"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--"