"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.