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."