It was twilight of the same day that Quartel had found them at
Delcazar's jacal. Crawford and Merida had ridden double on the
copperbottom back to the Big O, where Merida had gone up to her room
to change, while Crawford washed up in the kitchen. No one was in
evidence when Crawford returned to the living-room for a drink, feeling
exhausted and battered from that night in the storm and the long ride
back. He was no connoisseur, his experience with good liquor limited
to the few times he had drunk Rockland's potables here, and he was at
a loss to choose from the array of glittering bottles and decanters in
the sideboard. He sampled one labeled _curaçao_ and found it too sweet
for his taste. Finally he settled on some armagnac, pouring himself
a stiff jolt and moving toward the French windows. He had meant to
sit down in one of the willow chairs, but the strange silence outside
caught his attention.
It was unnatural for this time of day. There was no wind, and the
mesquite berries hung in motionless clusters from drooping trees. Dusk
clouded farther thickets, and only the nearest growths took form. The
low mats of chaparral crouched like waiting cats in the gloom. The
warped dead hackberry by the wagon road thrust skeleton arms skyward.
It seemed to be waiting for something too. That oppressive sense of
expectancy bore in on Crawford, and he emptied half the glass at one
gulp, squinting his eyes as the brandy burned his throat. It did not
help. Waiting. The sickish sweet scent of the _lluvia de oro_ twining
itself through the lattice of the front porch was so oppressive in the
hot, still air that it nauseated him. Waiting--
The sound of someone rushing down the stairs caused him to turn toward
the door. It was Merida, and he was surprised to see she had not
changed from the torn, dirty leggings she had ridden in. Then he saw
the expression on her face.
"Where's Quartel?" she cried.
"He went down to the bunkhouse I guess," Crawford told her, frowning.
"What is it?"
"He was right."
"Who was right?"
"Quartel," she said, coming across the room in still, tense steps, her
eyes fixed to his face. "Nexpa saw him."
"Quartel?"
"No," she said. "Crawford, don't you understand? Nexpa saw him from an
upstairs bedroom. He's out in the brush and he's coming back."
It struck him, then, whom she meant, and his fingers tightened
involuntarily around the glass. "The lawman?" She stared at him
without answering, her mouth working faintly. He realized his fingers
ached, and he eased his grip on the glass. "That's crazy, Merida. No
badge-packer would come in here like that. Even Sheriff Kenmare was
afraid to follow me this far. Nexpa must be mistaken." She shook her
head, the planes of her face taut and strained-looking, her eyes glued
in that wide, frightened way to his. He made a small, frustrated motion
with the glass, his voice growing hoarse. "She must be, Merida. No
lawman. Not even a Texas Ranger." She shook her head again, emitting
a small, sobbing sound. He bent toward her tensely, his chest moving
perceptibly with the breath passing through it. He was remembering
what Delcazar had said. Bible Two? "It _is_ a Ranger?" Crawford almost
whispered.
She caught his arm, the words torn from her. "You've got to get out,
Crawford. Before he reaches here."
"Ranger," he muttered, almost to himself, turning to get past her
toward the door. "It can't be--"
"Too much time, Crawford," she said swiftly, blocking him from that
direction. "Can't you understand? He's coming back. You won't even be
able to cross the compound before he's here. You won't even be able to
reach the brush. You'll never make it on foot, Crawford."