"The horse," said Huerta, looking at Merida, "the horse."
"What about the horse?" she said.
"I don't mean that," said Huerta. "I--"
"Never mind," said Crawford. "My legs are all right."
"Oh?" Huerta's arched brows rose. "I got a different impression. You
weren't riding."
"I lost my horse on the Flores Road."
"It was hit?"
"I lost it, that's all," said Crawford.
"Oh." Huerta took out a jade cigarette holder, fitting a smoke into it.
He leaned back, looking at Crawford. "You were watching Africano out in
the corral, that way."
"What about the way I was watching it?"
Huerta's eyes dropped meditatively to the coffee cup, and he allowed
twin streamers of smoke to leave his nostrils. "I guess I got the wrong
impression, Crawford. You'll have to pardon me."
"Impression about what, Huerta?" said Tarant.
Huerta seemed to rouse himself with an effort. "Ah, nothing. Nothing,
Tarant. You're not drinking your coffee, Crawford. Is it too sweet
for you? Pour him another cup, Tarant." The woman was watching him
narrowly now, and Huerta let his eyes meet hers momentarily before he
leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. He took a sip of his own
coffee, looking down the middle of the table in that meditation again.
"They say a man is getting old when he starts reminiscing, but I can't
help being reminded of an instance I ran across in Monterrey some years
ago. After the war I chanced to be employed by a Mexican firm with
interests in a mine north of the city. I had been company doctor some
months when one of the lower shafts caved in, killing half a dozen of
the men. I managed to patch up most of those who escaped with minor
injuries. There was one miner, a huge giant of a fellow, whose legs had
been crushed somewhat beneath the slide. My operations were singularly
successful, and within five or six months he was as good as new, the
bones knit perfectly and the muscles gave no sign of the damage. During
his convalescence, there had been no pain. Yet, the very first day he
went back to work, he experienced the most acute agony in his legs."
The little muscles jumped out all along Crawford's jaw suddenly. Huerta
looked up, smiled faintly. "Yes--the most acute agony. I could find
nothing organically wrong with him, absolutely nothing. In my office,
he did not feel the pain. I took him back to the mine. As he approached
the mouth of the shaft in which he had worked, the agony returned. All
the symptoms of genuine pain. Sweating, trembling, tears in the eyes. I
could not account for it. There was utterly no reason for him to feel
the pain. I administered drugs, enough to deaden the greatest agony. It
had no effect. Then I took him away from the mine. As soon as it was
out of sight, the pain receded, disappeared."
Merida's face had lifted as he spoke, a tight furrow appearing between
her brows. "You mean--his mind--"
"_Sí_," said Huerta. He was adjusting a fresh cigarette carefully in
its holder. "I came to that conclusion finally. The mind plays funny
tricks on us sometimes. That cave-in had been such a ghastly experience
that he actually felt pain when he returned to the scene. And worse
than the pain. Fear. He could never work at his trade again; he could
never get near a mine without feeling that pain. And that fear. He
tried to fight it. He had been a brave man once. He tried to force
himself back into the mines. But in the shaft he became a sniveling,
gibbering coward, crying and puking like a baby, unable to speak
coherently even. Yes, the mind does play funny tricks on us--" Huerta
held his cigarette holder out abruptly. "Crawford, you've spilled your
coffee!"
_Chapter Three_