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--"