"A lot of people know about it," said Crawford. "I should think it
would be the first place they'd look."
"They?" Then Delcazar seemed to understand. He pointed at himself with
a thumb. "You think--that I--I--" He halted with a confused grunt,
staring at Crawford. "Then--you didn't?"
"Don't you know?" said Crawford.
"_Dios_, no," said Delcazar. "How could I know? Bueno told me how you
threaten Rockland after Africano rolled you. I thought--" he gave a
short, rueful laugh--"I guess I even hoped--"
He trailed off, shrugging hopelessly again, and Crawford bent toward
him. "Del, are you trying to tell me you didn't kill Rockland?"
"Trying!" The old man bristled. "Trying to tell you? You doubt my--"
He broke off, staring at Crawford. When he spoke again, it was simply,
without vehemence. "No, Crawford. I didn't. I thought you did. You're
on Bible Two. There was a couple of Rangers in the brush. Torbirio
spoke with them. He tell me they had you on the fugitive list."
His face darkened, and he turned away from Crawford, setting the frying
pan down. From one of the terraced shelves he took a grease-soaked
paper, unwrapping it from about the piece of bacon, rubbing the meat
sparingly across the frying pan.
"Isn't that the same piece of side meat you had when we were here
last?" said Crawford.
Delcazar tried to smile. "Almost, I guess. Some day I have a hog of my
own and we grease the pan with a fresh piece every morning."
"You said you hoped I had killed Rockland," Crawford murmured, watching
Delcazar's back. "Why?"
"_Nada_," said Delcazar. "_Nada._"
Crawford's levis had been drying over the fire, and he rose to get
them. "Because if I had done it, the whole thing could have been
nothing more than the quarrel between me and Rockland?"
The old man pulled a pot of boiled beans out and dumped them into the
frying pan. "Frijoles _fritos_, Crawford. You always like them."
"But if it wasn't me who did it," said Crawford, pulling on his damp
levis, "there would have to be some other reason for Rockland being
murdered. Santa Anna's chests, for instance." He saw Delcazar's whole
body stiffen. The beans started to hiss as the flames licked at the
bottom of the frying pan. "What do you know, Del?" said Crawford.
"_Nada, nada._" The old man turned around, rising with effort. "I don't
know nothing."
"Your uncle was the _capitán_ of that mule train," said Crawford.
"My mother tell me that," said Delcazar. "I never seen him. He died in
Mexico City when I was a little _niño_."
"Then why are you so het-up if you don't know anything about it?"
"It's dangerous, Crawford," said Delcazar, catching at his arm. "It's
the most dangerous thing ever hit this brush. You better get out of it
while you're still alive. It's got the whole _brasada_ going now. No
telling how many are mixed up in it now. The Mexican government has an
agent up here somewhere."
"Huerta?"
"The man at Rockland's?" said Delcazar. "I don't think so."
"Huerta was the one who told me about your uncle," said Crawford.
"Funny nobody has come hunting you. You're a logical link."
"They have," said Delcazar. "I wasn't here to greet them."
"Who?"
"That ramrod Tarant hired to clean out the brush," said Delcazar. "Him
and his whole _corrida_."
"Quartel?" Crawford's eyes narrowed, staring past Delcazar. "I hadn't
thought of him."
"You better think of him. You better think about everybody, Glenn. No
telling who's in it, now, and who ain't. No telling who's going to
come up behind you next. I hear they take your Henry away--" He turned
and squatted by the mess of saddle rigging and blankets in the corner,
rummaging around till he came up with a wooden-handled bowie--"Here,
it's all I have. I know it seems silly, but you got to have something.
I wish I had a gun. That old Remington I owned blew up." He stopped
again, clutching Crawford's arm. "Glenn, you ain't going back?"
"Why else did you give me the knife?"
The old man let his hand slide off.
"I guess so. I know you." He sniffled, rubbing peevishly at his
coffee-colored nose with a calloused index finger. "I guess there ain't
any use trying to keep you from it. They couldn't keep you from it with
Whitehead. What are you after there, Glenn?"
_Puntales_ of peeled cedar formed the doorframe. Crawford hefted the
bowie in his hand, flipped it into the cedar post with a deft twist of
his hand. He walked across the room and pulled it free.
"We found Snake Thickets before the norther hit, Del," he said.
The old man grunted. "You're doing it wrong for a short throw like
that. Let me show you."
Crawford had been holding the bowie by the tip of its blade and
throwing it from back over his shoulder, allowing it to flip over once
in the air before it struck. Delcazar palmed the heavy knife with the
hilt against his wrist and the blade on his fingers. He threw it from
his hip, point foremost. It struck with a dull thud. Crawford went over
to the post. The blade was embedded half an inch deeper than his throws
had sent it in. Standing there in the doorway, he turned back to the
old man, squinting at him. Delcazar sniffled that way again, rubbing
his nose, not meeting Crawford's eyes.
"I told you, Glenn, I never even seen Mogotes Serpientes. If you find
it, okay. But I never even seen it. I thought it was just a story, like
Resaca Perdida."
"We saw Lost Swamp too," said Crawford. "Snake Thickets was the most
interesting, though. You should have heard it. Sounded like those
beans, only ten times as much. Must be a million snakes in those
_mogotes_." He paced back to Delcazar, palming the knife as the old man
had this time, throwing it with a grunt. With the blade quivering in
the cedar post, he turned part way to the Mexican. "I guess you know
what the woman came from Mexico for. She thinks it's somewhere in Snake
Thickets."
Delcazar was shorter than Crawford, and he had to turn his head up to
meet the younger man's eyes. "Listen, Glenn," he said soberly, "I don't
know what you're in this for. I've heard a lot of reasons. Quartel
thinks you got a badge tacked on you somewhere. That might be. A man
can get a new job in the time you been away from the brush. Bueno
Bailey said something about trying to clear yourself of Rockland's
murder. That may be, too. If you didn't kill Rockland, maybe the man
who did is at the Big O spread. Personally, I no care whether you
killed Rockland or not or why you're here. I just no want to see you
messed up in it, that's all. I know you before, and I no want to see
you messed up in it. Take my advice as an _amigo_. Forget Mogotes
Serpientes. Forget the whole thing. Get out of it. Get out of it right
now."
Crawford scratched his beard, squinting into the old man's eyes
thoughtfully. "You know, Del, it just strikes me. Two men can be
friends for a long time, and not really know each other very well."
"Ah, _carajo_," growled Delcazar, shuffling back to hunker over the
fire.
Crawford watched him stir the steaming beans. "Is there a way into
Snake Thickets, Del?"
"_Nada_," grumbled the old man. "I don't know. I don't know nothing."
There was a muffled sound from outside, and then Merida was standing
silhouetted in the doorway, staring at Crawford. All his weight lay
in his chest and shoulders, and below the line of dark sunburn that
covered his face and neck, the skin was pale and white and so thin
as to gleam almost translucently over the musculature lying quilted
across his upper back. He became aware of how long Merida had gazed at
him like that, without speaking, and turned farther toward her. The
myriad striations that formed the heavy roll of muscle capping his
shoulders were clearly defined, and the abrupt movement caused a faint
ripple beneath the skin, like the stir of a sleepy snake. Merida smiled
strangely as she entered with a big clay jug of water.
"_Cimarrón_," she said.
"What?" he asked.
"_Cimarrón_," she said. "_Ladino._ I never could quite think of what
you reminded me of. Now I know. One of those wild outlaw cattle Quartel
brings in from the brush. Sullen, like them. Bitter. Even built like
them. Their weight all up in their shoulders, running the brush so
constantly they melt the beef off till--"
She stopped short, a strange, indulgent smile catching at her mouth as
she saw the puzzled expression in his face. He turned to pull his shirt
off the estufa. Merida moved after him, till she stood close behind.
Delcazar was across the room, pulling a twist of chili from where he
had hung it on a viga. Merida spoke in a low tone that the old man
would not hear.
"What was it out there, Glenn?"
"When do you mean?" he said, without turning around.
"You know when I mean," she said. "After I'd kissed you. The way you
looked. That expression on your face."
"Nothing," he said stiffly. He couldn't tell her, somehow, if she
didn't know. It just wasn't in him to express his own terrible
incapacity again, to her. For that was what it had been, out there,
after the kiss. The bitter, unutterable realization that no matter how
much he wanted her, he was completely unworthy of such a woman, and
could never have her.
"It was something," said Merida, tensely, trying to turn him around,
"tell me, Crawford, tell me--"
"Hola, Delcazar!" shouted someone, from outside, halting Merida. The
old man whirled about, dropping the chili. Quartel had come into view,
outside, across the clearing from the doorway, moving into the open
from the brush in stiff, tentative steps, his Chihuahuas tinkling
softly. He was leading his own _trigueño_ and the copperbottom Merida
had ridden. Crawford made an abortive move toward the door, but
Delcazar caught him.
"_Buenos días_," said Delcazar, stepping then into view.
"I found Merida's horse down in the bottoms," Quartel told him. "I
thought they might--ah, the flash rider himself."
He must have seen them behind Delcazar. Crawford pushed past the old
man into the open, and saw the morning sunlight catch Quartel's white
teeth in that pawky grin. The brush held a torn, rended look after the
norther, great holes ripped in the mesquite thicket behind Quartel,
mesquite berries littering the ground. The copperbottom shifted
wearily, rattling its bridle.
"How did you find us?" said Crawford.
"I trailed you," said Quartel.
"That's some trailing."
Quartel shrugged. "Believe it or not. I don't care. There was someone
at the Big O looking for you."
"Yeah?"
"_Sí._ I misjudged you, Crawford. Let me apologize for thinking
you were a lawman." Merida made a small strained sound from behind
Crawford, and Quartel grinned at her. "_Sí_, Merida. This man looking
for Crawford don't pin it on his undershirt, either. He has it right
out where everybody can see. He's hunting Crawford all right. He says
he's got orders to shoot him on sight."
_Chapter Twelve_