said Crawford. "There weren't any."</p> - -<p>Jacinto took out another grain of corn, waving it at Crawford. "You -mean you thought you was running from a Ranger?"</p> - -<p>Crawford turned away impatiently, pacing toward the door. "That's what -she told me."</p> - -<p>"<i>Por supuesto</i>," said Jacinto. "Why should Merida do such a thing?"</p> - -<p>"Good way to get rid of me as any," said Crawford bitterly.</p> - -<p>Jacinto studied him a moment, smiling in a hesitant, puzzled way. Then -he tipped the yellow bowl so Crawford could see it was full of pale -corn kernels. "Now I have <i>tortillas</i> white as the sand in Arroyo -Blanco." Grunting, he bent forward to pull the metate nearer his bench, -a large oblong block of pumice stone, hollowed out in the upper surface -from countless grindings with the pumice rolling pin they called a -mano. He poured the hollowed portion full of the corn kernels. "Why -should she want to get rid of you?" he said, without looking up.</p> - -<p>"I guess she had a good reason," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>Jacinto took up the mano, began to grind the corn, the hulls working to -the edge of the metate like scum along the edge of a water hole. "That -day of the bull-tailing, when you and Merida went out into the brush. -You found what you wanted?"</p> - -<p>"Let's not talk about it," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"And maybe you and her was the only ones who knew where it was, then, -no?" said Jacinto. With the edge of his fat hand, he shoved the -collection of hulls off into the blue bowl, which contained the black -bases he had spit out. "You think that's why she did it?"</p> - -<p>Crawford's head jerked from side to side. When he spoke, the -frustration was evident in his voice. "How do I know? How do I know -anything? Sure we found what we were looking for. You know what it was. -Everybody knows. Why do you all keep beating around the thicket this -way? Mogotes Serpientes. You know that. Maybe she and I are the only -ones who know how to get there. And if I was out of the way, she would -be the only one to know. It's what she came up here in the first place -for, isn't it? She didn't even try to deny she put that killer horse in -there. It's the best reason I can think of."</p> - -<p>Jacinto poured a little water into the corn left on the metate, began -grinding it again with the mano. "Is it?"</p> - -<p>Crawford turned sharply from the door. "What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>The paste of corn meal and water Jacinto now had was called masa. He -began to pat it into thin <i>tortillas</i>. The <i>comal</i>, heating over an -open fire, was a large plate upon which he cast the <i>tortillas</i> to -bake, without salt, leavening, or grease.</p> - -<p>"I am not too astute in affairs of the heart," said the cook, drawing -a heavy breath and wiping sweat off his fat face, "but I have had a -few, and have drawn some conclusions about women from them, which I -think are as accurate as any conclusions about women can be. They will -do strange things when they are in love, Crawford, often cruel things, -or brutal. Love to them, when they are enmeshed within it, is all of -life, is their whole existence. They will fight for it with their last -breath. They will go to any extreme for it. Merida is no ordinary -woman. You have seen her fire. You know her depths."</p> - -<p>"You're riding a pretty muddy creek," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"I'll clear the water," said Jacinto. "Just give me time. Merida came -to you for help, didn't she?"</p> - -<p>"You might call it that."</p> - -<p>"All right. But she knew you could never be much help in the state you -were in. You told me she tried to aid you in conquering it that day you -left the bull-tailing."</p> - -<p>"So what. Huerta acted like he wanted to help me once too. It was only -part of the game he was playing."</p> - -<p>"<i>Lástima de Dios</i>," cried Jacinto, clapping fat hands to his brow. -"Pity of God. Now I know you must be as loco about Merida as she is -about you. Only a man in love could be that blind. Can't you see what -she did? That day you and she rode into the <i>brasada</i> must have made -Merida realize, finally, that the only way you could conquer your fear -was to ride Africano again. And she wanted to see you conquer your -fear, Crawford. More than anything else. More, even, than finding what -she came up here for. More, even, than having you live. She didn't want -a half-man. She didn't want a coward. She wanted <i>you</i>, the way you -used to be, the way she knew you must have been whenever those little -flashes of your old self would show themselves."</p> - -<p>Crawford had turned around, staring at Jacinto, now. It was beginning -to grow in him. The first dim realization of it. An understanding he -couldn't name, yet. It prickled the hair on the back of his neck.</p> - -<p>"Yes." Jacinto could see the strange wonder in his eyes. "You are -beginning to see, no? It took you long enough. There are not many women -with that kind of gravel in their craw. Not many women could have done -it that way."</p> - -<p>It was starting to blossom in Crawford now, a strange, dim exaltation. -"Do you realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that -morning and see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing -what it meant?" Suddenly he knew how she must have felt. "It doesn't -happen to a person often in her life." Suddenly he knew what she had -been talking about. "That sort of feeling."</p> - -<p>That sort of feeling. He looked around at Jacinto, his eyes wide.</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí</i>," said Jacinto. "You understand now. It would take a lot of man -to accept it, Crawford, even when he understood. It would take <i>her</i> -kind of man. Admittedly she took a big chance on killing you. Maybe -she'd rather have you dead than a coward. That's the kind she is. Not -many men could take her. Not many men could realize she sent them out -deliberately that way, and still take her."</p> - -<p>"Hyacinth," Crawford said almost inaudibly, "Hyacinth—"</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí, sí.</i>" The gross cook began to chuckle excitedly, for he must have -seen what was in Crawford. "You better go to her now, Crawford, before -it's too late. She thinks you're through with her, after what you told -her last night. She thinks you're not enough of a man to take it that -way. But you just didn't understand. Now you do. Go on, Crawford. You -won't get a woman with that kind of guts twice in your life. It's -almost as good as owning a vinegar roan. I owned a vinegar roan once—"</p> - -<p>But Crawford had stopped hearing the cook. It held him completely now. -It lifted him so high he didn't feel his feet hit the floor when he -started to walk. He moved past Jacinto with a dazed, twisted expression -on his face, not even seeing the fat Mexican. The only thing within his -awareness was that sweeping, tingling sense of exaltation, so strong -and poignant it approached a nausea. The kitchen door faced away from -the house, and it was more direct to go through the dog-run and out the -bunkhouse; he must have gone that way unconsciously, not remembering -his passage through the covered run.</p> - -<p>"Where you going?" It penetrated only dully. He kept on walking. Then -somebody was in front of him. "I said where you going?"</p> - -<p>Innes! The singular odor of sweaty leather reached Crawford from the -red-bearded man's buckskin ducking jacket.</p> - -<p>"The house," he said, trying to get around the man. Ford Innes shifted -again, and this time Crawford was brought up against the man's body. It -was like walking into an oak tree.</p> - -<p>"Not right now," said Innes.</p> - -<p>It was the other things, then, brought in with a clarity almost -painful. Bueno Bailey. Sitting at the table. Filing the sear on the -trigger of his gun. Aforismo. Sitting on the upper bunk to Crawford's -right. His legs dangling over the sideboard.</p> - -<p>"Did you ever see the <i>dichos</i> on my belduque?" he asked, seriously. "I -like the one on this side best. <i>Tripe is sweet but bowels are better.</i> -Don't you like that one best?"</p> - -<p>The contraction of Crawford's muscles began with his calves. They -twitched faintly, stiffening up, and the tightening ran up the inside -of his legs and pervaded his belly and crossed his chest. His whole -body was taut as he took the step back away from contact with Innes.</p> - -<p>"That's it," said the red-bearded man.</p> - -<p>Bueno's gun was an old 1848 percussion Dragoon, converted to handle -cartridges. Rubbing his finger delicately across the sear, Bailey -nodded his head approvingly.</p> - -<p>"<i>Bueno</i>," he said. "I'll bet the pull isn't more than half a pound on -that now."</p> - -<p>"Where is Quartel?" asked Crawford.</p> - -<p>"If you don't blow your foot off, you'll blow your head off," Innes -told Bailey. "I never heard of anybody filing a hair trigger down below -a pound."</p> - -<p>"Where is Quartel?"</p> - -<p>Tongue between his teeth, Bailey slipped the mainspring into the butt -of his Dragoon, tightening the strain screw against it carefully. "You -don't think that's too much of a hair trigger, do you? I knew a Mexican -up in San Antonio that used to carry an old Remington filed down to a -quarter-pound pull."</p> - -<p>"All right," said Crawford, through his teeth. "I am going up to the -house, Innes. Will you get out of my way?"</p> - -<p>"That Mex would still be alive if he didn't have the cussed habit of -jumping off his horse when it stopped," said Bueno Bailey, slipping the -trigger down through the frame and screwing the trigger stud into its -proper hole. "But I don't jump off my nag. I get off real easy all the -time."</p> - -<p>"Please, Innes." It was Jacinto's voice, from behind Crawford. "Let him -through this time. It ain't the same as before. Please. It's different. -<i>He's</i> different. Don't you know? <i>En el nombre de mi madre.</i> Can't you -see—"</p> - -<p>"This <i>bravo's</i> pretty good," said Aforismo, swinging his legs. -"<i>Nothing compares with my kiss.</i> But I guess I like the other <i>dicho</i> -better. Which do you like best, Crawford?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, <i>Dios</i>." Jacinto's voice was quavering now. "Please, Innes. I hate -violence so. Let him go. I was not born for such as this. Wassail and -song, Innes. Can't we all have wassail and song—"</p> - -<p>"<i>Bueno</i>," said Bailey, as he finished tightening the hammer stud and -started putting on the metal side plates.</p> - -<p>"<i>Compañeros</i>, can't you hear me? Wassail and song. No violence. Oh, -<i>carajo</i>—"</p> - -<p>"I'll ask you once more." Crawford's voice was flat. "Get out of my -way."</p> - -<p>"You're not going any place," said Innes, pulling his buckskin jacket -up off the handle of his own gun. "Why don't you sit down?"</p> - -<p>"Yeah." Bailey had the walnut grips screwed on. He reached for the -barrel, fitting it in place. "Why don't you sit down?"</p> - -<p>Crawford stooped over to grab the hilt of Delcazar's bowie in his boot -and lunged forward at the same time. He struck Ford Innes doubled over. -The red-bearded man expelled his air in a gasp and went down. Crawford -let himself go with Innes, rolling off the man as they struck. He came -face up with the knife in his hand. It happened so fast that Aforismo -only had time to pull his belduque back for the throw. Crawford's -position prevented an over-the-shoulder throw such as Aforismo's.</p> - -<p>"All right, Del," he grunted, and heaved the bowie from his hip, point -foremost, while he was still in the act of rolling off Innes.</p> - -<p>"<i>Chingado!</i>" he heard Aforismo scream. Bailey's body blocked the view -in that same moment. Crawford did not see the blow coming. He shouted -hoarsely with the pain of Bueno's Dragoon barrel slashing across his -head. Stunned, the most he could do was let his knee fly up. It caught -Bailey in the crotch. The man's explosive grunt held a sick agony.</p> - -<p>Crawford was still sprawled partly across Innes, the redheaded man -had been striving to free his gun without wasting time trying to get -from beneath Crawford. He had it out now and was twisting to bring it -in line. Blinded by Bailey's blow, Crawford squirmed around, launching -a wild kick at Innes. It caught the redhead's fist as he pulled the -trigger, knocking the gun up. The Remington's boom filled the room, and -the slug knocked a rain of the whitewash they called <i>yeso</i> off the -ceiling.</p> - -<p>"<i>Lástima de Dios!</i>" Aforismo's voice came from somewhere after the -shot, "come and pull it out, you <i>chile</i>, come and get it out—"</p> - -<p>Crawford struggled to his feet, striving to jerk free o£ Bailey. But -the man had him about the waist, head buried against Crawford's belly, -hair hanging in greasy yellow streamers, groaning with the pain of that -knee Crawford had given him in the groin.</p> - -<p>Innes still had his Remington. He gripped it with his left hand too, -now, rolling back with the weapon in both fists to line it up on -Crawford. Struggling with Bailey, Crawford could do only one thing. He -threw the weight of his whole body toward Innes. Bailey tried to jerk -him back, but not soon enough. Before Innes got that Remington turned -in the right direction, Crawford was close enough to lift his leg above -the man's face. He saw Innes's eyes open wide with the realization. -Then he felt flesh and bone crunch beneath his stamping boot.</p> - -<p>Lifting his leg robbed Crawford of his balance, and he fell backward -with Bailey's next lunging jerk. They struck the wall so hard the whole -building shook, and another rain of <i>yeso</i> spattered down over them.</p> - -<p>"<i>Cristo</i>, will somebody take it out? Oh, please, somebody come and -take it out—"</p> - -<p>Bailey rose up, straddling Crawford. Before the man could strike, -Crawford doubled in beneath him and got his legs twisted around so he -could heave. Bailey went back with a cry, stumbling into the bench. -The plank splintered beneath his body, and the bench collapsed with -him. Innes was getting to his feet, hoarse, desperate sobs rending him. -He pawed blindly at his mutilated face with his free hand, blinking -his eyes as he tried to find Crawford. He must have caught Crawford's -movement against the wall. He whirled that way with the Remington -coming up.</p> - -<p>Crawford jumped toward him, catching the gun in both hands. Still -unable to see, Innes clung desperately to the six-shooter. When -Crawford yanked the gun around, it pulled Innes too, swinging him -against the wall. Unable to tear the Remington free, Crawford let go -with one hand and lurched in close to sink his right fist deep into -Innes's square belly.</p> - -<p>"That for your three-quarter-pound pull, you <i>pordiosero</i>," shouted -somebody from behind Crawford, "that for your bacon grease—"</p> - -<p>Innes sagged against the wall with a pitiful sob, still trying to pull -the gun against Crawford. Crawford brought that fist in again.</p> - -<p>"Oh, <i>madre, madre</i>, please come and get it out—"</p> - -<p>"That for your hair trigger, you <i>lépero</i>, I hope it gives you -<i>corajes</i>, I hope it gives you worse than fits of the spleen—"</p> - -<p>Innes was slumped halfway down the wall now, still making those -horrible sobbing sounds as he refused to give up. Crawford shoved the -gun clear back against the adobe, and hit him again. The redheaded man -slid completely to the floor, dropping the Remington. Crawford whirled -around, wondering why Bueno had not come back in. Then he saw who had -been yelling.</p> - -<p>Bueno Bailey was huddled in a corner, and standing over him, beating at -him with the broken end of the bench, was the fat cook. "That for your -bacon grease, you <i>rumbero</i>," squealed Jacinto, and the bench made a -crunching sound striking Bueno, "that for your—"</p> - -<p>Crawford leaped across the room and grabbed the bench before Jacinto -could strike again. The huge Mexican fought him crazily, trying to tear -loose and get back at Bueno. "Just one more, Crawford, please, just one -more. He deserves it. Did you see what they were trying to do with you? -<i>Barba del diablo</i>, just one more. Look at the scabby <i>pordiosero</i>—"</p> - -<p>"Who was it didn't like violence?" shouted Crawford.</p> - -<p>Jacinto stopped abruptly, looking at Bailey, crouching dazedly against -the wall. He stared around at the carnage of the room, the smashed -table, Innes sprawled out against the wall clutching his face.</p> - -<p>"<i>A fe mía</i>," he said in a hollow voice. "Upon my word. It looks -like they turned a <i>toro</i> loose." Then his popping eyes came back to -Bailey. "I did—that—" he waved an incredulous hand at the man. "No, -Crawford, tell me I didn't." Jacinto turned around to clutch at him. -"<i>Violencia.</i> <i>Caramba</i>, I couldn't, not me, not little Hyacinth of the -River. My father would be desecrated. Please, tell me I didn't do it—"</p> - -<p>"<i>Dios</i>, somebody, come and pull it out, damn you, Crawford, somebody, -you <i>chingados</i>, come and help me, come and get this <i>cuchillo</i>, damn -you—"</p> - -<p>It was Aforismo's voice, breaking in on Jacinto's plea. Jacinto turned -toward the man, where he still sat up in the bunk. Aforismo must still -have had his right hand held back over one shoulder to throw his -belduque when Crawford's knife struck him, for the bowie was up to its -hilt through his palm, pinning the hand to the adobe wall. With the -inconsistency of a child, the tortured look left Jacinto's sweating -face, and he began to chuckle.</p> - -<p>"Look at him. Aphorisms? Hah! What good are they now? <i>Proverbios.</i> Why -don't you give us a saying now, Aforismo?" He had begun to drag the -table toward the bunk. "<i>Dichos?</i> What right have you got to <i>dichos</i>? -Tripe is sweet? Hah! How does that belduque know?" With a great effort -he had managed to climb on the table and bend over the bunk to grab the -hilt of Crawford's bowie. "<i>Nothing compares with my kiss.</i> That makes -me laugh. That belduque never kissed anything but the inside of your -belt—"</p> - -<p>"<i>Madre</i>," howled Aforismo, "take it easy, will you?"</p> - -<p>Jacinto tugged more violently in his effort to pull the knife from -Aforismo's hand. "<i>Dios</i>, Crawford, how did you throw it so hard? No -wonder he couldn't get it out. I'll bet it goes clear through the wall -into—Crawford, where you going?"</p> - -<p>He was almost out the door, and he threw it over his shoulder. "To the -house." Crawford ran all the way across the compound and up the steps -and through the close, suffocating heat of the entrance hall, glancing -through the door of the living-room.</p> - -<p>"Merida?" The echo of his voice held a frightening ring, farther down -the hall. "Merida?" he called again, and whirled to take the stairway -up, knocking off a mahogany riser with his boot heel, leaping the -whole elliptical landing where the stairway turned, halfway up. It was -recognizable, now, a woman's sobbing, coming from Merida's bedroom. -This door was open, too, and he stumbled in. Nexpa was crouched at the -foot of the bed with her face in her hands. He grabbed her shoulders, -pulling her upward.</p> - -<p>"<i>Dónde esta Merida?</i>" he shouted.</p> - -<p>The maid turned a face up to him so dark it looked negroid, her eyes -wide and terrified. "<i>No sabe, no sabe</i>," she gasped.</p> - -<p>"What have they done to her?" he cried hoarsely, shaking Nexpa. "You -know. Where is she? Did they take her? What happened?"</p> - -<p>"<i>No sabe</i>," sobbed the maid again. "<i>Huerta, Huerta</i>—"</p> - -<p>"Huerta took her," shouted Crawford. "What are you talking about? -Where? <i>Dónde, dónde?</i>"</p> - -<p>"<i>En su cuarto. Merida eo puso alli, en su cuarto!</i>"</p> - -<p>"My room?" he said, and dropped her roughly against the footboard and -wheeled to run down the hall to the chamber he had occupied, tearing -open the door. The reeded mahogany posts supporting the bare tester -frame formed a skeleton pattern in the gloom.</p> - -<p>"Merida?" he called. He could not see enough in the semidarkness, and -he ran to the windows, yanking the heavy overdrapes of dark blue velure -away from the window. Noon sunlight flooded the room, turned the damask -covering on the wing chair to a gleaming china blue, caught brazenly on -the brass fixtures of the Franklin stove in the small fireplace. Then, -blinking his eyes, Crawford saw it, and realized what the maid had -meant. "In your room. Merida put it there."</p> - -<p>On the chintz coverlet of the bed lay his rifle.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Fourteen" id="Chapter_Fourteen"><i>Chapter Fourteen</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Challenging Snake Thickets</span></p> - - -<p>No longer did it wait. No longer did it crouch in passive, -latent malignance. Now the evil coma unsheathed its thorns, like -a knife-thrower drawing his dirks for the first time. Now the -adder-toothed retama struck from beneath the disguise of yellow flowers -which had caused the Mexicans to call it flower of gold. Now the deadly -Spanish dagger of the devil's head thrust and parried and lunged like a -savage fencer.</p> - -<p>Ever since Crawford had returned to the Big O, the <i>brasada</i> had -filled him with a strange, inexplicable sense of biding its time, -crouched out there, surrounding them with its sinister, purring, -waiting destruction. And now, as if this was what it had anticipated, -it seemed to leap forth in all its deadly, ruthless malevolence, like -a beast unleashed. Never before had it fought him so, blocking his -way impenetrably, cutting and stabbing and striking every foot of the -way. And Crawford met its challenge, taking a wild, savage delight -in pitting all his skill and strength and experience against the -<i>brasada's</i> violent, cunning, malicious virulence.</p> - -<p>And he had a horse! Knowing it would take something more than an -ordinary brush horse to catch Huerta, he had chosen Africano. It had -not been broken to the spade bit yet, but would work with a hackamore, -and the fact that they had first captured it in the <i>brasada</i> indicated -a life of running the thickets, which would make it a good brush horse -even without training. Just how good, Crawford realized the first -thicket they traversed. The <i>puro negro</i> met the brush with a fearless, -consummate skill, something uncanny about the way it could sense -whether the <i>mogotes</i> were actually impenetrable or whether they held -a weak spot which could be run through. It found holes in thickets -Crawford would never have guessed were there, running headlong through -the most dense ramaderos without a moment's hesitation. The kind of -a horse a brush-popper dreamed about. It was a constant battle, and -Crawford fought it with the wild abandon peculiar to the <i>brasadero</i> -when he was riding the brush like this, shouting at the horse and -himself and anything else that wanted to listen, and cursing in two -languages at every stabbing, clawing thicket which tried to drag him -off.</p> - -<p>And the names passed by, as they had before. Silver Persimmons. Turtle -Sink. Rio Diablo. Chapotes Platas. He had tried to follow Huerta's -trail for a while, but when he had seen the undeviating direction it -was taking he had quit tracking and had let the black out. Finally he -came crashing through the fringe of chaparral into the clearing above -Rio Diablo and swung down off the lathered, heaving horse, and ran -toward the jacal. A man was trying to crawl across the threshold of the -doorway.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," he groaned. "I knew it was you. I heard you coming ten -miles off. There never was anybody could match you cussing the brush. -I guess that's 'cause there never was anybody loved it the way you -do." He tried to rise abruptly, his eyes opening in a glazed way as he -stared past Crawford. "<i>Dios</i>, Africano!"</p> - -<p>Crawford had reached him by then. "What happened, Del? They did this to -you?"</p> - -<p>Dried blood darkened the old man's face, and the soles of his bare feet -had a red, blistered look. "You got a hackamore on it," said Delcazar -vacantly, still staring at the black. "You can't ride that killer with -a hackamore. You're loco—"</p> - -<p>"Who did it? Tell me who did it!" almost shouted Crawford.</p> - -<p>"Merida—"</p> - -<p>"She did this!"</p> - -<p>"No, no," gasped Delcazar weakly. "Merida come first. She say she -needed help. Say you weren't with her any more for some reason. Had -an idea I knew about Snake Thickets. While she was still here, Huerta -came. Followed her, I guess. He thought I knew about Snake Thickets -too. Those cigarettes of Huerta's. I'm a <i>viejo</i>, an old man. I -couldn't stand much. The woman try to stop him. She couldn't do it."</p> - -<p>"How do you get in, Delcazar?" Crawford's voice shook with its low -intensity.</p> - -<p>Delcazar's eyes widened. "Crawford, you ain't going to try and follow -them. It's suicide. Even if you know how to get in. Those <i>serpientes</i>. -You been there. You heard them. Please, you and I been <i>amigos</i> too -long. Let those fools kill themselves after a chest of pesos. Who wants -pesos—"</p> - -<p>"How do you get in?"</p> - -<p>Crawford's voice held a shrill, driven stridor that stiffened Delcazar. -The old man stared at him a moment, mouth open slightly. Maybe it was -the pale, set look to Crawford's face.</p> - -<p>"Rio Diablo. You know how it goes underground about a mile above here. -Nobody's ever been able to find where it comes up again. It comes -from the Nueces past here and then drops out of sight and there ain't -nothing left but the dry bed going on south to Mogotes Serpientes. I'll -tell you where it does come up again. Right inside Snake Thickets. -That's why nobody ever found it. You know how water in a place like -Turtle Sink dries up during the day. Then, come night, it rises to the -surface again. That's what happens inside Mogotes Serpientes. During -the day, the part of Rio Diablo that surfaces inside the thickets is -all dried up. Then when evening sets in, it comes up again. That's how -you get in. You got to run a short stretch of the thicket before you -reach water. That's why you have to time it right. The snakes sleep -during the day, and start to stir around at sundown. That's about the -same time the water starts rising. If you start in just a few minutes -before the sun sets, you can run that stretch of thicket between the -outside and the water while the snakes are still asleep. Naturally -you'll wake them, but you got a bigger chance of reaching the water -than if they were already wide-awake and waiting for you. Once you're -in the bog, you're safe. The snakes will come down to drink, but -rattlers like dry land too much to go swimming in that muck. Time it -wrong by one minute either way and you're done. If you go in too early -and the water ain't risen yet, you're setting right in the middle of a -million rattlers. And if you go in too late and the snakes are stirring -around, they'll probably get you before you reach water. I found it out -from an old Comanche a long time ago, Crawford. I was afraid to tell. -I was afraid to go in myself and I was afraid somebody would make me -show them the way if I tell, and I couldn't do that, Crawford, nobody -could. It's suicide. Maybe those Mexicans do it once, with the chests. -It couldn't be done again in a million years."</p> - -<p>"Still got those cavalry boots?"</p> - -<p>"Crawford, please, you ain't going to—"</p> - -<p>"I'll want your batwings too."</p> - -<p>Delcazar began to cry without sound, and the words came between his -lips with a resigned audibility. "In the jacal. Under my bunk."</p> - -<p>Crawford stepped past the man, the decision hard and crystallized in -him now, permitting no other considerations. He hauled out the old pair -of jack boots someone in Delcazar's family had worn with Diaz, and -unhooked a tattered pair of batwing chaps from the bunk post, a rarity -in this border section where most men preferred <i>chivarras</i>. He pulled -the ancient Chimayo from the bunk and began cutting it in strips with -the bowie. Then he wound the strips about his legs like puttees, up -to his crotch, till they formed three or four layers; he had trouble -pulling the jack boots on over this thickness.</p> - -<p>"<i>Pechero?</i>" he said, swiftly buckling the bull-hide chaps on.</p> - -<p>Delcazar was huddled against the doorframe, watching him hopelessly. -"Had one somewhere. Maybe under the bunk too."</p> - -<p>The <i>pechero</i> was a buckskin shield used by the <i>brasaderos</i> for -popping the heaviest brush; it fitted around the front of the horse's -chest, tying over its withers and behind its front legs. The black was -too weary for any objection as Crawford lashed the <i>pechero</i> on.</p> - -<p>"Gloves," Delcazar was motioning vaguely toward the fireplace, -"gloves—"</p> - -<p>They were on one of the shelves above the estufa, thick buckskin gloves -with flaps as long as the forearm. Crawford pulled them on his hands -and stepped past the old man. He stopped there a moment, staring down -at Delcazar. His mouth twisted open as if he would speak. No words -came. A torn look crossed his face momentarily. Then he turned and -swung aboard the black and jerked the hackamore against its neck and -the animal wheeled and broke into a gallop down toward the brush lining -the river—</p> - -<p>The sun was low and he forced the flagging <i>puro negro</i> down Rio Diablo -until the water ceased and they were running the dry bed. The mesquite -became thicker in the bottom lands, interspersed by cottonwoods turning -sear with the heat of oncoming summer. Finally the <i>pechero</i> was -rattling and scraping constantly against the brush as Crawford forced -his way through. He was riding at a walk now, head cocked to listen, -eyes roving the terrain restlessly, whole body tense with waiting for -the first sign that he had reached Mogotes Serpientes. The sun was -almost down now, and he was filled with a growing, trembling sense of -urgency. Maybe it was the incessant clash of brush against the buckskin -shield which hid the other sound at first. Suddenly he pulled the black -to a halt. It came from ahead of him, a faint, barely perceptible -hissing sound. He sat there a moment, letting the thought of Merida in -there harden the resolve within himself till it was so sharp and clear -it hurt. The black had begun fretting at the sound, and Crawford pulled -in the <i>mecate</i> on the hackamore, bending forward.</p> - -<p>"All right," he said, "we're going through!"</p> - -<p>Perhaps it was the tone of his voice. The horse ceased all movement -abruptly, stiffening beneath him. Then the man flapped his legs out -wide and brought his spurs in against the sweating black flanks with -a hoarse shout. The <i>puro negro</i> leaped forward like a startled buck, -breaking into a headlong gallop straight into the brush thickening in -the river bottom ahead of them. Crawford rode as if he were bareback, -gripping the animal from his thighs down, heels turned in hard against -the horse. They crashed headlong through the first thicket of mesquite, -Crawford bent forward with his free arm thrown in front of his face, -the branches ripping at his cheeks and tearing his levi ducking jacket -half off his back. A post oak loomed before them as they tore free of -the mesquite. He reined the black viciously to one side and the animal -reacted with a violence that would have unseated Crawford but for that -grip of his legs, wheeling so sharply the man's torso was snapped to -one side like the flirt of a rope. Crawford jerked himself back in -time to bend down off one side as they passed beneath the branches. -Then they were racing at a thicket of chaparral and huisache entwined -together so thickly it formed a solid mat before them. Crawford felt -the confidence of the horse beneath him and gave the animal its head, -and they crashed headlong through the hole Africano had spotted with -his uncanny instinct. Filled with the wild excitement of it, Crawford -had begun shouting and swearing that way again, adding his own hoarse -obscenities to the roar of popping brush. But even all this sound -did not obliterate the noise. It came through his bellow and the -crash of brush with an insidious, sinister insistence, that constant -menacing hiss, like the threat of escaping steam. It filled him with -an excitation which did not come from the mad ride. And as he burst -through the chaparral into the open, the first snake struck.</p> - -<p>It happened so fast his own reaction did not come till the snake had -gone again. He had a dim sense of a sudden writhing shape leaping -from the last of the chaparral they were coming out of, and the sharp -snapping thud somewhere in front of him, and the horse's leap sideways, -screaming. Again his terrible grip was the only thing that kept the man -in the saddle, and they were tearing forward once more with a vague -impression of that writhing shape slithering off into the brush. They -were crashing into the next <i>mogote</i> before Crawford realized the snake -must have struck that <i>pechero</i> on the horse's chest. Now more of them -were in sight. Fast as he was going, he could still see the sleepy -torpidity of the awakening snakes. He spotted what he thought was a -root lying in the thickness of a <i>mogote</i>, but as the black jumped it, -the root came alive, jerking in a surprised, sluggish way, and then -one end began to curl inward. But by the time the serpent had awakened -fully and snapped into its coil, Africano was by.</p> - -<p>Another one ahead woke faster. Crawford did not see it till a flashing -motion filled the lower corner of his vision. Again he heard the sharp -thump of the snake striking that <i>pechero</i>, and saw the frustrated -serpent drop away from the shield in a stunned way. The horse was -in a veritable frenzy now, lather foaming its mouth, screaming and -whinnying and fighting the hackamore madly without actually trying to -change its direction. It was no longer only the hissing all about them. -It was the movement. On every side the thickets seemed to have come -alive. Writhing, slithering shapes undulating in dim spasms through the -pattern of brush. But the fact that they were still awakening and the -speed at which Crawford was going aborted the greater part of their -efforts. Time and again he saw a snake strike after he was already -by. Twice more one of them reached the horse, only to batter its head -against that stiff shield of cowhide. Then, beneath him, Crawford heard -a thick, slopping sound, and the black stumbled, and almost went down. -With his spurs he forced the animal farther on into the muck. It was -not very deep and there were patches of dry ground, but there was no -more of that nightmarish movement about him now. Only the incessant -sinister sibilation to his rear.</p> - -<p>His body was drenched with perspiration, and for the first time he -realized he was panting in a choked, rasping way. The horse was heaving -beneath him, still fighting the hackamore and fiddling around wildly. -He suddenly felt as if he were going to collapse. He bent forward, -gripping the saddle horn, realizing it was only reaction. Then, -as strength returned in slow, undulating waves, the black stopped -abruptly, head raised, ears stiffened. Crawford automatically put his -heels into the animal. The <i>puro negro</i> stood adamant. Then Crawford -heard it, and stopped trying to force Africano ahead. Suddenly the -horse threw up its head and let out a shrill, wild whinny.</p> - -<p>"Damn you," snarled Crawford in a guttural voice. "I ought to—"</p> - -<p>He stopped at the answering whinny from farther in the brush. -"Crawford?" asked someone from there.</p> - -<p>Crawford felt his body straighten involuntarily in the saddle. "Yes, -Quartel," he said.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h2><a name="Chapter_Fifteen" id="Chapter_Fifteen"><i>Chapter Fifteen</i></a></h2> - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Treasure Hunt Climax</span></p> - - -<p>Perhaps it was the sound. The constant, incessant, unrelenting sound of -those snakes. Standing in this narrow strip of bog formed by the rising -muck of the underground river, the hissing was audible on both sides -now. There was something infinitely evil about it that clutched at a -man's vitals. It filled Crawford with a vague, primal panic, akin to -the fear he had known of Africano before, yet different, in a subtle, -insidious way.</p> - -<p>"I knew it was you." Quartel's voice startled him, coming from an -entirely different direction than before. "I heard you coming. I wish -I could cuss the way you can, Crawford." It was getting on Crawford's -nerves. The black was becoming unmanageable beneath him. Under other -circumstances he would have been willing to play the game. But the -thought of Merida somewhere in there drove all the conditioned wariness -from him. Suddenly the black raised its head again; he pulled on -the hackamore to stifle the whinny in its throat, but he saw which -direction it was turned in. He flapped his legs out wide and brought -the heels in hard, bolting the black into the mesquite. They crashed -through the <i>mogote</i>. Crawford had the Henry in his right hand as they -burst into the open, keeping it free of brush with the lever down. A -vague, blurred impression of Quartel sitting that <i>trigueño</i> leaped -into Crawford's vision. With one motion he was jerking the hackamore -against the left side of the black's neck to wheel it toward the man, -and then releasing the hackamore completely to have both hands for -his rifle, bringing the Henry up into line with his right hand and -slapping his left palm against the barrel at the same time. In that -last instant, as fast as he had moved, he had time to see why Quartel -had been doing it this way. The man had no gun in his hand. Even as -Crawford wheeled and brought his Henry up, Quartel was leaning forward -with a grunt, his arm snapping out.</p> - -<p>Crawford tried to duck the rope and fire at the same time. He heard his -bullet clatter through brush, after the thunder of the shot, and knew -he had missed. Then the edge of the loop struck his hand and slid down -his arm and closed over the gun. It was either let go the Henry or be -jerked from his horse.</p> - -<p>The rifle bounced along the ground, and for a moment it looked as if -Quartel were going to be able to pull it to him. Then it slipped from -the noose. The Mexican wheeled his <i>trigueño</i> toward the rifle, and -his intent was patent. Crawford turned the black and quartered in on a -line that would bring him between Quartel and the Henry. Seeing how he -would be blocked off from reaching the gun, Quartel reared his horse -to a stop, flirting in his rope and catching it up in loops. Crawford, -realizing that if he turned to approach the Henry his back would be to -Quartel and the man would have him with that rope, halted his black -too. For a moment, the two men sat there facing each other across the -open ground. It must have struck Quartel how it had to be, now, about -the same time the realization came to Crawford. The Mexican let out a -hoarse, violent laugh.</p> - -<p>"All right," he said. "I am the best roper in the world, Crawford."</p> - -<p>He sat there, grinning, allowing Crawford to unlash the 40-foot rawhide -lasso from the black's rig. A picture formed in Crawford's mind that -filled him with a growing tension. A picture of Quartel blindfolded -on that <i>trigueño</i> in the corral with one end of a rawhide dally tied -about his neck and ten snorting, stamping, vicious <i>ladinos</i> tearing -up the turf and the strange sighing sound rising from the crowd of -sweating, stinking <i>vaqueros</i> every time he threw the bull. It didn't -help a man. It didn't help a man while he unhitched the rawhide lashing -on the saddle skirt from about the dally and shook out the loops and -watched the braided hondo slide down the slick rope. His motions were -stiff, jerky. He hadn't roped in a long time.</p> - -<p>"Hola!" bellowed Quartel, and those great Chihuahua spurs rolled down -the flanks of his brown animal like cart wheels digging ruts in a road. -Crawford jabbed his own guthooks into the black, and Africano jumped -into a dead run. The brown horse seemed to come at Crawford in a surge -that left no space for conscious thought. He knew what a mistake it -would be for him to make the first pass, and he bent forward in the -saddle, watching Quartel's hand.</p> - -<p>But the Mexican was waiting too, and the <i>trigueño</i> was completely past -Crawford, with Crawford still holding his rope and twisting around -so he could watch Quartel, when the man made his throw. The Mexican -passed the rope over his shoulder, without looking at Crawford. In that -position, the movement of Quartel's arms was blocked off by his body, -and Crawford did not know the Mexican had made his toss till he saw -the small, tight loop spinning directly over his head. The throw was -calculated to compensate for Crawford's forward speed. All he could do -to escape it was rein to one side or the other. He bent forward so far -on Africano his chest struck the saddle horn, putting the reins against -the black neck hard.</p> - -<p>The violence of the quarter turn almost snapped Crawford from the -saddle. He shouted with the pain stabbing through his middle. He heard -the faint sound of the rope striking Africano's rump. Then he was -tearing into a <i>mogote</i> of mesquite.</p> - -<p>Instead of going on through, he wheeled Africano within the thicket. -The horse reared up, screaming with the pain of turning in that cruel -brush, and Crawford was charging out the way he had come.</p> - -<p>Evidently expecting Crawford to go on through the mesquite, Quartel -was racing around the fringe to intercept him on the other side. -This caused the Mexican to be at Crawford's rear as he burst out the -same spot he had gone in. Crawford put his reins against Africano's -neck, and again the horse responded with that incredible turn, and -Crawford found himself directly behind the churning brown rump of the -<i>trigueño</i>. The Mexican was already in the act of wheeling his horse -around to meet Crawford. Then he must have seen how Crawford had turned -after him, and realized how his own maneuver would place him, for he -tried to turn back. It was too late.</p> - -<p>Quartel's first turn had placed him broadside to Crawford's oncoming -black. Crawford had that one free pass at Quartel's flank, with the -Mexican in no position to defend himself by a throw of his own. -Crawford saw his loop settle over the man's head.</p> - -<p>"All right," he shouted, and dallied his end of the rope around the -saddle horn, wheeling Africano away to pull Quartel off.</p> - -<p>But there was no weight on the rope. It fell slackly from the horn, and -Crawford twisted back to see what had happened.</p> - -<p>He had seen Indians do it. One instant Quartel had been sitting the -horse, the next he wasn't. The loop fell across the back of the -riderless <i>trigueño</i>, caught on the cantle, slipped off. Then the -Mexican appeared in the saddle again. He had jumped completely off, -hanging onto the horn with but one hand, to strike the ground and -bounce back up, the rope hitting while he was off on the far side that -way.</p> - -<p>The first wild action had left no time for much thought, but now, as -he recovered his rope and maneuvered to meet Quartel's next move, the -sheer deadliness of this struck Crawford fully. Like trying to figure -out three or four plays ahead in a poker game, with your life in the -pot instead of a few dollars. Well, he had been figuring one play -ahead, ever since he had seen the cards Quartel put down back there at -the bull-tailing. It was the trick Quartel had used on Indita. Crawford -had spotted the weakness of it, even then. A man could take advantage -of that, if he had a horse which could turn quick enough.</p> - -<p>Crawford remembered Quartel and Indita had been racing head-on at each -other, and he placed himself in the position to meet Quartel that way -as the Mexican trotted toward him from across the clearing now. The -<i>trigueño</i> was picking up its feet in a high, excited action, lather -marbling its snout and chest.</p> - -<p>"<i>Vamanos</i>," Quartel roared, and raked the animal's bloody flanks with -his Chihuahua can openers, and they were racing at each other again. -Quartel leaned forward and threw his arm out with a grunt as they went -by one another. Crawford's own arm stiffened with the impulse to make -his throw. Then he realized Quartel's clothesline was not coming.</p> - -<p>The rest of it moved automatically, without any conscious volition -from Crawford. Holding his throw, he allowed the black to race on past -Quartel. Then, when he knew Quartel would be wheeling that <i>trigueño</i> -to make his true cast at Crawford's retreating back, Crawford yanked -the <i>mecate</i> against Africano's neck. He felt the movement of the -horse's shoulders beneath him, changing leads as it spun in full gallop -on its hind foot. No quarter turn this time. A half turn, switching -ends completely in that instant, so that he was facing Quartel instead -of going away and, with the horse still in motion, was racing back -toward the Mexican.</p> - -<p>It caused Quartel's rope to overshoot completely. Crawford saw the -man's face twist in surprise. Then Crawford made his cast. It was an -underhanded throw with a hooley-ann at the end. In wheeling, Quartel -had come to a full stop. He made one last abortive effort to turn -his animal away, but the small loop caught him before the <i>trigueño</i> -reacted. Then Crawford was on past the Mexican, with the rope dallied -on his horn and snapping taut. He heard Quartel make a strangled sound -of pain. Then there was the thump of him striking the ground.</p> - -<p>Crawford tried to keep his black in full gallop and drag Quartel, but -something within him rebelled. He halted the animal and swung off, -running back to catch the man before he could rise. Quartel was on his -knees, that rope still about his thick neck, shaking his head dully. -The mesquite rattled behind Quartel, and Merida stepped out. She must -have passed the Henry where it had been dropped. She held it cocked -in both hands, and her bosom was heaving, her face torn and bleeding -from the brush she had run through. They stared at each other without -speaking. Her eyes were wide and shining, and her lips started twisting -across her teeth without any sound coming out.</p> - -<p>Then, without any consciousness of having moved, he found her body in -his arms and her lips against his and the sound of her expelled breath -hot and hoarse in his ears. He didn't know how long he was lost in it. -Finally the other things began to come. The cold, hard feel of the -rifle barrel against his back where she held it in one hand with that -arm around him. The guttural sounds of pain Quartel was making trying -to get that noose off his neck. The crash of another passage through -the mesquite.</p> - -<p>"Crawford, Crawford, I knew you'd come, I knew they couldn't stop you, -none of them—" It was Merida, whispering it in a husky, passionate, -barely coherent stream against his chest. "I was so afraid. Thinking -of you out there. All those snakes. I wanted you to come and I didn't -want you to. I didn't know what I wanted. I do now, I mean. I guess I -haven't known really what I wanted all my life, but I do now. I was so -afraid—"</p> - -<p>"Merida—Where are you?"</p> - -<p>It was Huerta's voice, accompanying the rattle of the thicket. Crawford -lifted his face from the woman's, staring at the doctor as he stumbled -from the mesquite. The man's fustian was ripped and torn, and he was -dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a silk monogrammed handkerchief. He -brought himself to an abrupt halt, breathing heavily, when he saw them.</p> - -<p>Crawford disengaged himself from Merida, taking the rifle out of her -hand, still looking at the doctor. There was something about the man -that vaguely puzzled him.</p> - -<p>"Did you find it?" Crawford asked Merida finally.</p> - -<p>A dim, bitter expression entered Merida's face. "Yes," she said, "we -found it."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" Crawford muttered.</p> - -<p>She inclined her head through the mesquite, that strange expression -still on her features. Crawford frowned at her. Then he turned to jerk -the Henry at Quartel. The man had finally got that rope off his neck -and stood there rubbing the bruised flesh sullenly. He moved ahead of -Crawford through the brush.</p> - -<p>"You too, Doctor," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>They passed through the thicket and crossed a boggy section. With the -violence of the action over now, the hissing of the snakes began to -impinge on Crawford's consciousness again. Rising out of the bog to -the thick mat of greenish-brown toboso grass covering an island of -firm ground, they reached the first aparejo. It was one of the old -X-shaped packsaddles used by the original Mexican muleteers, with two -brass-bound chests lashed into it so that one would fall on each side -of the mule.</p> - -<p>"The Mexicans carrying this stuff must have been following the dry -river bed and hit the fringe of Snake Thickets about dusk," said -Merida. "That's the only way they could have got this far in. Then, -when the snakes started waking up, and they realized what they had -wandered into, the men left the stuff here, knowing it would be as safe -as anywhere they could have hidden it, and shot their way out through -the snakes again."</p> - -<p>"Did you just stumble onto it too?" Crawford asked.</p> - -<p>"Quartel had the other third of the <i>derrotero</i>," said Merida.</p> - -<p>"Quartel?" Crawford's head lifted sharply to the man. He emitted a -small, humorless laugh. "That explains a lot of things."</p> - -<p>"Does it?" said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"It showed Quartel how to find the aparejos once he was inside Mogotes -Serpientes," Merida said. "But not how to find Snake Thickets." Her -eyes were on Crawford, and that odd expression still filled her face. -She moved her head toward the chest. "Go ahead," she said.</p> - -<p>He kept Quartel and Huerta in sight when he knelt. The wood was rotten -and someone had torn the lid of one chest away from its brass bindings. -He lifted it, and stared at the black gunpowder filling the oak box. -The woman's voice sounded far away.</p> - -<p>"The Centralists must have done this. They would have done anything to -break Santa Anna's power at that time. They knew his men were ready to -desert because they hadn't been paid in three months. It was only by -the promise of this pay that Santa Anna held them together long enough -to fight the battle of San Jacinto. You can imagine their reaction -if the train had reached the army and they had found their pay to be -nothing more than this." She stared emptily at the case. "Twenty chests -of gunpowder. That's ironic, isn't it? All this trouble over twenty -chests of gunpowder."</p> - -<p>Crawford rose slowly, drawing himself back to present necessities by a -distinct effort. "We'd better start thinking about getting out of here."</p> - -<p>Huerta's feet made a small, quick shift against the toboso grass. -Crawford realized what it was in the man now. That air of infinite -ennui was beginning to dissipate before something else; an indefinable -tension tightened the little muscles about Huerta's mouth till the soft -flesh was furrowed like an old man's. The bluish, veined lower lid of -his right eye was twitching noticeably. "We can't go out now," he said, -and the strain was palpable in his voice. "Not through all those snakes -again. They're awake now."</p> - -<p>"This place dries up come daylight," said Crawford. "It won't be any -safer than out there. We have to leave sometime before then, and it -might as well be now."</p> - -<p>He began peeling off his gloves and handing them to Merida; then his -heavy denim ducking jacket and the bull-hide chaps. Huerta's breathing -became more audible as he watched it.</p> - -<p>"No," he said, "no—listen—"</p> - -<p>"What's wrong with your gun?" Crawford asked Quartel.</p> - -<p>"Merida's horse got hit by a snake about halfway through," said the -Mexican. "She got pitched and Huerta wouldn't stop to pick her up. I -was following them pretty close and came across her before she'd been -caught by the snakes. But they were all waked up in that section and I -used my lead up shooting our way on into here. That's why I had to use -the rope on you."</p> - -<p>"What caliber you got?"</p> - -<p>Quartel looked surprised. "It's an old Bisley .44."</p> - -<p>From the pocket of his levis, Crawford pulled a handful of his .44 -flat-noses. He stood there with the copper cartridges in his hand, -meeting Quartet's eyes. He held out his hand.</p> - -<p>Quartel stared at the handful of shells, then he threw back his head -and let out that Gargantuan laugh. "Crawford, you're the craziest -<i>barrachon</i> I ever saw."</p> - -<p>He took the cartridges and broke his Bisley and began thumbing them -into the cylinder. Huerta lowered the handkerchief from his scratched -face, and his effort at control was more obvious now.</p> - -<p>"I haven't got a gun," he said.</p> - -<p>"That's too bad," said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"No, no, listen, you can't expect me to go out there without—"</p> - -<p>He turned around and indicated Quartel should follow him through the -mesquite to their horses. Like the well-trained roper it was, the -<i>trigueño</i> had stopped the instant Quartel left its back, and was -standing in the same spot they had left it. Africano must have run on -across the bog and been stopped by his fear of the snakes in the first -dry thickets over there, for he came trotting back through the mud, -whinnying nervously. Crawford blocked the animal off against a <i>mogote</i> -of chaparral and caught it.</p> - -<p>"Get on first," he told the girl.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," Huerta began again, "you can't—"</p> - -<p>"Get your horse if you're coming with us," he told the man.</p> - -<p>Huerta opened his mouth to say something more; then, with a strangled, -inarticulate sound, he turned and crashed back through the mesquite. In -a moment he returned on the copperbottom. It was a risky thing to do -with such a green horse, but there was no other way, and Crawford swung -onto the black behind the cantle. The animal kicked in a startled, -angry way and started to buck. Crawford swung his arms around in front -of Merida to grab the <i>mecate</i> and yank back hard on it, spurring -Africano at the same time. The <i>puro negro</i> quit bucking and broke -forward, slopping into a muddy stretch. Crawford turned the horse to -get Quartel in front of him. They rode toward the edge of the bog that -way.</p> - -<p>"You go first, Quartel," Crawford said. "I'll follow you, Huerta. If -you can keep your head and stay in between us, we might be able to get -you out. Just keep your head. That's the whole thing. Get panicky and -you're through. You can even get bit a couple of times by snakes and -still live to tell about it if you don't let it throw you. It isn't the -venom that kills a man so quick; it's when he gets spooked and starts -running and yelling and pumping all that poison through him a hundred -times as fast as it would spread if he just stayed calm. Savvy?"</p> - -<p>Huerta's copperbottom fiddled beneath him. "Crawford, I can't. Not -without a gun. You can't ask me to."</p> - -<p>"Quartel?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>"<i>Sí</i>," grinned the Mexican, and flapped his feet out wide. The -<i>trigueño</i> bolted before Quartel's feet came back in to kick his -flanks, and then crashed into the thickets. Crawford held the Henry in -one hand and he waved it at Huerta.</p> - -<p>"Get going, damn you, I'm not going to wait for you to puke, get going!"</p> - -<p>"No, I can't, not through there—" Huerta saw Crawford swing out his -feet, and whirled the copperbottom with a last desperate shout, and -crashed into the Snake Thickets after Quartel. Then Crawford's heels -struck the black, and they were going.</p> - -<p>At first it was only the wild, crashing, pounding, yelling run through -the mesquite. With Quartel leading the way all they had to do was -follow the trail he made, running through holes he had burst in the -thickets ahead of them. Then the snakes began. First it was that -sharp, dry thump against Africano's <i>pechero</i>, and the woman's shrill, -startled cry. Quartel's gun crashed from ahead of them, but Crawford -was too taken up with reining the black to use his Henry. He had that -blurred impression of violent undulation around him. There was another -snapping thud against Africano's buckskin shield, and a big diamondback -fell to the ground beneath them as they went by.</p> - -<p>Then it was the shrill scream from Huerta's copperbottom ahead. -Crawford saw the huge rattler dropping off the animal's rump, and the -copperbottom started to buck.</p> - -<p>"There it is," screamed Huerta, "there it is!"</p> - -<p>"Don't lose your head," shouted Crawford. "Get him to running again. -He'll last through, Huerta, get him to running—"</p> - -<p>Another rattler flashed from the thickets. The copperbottom reared -up as the snake struck, pawing the air wildly. Crawford came up -from behind at a dead run and Huerta's panicky reining brought the -copperbottom down broadside to them. Crawford jerked his whole body to -the left with the desperation of his attempt to rein the black around, -but Africano smashed head-on into Huerta's animal.</p> - -<p>Crawford had the sense of falling through a bedlam of Huerta's wild -yells and Merida's voice calling something and the animal's frenzied, -agonized screaming. Then he hit the ground with Merida coming down on -top of him. It knocked the breath from him and he struggled to get from -beneath her, making a horrible retching sound in his fight for breath. -He got to his knees, surprised that he still clutched the Henry. The -copperbottom was already crashing off through the brush, and Africano -was just scrambling to his feet. Crawford lurched at the black horse, -but Africano whirled and galloped at a <i>ramadero</i> of <i>cejas</i>, smashing -through and disappearing. There was a whirring sound from behind and -Merida's shriek. He whirled, snapping the lever on his Henry down at -the same time, and fired from the hip at the serpent coiled just -beyond her. She had been in the act of throwing herself away, and the -slug driving into the snake aborted its strike. The head fell heavily -to the ground with only half its length uncoiled. Crawford leaped to -Merida, grabbing her roughly by the elbow and yanking her erect.</p> - -<p>"Crawford, get me out, Crawford! Crawford!" It was Huerta, rising -from the patch of switch mesquite where he had been thrown. There -was a sallow, putty color to his face and that eye was twitching -uncontrollably now. He staggered toward them, his blasé, jaded -sophistication swept away before the terrible animal fear. A deadly -rattle rose from behind him and he tried to run, and stumbled, falling -against Crawford.</p> - -<p>The woman's gasp made Crawford turn in the direction she was looking, -and he brought up the Henry, kicking free of Huerta, firing at the -snake which had writhed from the switch mesquite toward them, shouting -at Huerta. "Get up, then. I'll get you out. Get up!"</p> - -<p>Panting, sobbing hoarsely, Huerta pulled himself up, staring about him -wildly, starting like a frightened deer at every new sound. Crawford -put the woman directly before him and started moving forward. Huerta -cringed at his side, clawing at him, and he had to keep shoving the man -away.</p> - -<p>"Hurry, Crawford, hurry, please, what are you doing this for? We'll -never—"</p> - -<p>"Let go," Crawford bawled at him. "It won't do to lose our heads and -start running. How can I—"</p> - -<p>"No, Crawford, no—"</p> - -<p>Shouting it, Huerta reeled back against him. Crawford had to fight the -man off and wheel that way and fire all at once. He couldn't have hit -the snake anyway. It had already been in the middle of its lunge.</p> - -<p>"I'm hit," screamed Huerta. "Crawford, I'm hit. Save me. I'll do -anything. Help me!"</p> - -<p>"Keep your head, Huerta. Quit fighting like that!"</p> - -<p>"No, Crawford, for God's sake!" Huerta was floundering around blindly, -shouting and clutching at Crawford, who tried to kick him away so he -could keep the gun going. Another rattler slithered from the thickets, -and he fired wildly at it.</p> - -<p>"Huerta!" cried Merida, tearing at the man, the panic gripping her -voice and twisting her face, "don't be a fool. Let him go, let him go—"</p> - -<p>"No. Get me out! I'll do anything, Crawford, admit anything. You were -right. I'm no doctor. I had two years in France and they dismissed -me. The opium. There. Now. I've told you—" His babble broke off in a -wild shriek. Crawford had not seen the snake strike. It fell away from -Huerta's back, slithering off into the thicket. Huerta crawled toward -Crawford on his hands and knees, a faint, yellow froth forming at his -lips. He clutched at Crawford's legs, shouting up at him. "I'll tell -you anything, please, anything. I was the one who killed Otis Rockland. -Is that what you want? I knew Tarant had given him that piece of the -<i>derrotero</i>, and I knew Otis was in that hotel room. I'd just reached -him when you arrived, and I had to escape by the balcony without -getting the map—"</p> - -<p>Again his hoarse bawling broke off in a scream. His struggles had -carried them both over to a thicket, and Crawford could see the same -snake Huerta did, coiled almost at their feet. He tore free of the -doctor's frantic hands, throwing himself back, and firing at the -serpent. He tripped and fell heavily onto his back, seeing the snake -jerk with the slug but reach Huerta anyway. Screaming, the doctor -fought to gain his feet.</p> - -<p>"Get me out, Crawford, get me out," he howled, pawing the writhing, -thumping thing off in horror, whirling to run blindly away from it -across the small opening. "It wasn't Quartel who had Whitehead try to -bushwhack you that time, either. It was me. I wanted the third of the -<i>derrotero</i> you had. And I was the one who tried to get Merida's third -in the house during the bull-tailing. Please, Crawford, what more can -you want? Get me out now!"</p> - -<p>He looked like some frenzied beast, greasy black hair down over his -face, froth drooling off his chin. He stumbled blindly into a <i>mogote</i> -of chaparro <i>prieto</i>, and tried to turn and get out. But there must -have been a nest of them in the black chaparral, and they caught him -there.</p> - -<p>"No, Crawford," he screamed, as the first one struck, with a fleshy -spissitude, knocking him to his knees in the thicket, "they're all -around me," and his voice broke as a second one caught him. "For -Christ's sake, Crawford, get me out. I told you, didn't I?" he sobbed, -trying to crawl on through. And then another one struck him. "Oh, for -God's sake, Crawford, please, for God's sake." And another, and he was -lying on his belly, still trying to crawl, and his voice had sunk to a -pitiful wailing, like a little child weakening, sinking until it was -barely audible. "Please, get me out, oh, please, Crawford, get me out," -and then dying finally, beneath the crescendo hissing of the snakes, -"Get me out, I'll do anything, only please get me out—"</p> - -<p>After it had ceased, Crawford felt himself twitch, and realized how -long he had been crouching there in a dazed shocked immobility at such -a bizarre, terrifying display. It was like awakening from a deep sleep. -There was a thick, sweet taste in his mouth, and he was sweating, and -movement came with a strange pain. He saw that Merida was standing -over him, staring at the brush with that same stunned horror in her -face. His movement caused her to turn in something akin to surprise. -She looked at him a moment before her eyes dropped to his hand; he -was rising, but the sound she made stopped him. It must have struck -him sometime during his struggles with Huerta. He did not remember -when. The twin red punctures on the back of his hand were oozing blood -thickly. With a curse, he started to rise again and get the rifle, but -Merida caught him.</p> - -<p>"No, Crawford. The knife. Your bowie. You've got to get it now before -it spreads." She was on her knees beside him, pulling the bowie from -his boot where he had thrust it after winding those strips of blanket -on.</p> - -<p>"The snakes," he said, "the snakes—"</p> - -<p>"If we sit still they won't come for a minute. Now—I've got to." She -met his eyes, then bent over his hand with the blade. He felt himself -turn rigid, but it caused him less pain than he anticipated. She did -it in three quick, skillful strokes. "I told you my mother was a -<i>curandera</i>. I've seen her do this a dozen times. Find some Spanish -dagger and you can get a poison from it that makes as good an antidote -as any."</p> - -<p>She bent to suck the wound, and now it was beginning to come. <i>Take -it easy.</i> The hissing bore in on him with a physical weight. <i>Take it -easy, damn you. That's why Huerta's through. He lost his head. All -right. Get up, then, damn you, get up.</i> He got up.</p> - -<p>The motion drew his hand from Merida's fingers, and she rose too. He -had scooped up the Henry in rising, and he pulled the lever down. No -fired shell popped out, and he realized the magazine must be empty. He -reached in his right-hand pocket for fresh loads, and pulled out his -hand, empty. The woman's eyes followed the movements in a fascinated -way as he shifted the rifle so he could reach into his left-hand -pocket. Again his hand came out empty. Merida's gaze raised to his, and -they stared at each other blankly for a long moment. A small, hopeless -sob escaped her.</p> - -<p>The first, faint, snapping crackle came from behind, turning him that -way. It was a big diamondback, slithering from the switch mesquite. -It stopped as it caught sight of them, and its long, shimmering -body coiled with oily facility. The ugly hammerhead raised, and the -glittering opacity of its cruel little eyes held Crawford's gaze in a -viscid mesmerization. Then it began to rattle.</p> - -<p>"Crawford—"</p> - -<p>The woman's agonized whisper brought his eyes around the other way. -Another serpent, as big around as his lower leg, had crawled from a -<i>mogote</i> of huisache. Again it was the soft snap of decaying vegetation -that lay thickly over the ground, and the cessation of this as the -snake saw them and stopped, and that swift coiling movement, and that -sibilant rattle.</p> - -<p>"Crawford," said Merida, in a hoarse, strained whisper. "We can't move. -They'll strike as soon as we move. They're all around us and we can't -move—"</p> - -<p>"No," he said gutturally. "Remember they don't often strike above the -hip. You've got those batwings. Just keep your feet, that's all, just -keep your feet."</p> - -<p>"There's another one," she said, and he saw the panic was gripping her -the way it had Huerta. "We can't move, Crawford. Not a step. They'll -have us."</p> - -<p>"Merida," he said. "You've got to. Don't lose your head. Just start -walking."</p> - -<p>"I can't," she said, in a strangled, pathetic way, "Crawford, I can't—"</p> - -<p>He could feel that animal fear rising up in him, to blot out all his -terrible control. Sweat formed gleaming streaks through the grime of -his face. His right hand was clenched so hard around the useless gun -it ached. Gritting his teeth, he summoned the awful, supreme effort of -will it would take for him to make that first step. His whole body was -stiffened for it, when the first thunderous detonation came from out in -the brush. There was a second, and a third, before Crawford recognized -them as gunshots. This was followed by a long crashing of brush, and -Quartel burst into view. This movement caused the snake on Crawford's -right to strike. It hit his leg with a solid thump, knocking him over -against Merida, and though he knew the fangs had not penetrated the -triple thickness of Chimayo blanket around his calf, he could not hold -back his hoarse, fearful shout. Quartel had fired twice at the second -rattler, knocking it back before it could strike. The serpent tried to -recoil and strike again, in a weak, abortive way, and Quartel jumped at -it with a curse, stamping on its head. Then he whirled away to fire at -a third one beyond Merida.</p> - -<p>"Hola!" bellowed Quartel. "Let's go. You only got a little stretch left -and we'll be out."</p> - -<p>"You!" said Crawford blankly, gaping at him.</p> - -<p>"Who else?" grinned the man. He caught Crawford by the shoulder, -shoving him forward. "Come on, I tell you. We ain't got time for -coffee."</p> - -<p>The rest of it was Quartel's bellowing gun and the crash of mesquite -and Merida's hoarse, uncontrollable sobbing and a nightmarish sense of -movement within and without him as he staggered through the thickets. -At last he found himself face down on gritty sand, his breathing -settling down to the shallow exhalation of complete exhaustion. He -looked up to see Quartel squatting over him, that grin on his sweaty, -greasy face. The woman was sitting up on the bank beyond Quartel, the -batwings lying at her feet. Crawford realized he was barefooted and the -blanketing had been stripped off his legs.</p> - -<p>"The chaps saved Merida," said Quartel. "And that Chimayo on you was a -good idea. The only thing you got is that hand. I don't think it will -cause you too much trouble, the way she fixed it."</p> - -<p>"Why did you come back?" said Crawford.</p> - -<p>Quartel shrugged. "For the same reason you gave me those shells back in -the bog when you didn't know for sure whether I'd use them on you or -the snakes, I guess." He sat there looking at Crawford a while. "I'm -sort of glad it was Huerta that killed Rockland," he said finally. He -laughed, at the look Crawford gave him. "<i>Sí.</i> You could have heard -that Huerta yelling up in San Antone. My horse went down just as I got -out, and I was lying here in the sand when Huerta cut loose. He really -cracked up good, didn't he? It sort of finishes my job out here."</p> - -<p>Merida came over and lowered herself to her knees beside Crawford, and -he sat up, staring at Quartel. "Your job?"</p> - -<p>That pawky grin was on the Mexican's face. "<i>Sí.</i> Like I said I knew -one who pinned it to his undershirt. Me, I couldn't even do that. Only -a damn fool would come into the <i>brasada</i> with a badge. But I got a -commission back in San Antonio from the federal government."</p> - -<p>Crawford continued to stare at the man a long time, and it all went -through his head, before he said it. "<i>Marshal</i> Quartel?"</p> - -<p>"That's right," said the Mexican. "Maybe I look like I should be a -<i>rurale</i>, but I'm a citizen of the States and my father was before -me. They sent me out to get you a couple of weeks after Rockland was -killed. Other lawmen had been given the job without meeting much -success. I guess you know about that. I figured you'd turn up at your -old corral sooner or later, so I had the Nueces Cattle Association -recommend me to Tarant as qualified to rod the roundup he was managing -for Rockland's estate. By the time you'd showed up at the Big O, I'd -been there long enough to find out that, whether you murdered Rockland -or not, there was more to the whole business than just the personal -trouble between you and him. That <i>derrotero</i> for instance. I'd gotten -a third of it from Whitehead. He'd found it many years ago on the body -of one of the Mexican muleteers, who had been shot in the brush by -Houston's men but apparently had gotten away from them to die. It was -the section of the map which showed Snake Thickets, and how to find -the chests once you got inside the thickets, but not how to find the -thickets themselves. When you finally arrived, I had to choose between -nabbing you then, or staying on and trying to find out what was really -behind the murder."</p> - -<p>"Then, those other lawmen—"</p> - -<p>"The ones I told you about when I found you at Delcazar's?" Quartel -giggled slyly. "I'm the only lawman I seen in the <i>brasada</i> since I -came. You were pretty jumpy, Crawford. I thought if I cinched the girth -up tight enough it might squeeze out some interesting things."</p> - -<p>There was no apology in his voice for how he had used Crawford. The -elemental brutality of the man was in his greasy, thick-featured face, -and the courage, too. <i>And it would take that kind</i>, thought Crawford, -<i>to come into a place like this. I can cuss better and ride better and -rope better than any hombre in the world.</i></p> - -<p>"Not rope better."</p> - -<p>"What?" said Quartel.</p> - -<p>"Nothing," said Crawford, sitting up to pull on his boots. "How about -Tarant?"</p> - -<p>"He was involved all right," said Quartel. "He knew Rockland had -that section of the map, and allowed Huerta to stay at the Big O, -undoubtedly having made some deal with him to split the money when they -got it. Since it was Huerta that murdered Rockland, we might be able to -nab Tarant as an accessory."</p> - -<p>With a weary breath, Crawford rose. "We can reach Del's from here in a -couple of hours. He needs tending to, and that old Chihuahua cart of -his will be better than walking back."</p> - -<p>Quartel got up and turned to climb the bank toward the brush. Merida -started after him, but Crawford caught her arm.</p> - -<p>"Out there in the thickets," he said. "I didn't quite get it. You were -all mixed up. Something about not knowing what you'd wanted all your -life, and knowing now."</p> - -<p>"Maybe seeing those chests of gunpowder made me realize it fully," she -said. "It could be symbolical, in a way, of money. You seek it all your -life, and when you finally get it, you realize it isn't what you want, -after all."</p> - -<p>"What <i>do</i> you want?"</p> - -<p>"Don't you know?"</p> - -<p>He gazed at her without speaking for a moment. Her face had taken on -that feminine softness. Her eyes met his widely, shining a little. He -was suddenly swept with the desire to shout or cry or laugh or take -her in his arms, he didn't know which, the realization swelled so -swiftly within him. It had all been so broken and aborted and bitterly -frustrating between himself and Merida before, and now it was so -complete. Yet, somehow, it was too poignant to express here. He reached -out and took her hand.</p> - -<p>"Let's go," he said.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Treasure of the Brasada, by Les Savage - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREASURE OF THE BRASADA *** - -***** This file should be named 63159-h.htm or 63159-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/1/5/63159/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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