"Yours, Quartel, _madre de Dios_, yours," said Jacinto. "Still she
won't like that. Only last night I heard her say--"
"_Punta en boca_," said Quartel. "Shut your mouth. All right, Crawford.
We got the horses saddled."
Crawford's boots made a hesitant scrape on the hard-packed adobe floor;
then he took a breath, and walked toward the door. Jacinto waddled
after him, sweat glistening in the wrinkles between the rolls of fat
forming his face. He caught Crawford's arm, trying to stop him.
"Listen, _señor_," he said breathlessly. "Don't let them take you out
there. Merida is against it. I heard her and Huerta arguing about it.
Just wait till I tell her and she'll stop Quartel. Don't let them get
you out there." Quartel had moved outside to let Crawford through
the door. The heat of the sun struck him like a blow on the face as
he stepped out with Jacinto still tugging at him. "I'm telling you,
_señor_, don't be a fool. If they get you--"
"Dammittohell!" screamed Quartel, and stepped in to spin around with
his arm held out. The backhand blow caught Jacinto squarely in the
face. Jacinto's hand clutched Crawford's arm spasmodically as the blow
knocked him backward, jerking Crawford off balance. Then Jacinto's
three hundred pounds of sweating brown flesh struck the wall of the
bunkhouse. The building shuddered, and a shower of pale adobe flakes
descended on the huge Mexican as he slid to the ground.
Quartel stood there a moment, his face diffused with blood till it
looked positively negroid, his whole body shaking with rage. For the
first time, the utter, primal violence of the man struck Crawford.
Without a word, Quartel turned and walked across the compound.
The true suffocation in all this heat seemed to close in on Crawford
as he moved to follow Quartel. He found himself breathing with a heavy
effort. Cabezablanca was standing by the group of horses near the
corral. The white-headed man held his Winchester tenderly.
"How are you, Crawford?" he said softly. Crawford glanced at him
without answering, and Cabezablanca's eyes narrowed and he ran one
finger up and down the gleaming barrel of his carbine. "You still
refuse to be civil with me. That is unfortunate. I am a very dangerous
man, Crawford."
"That's your horse." Quartel nodded at a ewe-necked old paint standing
near the corral fence. It had rheumy eyes and rope scars all over its
gaunt shoulders and a saddleback the shape of hickory bow and the
weediest legs Crawford had ever laid eyes on. Yet, standing even this
near the animal, Crawford could feel that nebulous excitation begin to
rise in him. Or was it excitation? The sweat broke out on his palms. In
a sudden burst of anger, he clamped his fists shut.
"What kind of crowbait is this?" he said.