"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."