"I didn't think so," said Crawford. "That's one reason I won't take
your proposition. I don't think you could cure me of the stomach-ache.
I don't think you're a doctor. I don't think you ever were."
"My dear fellow, I spent fourteen years in the Mexican army--"
"So did a lot of butchers. If you operated on anybody, I'll bet a pink
cow to a blind hoot owl it was with a machete right up in the ranks."
"Crawford, my medical reputation has never been ques--" It had come out
of Huerta involuntarily, and he stopped himself with a distinct effort.
He stood there a moment, the anger flushing his sallow face dully as
he must have realized how far he had let himself go. Deliberately, he
allowed himself to settle back against the table. He closed his eyes
when he took a drag on the cigarette, did not open them as he exhaled,
and spoke. "Let us consider the negative side of my proposition, then.
Your condition can be used against you, Crawford. You could be driven
quite mad. Not obvious crudities. Not the type of thing Quartel would
use. Not making you ride a horse or letting you watch Africano. Not
anything as simple to get away from. Merely suggestion, Crawford. Your
mind will do the rest. Little things. Insidious things.
"Like the story of a miner who got crushed in a cave-in down at
Monterrey. Did that stay with you a long time, Crawford? At night,
perhaps, you'd wake up. Remembering. Wondering. Innuendoes, Crawford.
Insinuations. Things for the mind to retain and savor. Because it
_is_ your mind. I showed you that with the examination. It isn't your
legs. That doesn't give you the fear. It's what a man could work with,
Crawford, a doctor, who knew every stimulus, every reaction." He took
the butt of his cigarette from the jade holder, tossing it absently
into the fireplace. Then, still watching the holder, he spoke again,
sibilantly. "Do you doubt my ability to do it, Crawford, if necessary?"
Crawford had been watching the doctor with a taut, bleak expression on
his gaunt face, and he answered in a hollow, resigned way. "No."
"Then perhaps you will reconsider my proposition."
"No," said Crawford, in that same hollow tone.
Huerta reached beneath his coat for his silver cigarette case, taking a
smoke from this to fit it in the holder. He did not raise his eyes to
Crawford again as he moved across the room toward the door. He pulled
open the portal, and only then, turning toward Crawford, did his glance
rise. Again Crawford was swept with that strange, hypnotic dizziness,
as he stared into the man's eyes. It struck him as childishly
melodramatic, and he wanted to laugh, and could not.
"I think you will regret coming back this morning," said Huerta, in a
barely audible voice, before he turned to go out. "I think you will
regret it exceedingly."
_Chapter Six_
"TELL US WHAT HAPPENED."
An adobe banco ran down one side of the cookshack on the inside,
forming a bench, and it was upon this that Jacinto had deposited his
generous bulk. He was bent in childish concentration over a block of
wax from which he carefully peeled thin strips, depositing these with
much care into a clay bowl. Small, intimate mutters rumbled up from him
with each process.
"Ah, so," he mumbled, slicing off a piece, "ah _sí_," and sliced off
another, and then jumped erect in startled surprise, dropping the block
of wax. "Ah, Crawford!"
Crawford stepped on in through the door, sniffing. "Smells like
bayberry."
"How--how did you get out?" quavered Jacinto, grunting painfully with
the effort it cost him to stoop over and retrieve the wax.
"Nobody stopped me," said Crawford. "They gave me that upstairs
bedroom, but I couldn't sleep."
"You better not come in here, Crawford," said the gross cook. "Maybe
they're not watching you like they did, but you better get out of here.
Why do you think Huerta kept you up at the house this morning? Didn't
you see how Quartel looked at you? You're just lucky he didn't get you
down here."
There was a dish of cracklings on the table, and Crawford took one,
pulling a three-legged stool out to sit on it. "Quartel and the others
are out chousing cattle. Making candles?"
"_Sí_," mumbled Jacinto, lowering himself back on the bench. "Nobody
can make them like me. That was bayberry you smelled all right. I
didn't have enough sheep tallow. First I make it into blocks and then
cut it into small scraps so it melts quick without burning. I put the
wax in hot water and scoop the grease off as it comes to the top. Then
I strain it through a horsehair cloth to remove whatever dirt I missed
in skimming. I am now heating the wax to pour in the molds. Did you
ever see such fine molds? My father owned that brass one in El Paso. It
holds two dozen candles at one pouring. If you came here to find out
what's going on, I can't tell you."
The abrupt transition brought Crawford's head up in surprise. Jacinto
set the mold end up in a dishpan, chuckling.
"I am not as stupid as I am corpulent, Crawford. You didn't come here
just to eat my cracklings." His great bloodshot eyes slid upward in
their pouches till they met Crawford's. "But I can't tell you anything,
Crawford. I know something is going on. Huerta and that woman.
Something not quite right. Tarant too, somehow. Maybe you can tell me."
"Hyacinth, what did you think of that story about Santa Anna's chests?"
"I--Santa Maria, that wax is hot." Jacinto sat shaking his finger a
moment. Then he put it into his mouth. "If Santa Anna lost some chests
up here, I guess he lost them, that's all. Mm, you ought to taste that
bayberry. I think I'll season my _chiles rollenos_ with it some time."
"You heard the one about the map?" said Crawford.
"The _derrotero_? _Sí_, I guess there was supposed to be a map. Isn't
there always, with something like that?"
"Ever stop to think of Santa Anna's full name?"
"_Ciertamente._ Everybody knows it. Antonio Lopez de San--" Jacinto
stopped, staring at Crawford. Wax dripped from the tin ladle onto the
floor. Crawford popped a last crackling into his mouth.
"Would that give her a connection?" he said.
"Lopez is a common name," said Jacinto, almost defensively.
"A woman like that don't trail through this kind of country just for
the scenery," said Crawford. He closed his eyes, rolling the name
meditatively off his tongue. "Merida Lopez."
It must have been about then the first sound floated in from outside,
the creak of saddle leather, a man's hoarse cough. Jacinto jumped
across the room, jerking Crawford up out of the chair. "They're back,
Crawford, you got to go, you got to get out of here, if Quartel ever
gets you alone after Whitehead, he'll--"
He stopped shoving Crawford toward the doorway, and his voice faded
into a series of small, choked sounds. Aforismo stood there, sweat
streaking the dust in his smooth brown face, holding a belduque in his
hands.
"_El amante fiel_," he said, running his finger down the keen edge,
"the Loyal Lover. Did you ever see my knife, Crawford? Truly a
remarkable weapon. Handed down in my family for generations. The hilt
was once studded with precious stones, but they have long since been
picked out by various members of my illustrious house who were in
temporary financial destitution." He took a shuffling step toward them.
"Look at the _bravos_ on the blade. See this one. _Nothing compares
with my kiss._ Isn't that a delectable motto?"
Jacinto shrank back, staring in fascinated horror at the words cut into
that side of the gleaming blade. Through the dog-run, Crawford could
hear the thump of a chair in the bunkhouse, the clatter of spoons on
the table.
"Please, Aforismo, please," quavered Jacinto. "Let him go. _Madre de
Dios!_ let him go out the door before they find him in here. You know
what will happen. Quartel would--"
"And this one," Aforismo said, turning the blade over and pointing
to another motto cut into that side. "This is my favorite _bravo_ I
think. _Tripe is sweet but bowels are better._ Don't you like that
one, Jacinto?" He took another shuffling step toward them with the
point almost touching Crawford's belly. "Don't you like that _bravo_,
Crawford? Tell me you like it. It is my favorite, I think."
"Please, please." Jacinto was cringing behind Crawford, wringing his
hands, sweat dribbling down his coarse face. "_En el nombre de Dios_,
Aforismo, let him go, he never did anything to you, he never harmed one
little hair of your head, I hate violence so, oh, I do hate violence
so, my father he always tell me there are two sins in the world, work
and fighting, and--oh, _por Dios_, Aforismo, _Santa Maria, nombre de mi
madre_, let him go, let him go--"
"They say down in Durango a coyote always howls loudest in the trap,"
said Aforismo, nudging Crawford gently back with that needle point.
"I think maybe we better all go in the bunkhouse, eh? The hands are
getting hungry. Tripe is sweet but bowels are better, eh?" Crawford
did not step back quickly enough, and that needle point went through
his shirt with a soft ripping sound. The stinging bite of steel in the
hard muscle of his belly caused his move back to be involuntary. His
breath left him in a hoarse gust and he bent forward with the impulse
driving through him. That was as far as it went. Aforismo's boots made
that bland shuffle on the hard-packed earth, moving forward. His face
twisted with frustrated anger, Crawford shifted back into the dog-run,
shoving the cringing cook behind him.
"_Dios_, Aforismo, _por Dios_, no violence, please, I could not stand
the sight of blood, it would make me regurgitate, please--"
Jacinto knocked over a chair backing from the dog-run into the
bunkhouse. It made a loud clatter. Then Crawford was in the bunkhouse,
still bent forward that way, his breath coming out harsh and swift,
and he could see them. Bueno Bailey was seated at the table.
"I was just showing Crawford the _bravos_ on my belduque," said
Aforismo. "In Durango they say it is an ignorant man who cannot tell
his sons at least one _bravo_."
"_Bueno._" Bailey trailed the word out in a pleased, nasal twang,
shoving the bench back from the table. "Siddown, Crawford. We was just
about to eat."
"I guess you never met Ford Innes, did you, Crawford," said Quartel.
"This is Crawford, Ford. He is the one who brought your _amigo_ back
this morning."
The redheaded man in the doorway emitted a flat, harsh grunt. He must
have just stepped in, for he held his saddle under one arm. The short,
square lines of his body held all the lethal threat of a snub-nosed
derringer. He had a flat-topped hat set squarely on his head. The
bottom of his red beard was dirty from rubbing against the grease daubs
on the chest of a buckskin ducking jacket with square tails that hung
outside his _chivarras_ and which were caught up on one side by the
wooden handle of his Remington.
"Ford just got back from taking Wallace Tarant into San Antonio," said
Quartel. "As many times as that shyster's been back and forth between
here and town, he still can't find his way through the brush himself."
The leather rigging clattered against the hard earthen floor when Innes
dropped his pack. His bushy bleached brows formed a reddish dominance
above shrewd little eyes that had not left Crawford's face since he
entered. He moved over and sat down across from Bailey.
"So you brought Whitehead back." His voice held the same lack of
intonation as his grunt.
"Ford had been Whitehead's saddle mate for a long time," said Quartel.
"I guess he'd like to know how it happened to Whitehead."
"Get us some grub, Jacinto," said Aforismo. With his belduque he
indicated a place beside Bailey. "An empty seat there, Crawford. Sit
down."
Crawford looked at the knife. He sat down.
The table groaned as Aforismo lowered himself onto it and put his
feet on the bench, running a finger up and down his belduque. Ford
Innes began playing with his spoon on the table. Jacinto came from the
dog-run with a dish of beans. He fumbled the plate at the last moment
and almost tipped it onto the table. His fat jowls were trembling with
his chin.
"Please, please, let's not have any--"
"So Whitehead broke his neck out in the thicket," said Innes.
"Have some beans, Glenn," said Bailey, ladling them onto a plate he had
shoved before Crawford.
"They call them _nacionales_ down in Durango, because so many Mexicans
eat them," said Aforismo. "It is said of one who is weak that he lacks
_nacionales_."
"How did it happen to Whitehead?" said Innes.
"We don't know," said Bailey, helping the man to beans. "Crawford just
brought him back over his horse with his neck broke and said he found
him out in the brush that way."
"How did it happen?" Innes asked Crawford.
"There was eleven shots gone from Whitehead's carbine," said Quartel.
Innes began eating in a slow, mechanical way, his jaws working steadily
beneath his red beard, looking at Crawford. "Where's your iron?"
"Whitehead took away Crawford's rifle when he first came," said
Aforismo.
Innes's bleached eyebrows raised, and he ceased chewing for a moment.
Quartel was standing behind Crawford to one side, and Crawford caught
the sly grin spreading the man's pawky lips.
"There was no other marks on Whitehead's body," Quartel said.
"Well," said Innes, still looking at Crawford that way. Finally he went
back to spooning up the beans, his eyes never leaving Crawford's face.
"What happened?" he said again, around a mouthful.
"Yeah." Bailey nudged Crawford on the shoulder with his spoon. "What
happened?"
Crawford could hear his own breathing now. It held a harsh, driven
sound. He looked from Innes to Bailey, from Bailey to Quartel, from
Quartel to Aforismo. There was a patent brutal intent in all their
faces. He was hunched over so far now the heat of the beans in his
plate penetrated his shirt and warmed his chest.
"Where's the sorrel?" said Bailey.
"What sorrel?" said Innes.
"The horse he took out," said Quartel. "He never brought him back."
"Coffee?" It was Jacinto again, waddling in with a big pot. He set it
down, looking around at the men. He wrung his great fat hands together,
speaking in a small, strained voice. "Please, _señores_, please.
Violence. I cannot stand it. You won't do this. Tell me you won't do
this. My father, he say--"
Aforismo turned toward him, lifting the belduque. "Would you like my
Loyal Lover to see inside the sack?"
"No." Jacinto backed out, lugubrious tears forming at the corners of
his eyes. "No, _lástima de Dios_, tears of God, no--"
"You ain't told us what happened yet," said Innes, still eating.
"Yeah." Quartel shoved Crawford from behind. "How did you lose the
sorrel? You could ride any horse I could, remember?"
Crawford's hands were clasped desperately between his knees. There was
a taut, set expression to his features. Sweat had begun trickling down
his cheeks into his beard. His whole body was trembling.
"So you brought Whitehead in with a broken neck," said Innes.
"Yeah." Bueno poked Crawford with the spoon again. "How did it get
broke?"
"Yeah." Aforismo pricked him from the other side with the knife. "What
happened?"
"How did it get broke?"
"How did you lose the sorrel?"
"What happened?"
Crawford jerked away as Aforismo bent forward with that belduque again.
It carried him against Bueno, sitting on his other side. Bueno pushed
him back roughly. Quartel shoved him from behind so hard his chest
struck the table. A small, strangled sound escaped him.
"Tell us what happened."
"_Sí_, tell us, Crawford."
"What happened, Crawford?"
"Talk, damn you." Bueno's shove was harder.
"Tell us, Crawford." The knife prick was deeper. He jerked away from
it. Bailey caught him and shoved him back brutally. He made a spasmodic
effort to rise. Quartel put both hands on his shoulders and forced him
back down. He tried to twist around. Aforismo's belduque was in his
face. He jerked back the other way into Bailey. His hands knotted and
writhed between his knees underneath the table. His whole body was
shuddering now.
"Where's the sorrel?"
"How'd he break his neck?"
"Talk, damn you!"
"Tell us, Crawford."
"What happened?"
"Gentlemen!" It came from the doorway, and it stopped them abruptly.
Huerta stood there, bent forward slightly, and those bluish lids were
almost closed over his eyes.
"I think we all know what happened to Whitehead," he said, "don't you?"
He stood there a moment, but no one answered. He dropped his eyes to
the jade cigarette holder he held in one hand, tapping it to knock the
ash from the cigarette, and still looking down that way, spoke again.
"I think it would be wise, now, Crawford, for you to come with me, up
to the house, don't you?"
_Chapter Seven_