"No," said Huerta, putting that hand back in his pocket and walking up
the steps to the porch. "I think Crawford had better stay here at the
house for breakfast. You did such a poor job of keeping tabs on him
yesterday."
Quartel's face darkened and he took a quick breath before he spoke the
word. "Huerta--"
"Yes?" said Huerta, turning around at the top of the steps to face
Quartel. He leaned forward slightly, his satanic brows arched upward,
those heavy lids slipping down across his eyes. There was a faint,
inquiring smile on his thin, bloodless lips. For a moment Quartel stood
there staring at him, mouth still open a little. The rooster crowed
again. A chachalaca started scolding his mate out in the thicket. With
an abrupt jerk, Quartel turned to catch up the trailing reins of the
pony and started off toward the bunkhouse in that stiff-legged walk of
his, wooden boot heels thumping in a swift, hard tattoo against the
ground. Aforismo watched him go a moment, scratching his bare stomach
absently.
"You can't tell a man's been picking tunas just because he has nopal
thorns all over his coat," he said.
* * * * *
Crawford's boots made a soft muffled sound across the Aubusson rug of
the living-room. He lowered himself heavily into the Turkish toweling
which upholstered the movable cushions of the willow chairs by the
front windows. For the first time he felt fully the toll the preceding
night had exacted from him. His black beard failed to hide the gaunt,
driven hollows beneath his cheeks, and there was something feverish
in the glow of his eyes. He stared absently about the spacious, cool
room. Rockland had refurnished this chamber not two years ago, and as
many times as Crawford had been in it, he could never get used to such
luxury in this harsh, barren land. Huerta had followed him into the
house, halting in the entrance hall for a word with Merida, and now the
doctor stepped into the living-room, closing the door behind him. He
stood there a moment, studying Crawford.
"Merida will dress and be down for breakfast," he said, absently. He
moved to the pier table of rich, figured British oak at one side of
the room, opening one of the doors to lift out a cut-glass decanter.
"Perhaps you would like a drink--after what happened, no?" His face
managed to convey the effort the slightest physical exertion seemed to
cause him, as he poured the liquor. Then his red Chinese slippers slid
over the Aubusson's thick nap to Crawford. As he bent forward to hand
Crawford the drink, their glances met. Perhaps it was a trick of the
illumination from the window. The pupils of Huerta's eyes seemed to
dilate and contract and dilate again, small pin points of glittering
light flaring and dying and flaring once more beneath the jet-black
surface. It filled Crawford with a vague dizziness. "Why did you bring
Whitehead back, Crawford?" murmured the doctor. "It seems to me you
were rather in a position to escape, out there." He waited a moment,
but Crawford did not answer. "When you first came, I considered it
necessary to guard you," said Huerta, finally. "Perhaps I was taking
undue precautions. It seems you would have stayed anyway. Why,
Crawford? Do you still maintain you didn't murder Rockland?"
"That's right." It came from Crawford in a flat defiance.
"Then the only way you could prove your innocence would be to find who
really did murder Rockland," said Huerta. "Do you think the murderer is
here?"
"I have no doubt of it," said Crawford.
"Just what did happen out there?" Huerta said softly, bending toward
Crawford with the liquor.
Crawford took the drink, downed it neat before answering. "What do you
think?"
"I think you surprised a lot of people," said Huerta. "And gave them a
different estimation of you than they had possessed before." He leaned
backward slightly. "Why should Whitehead want to kill you?"
"Who said he did?"
"I never knew such a secretive man," said Huerta. "You refuse to give
one inch, don't you? Very well. Let us assume that Whitehead wanted to
kill you. Why should he?"
"Whitehead was Quartel's man?" said Crawford.
"Quartel is the foreman here," Huerta's agile mind had connected
that even while he spoke, and his head tilted forward in a faint
acquiescence. "All right. Why should Quartel want you killed?"
"He seemed to think I was a lawman," Crawford muttered.
"Is that sufficient reason?"
"You haven't been in the _brasada_ long, have you?" said Crawford.
"It's a good form of suicide for a lawman to show up in here."
Huerta nodded that way again, studying Crawford. "It is interesting,"
he murmured, "to watch it."