The paste of corn meal and water Jacinto now had was called masa. He
began to pat it into thin _tortillas_. The _comal_, heating over an
open fire, was a large plate upon which he cast the _tortillas_ to
bake, without salt, leavening, or grease.
"I am not too astute in affairs of the heart," said the cook, drawing
a heavy breath and wiping sweat off his fat face, "but I have had a
few, and have drawn some conclusions about women from them, which I
think are as accurate as any conclusions about women can be. They will
do strange things when they are in love, Crawford, often cruel things,
or brutal. Love to them, when they are enmeshed within it, is all of
life, is their whole existence. They will fight for it with their last
breath. They will go to any extreme for it. Merida is no ordinary
woman. You have seen her fire. You know her depths."
"You're riding a pretty muddy creek," said Crawford.
"I'll clear the water," said Jacinto. "Just give me time. Merida came
to you for help, didn't she?"
"You might call it that."
"All right. But she knew you could never be much help in the state you
were in. You told me she tried to aid you in conquering it that day you
left the bull-tailing."
"So what. Huerta acted like he wanted to help me once too. It was only
part of the game he was playing."
"_Lástima de Dios_," cried Jacinto, clapping fat hands to his brow.
"Pity of God. Now I know you must be as loco about Merida as she is
about you. Only a man in love could be that blind. Can't you see what
she did? That day you and she rode into the _brasada_ must have made
Merida realize, finally, that the only way you could conquer your fear
was to ride Africano again. And she wanted to see you conquer your
fear, Crawford. More than anything else. More, even, than finding what
she came up here for. More, even, than having you live. She didn't want
a half-man. She didn't want a coward. She wanted _you_, the way you
used to be, the way she knew you must have been whenever those little
flashes of your old self would show themselves."
Crawford had turned around, staring at Jacinto, now. It was beginning
to grow in him. The first dim realization of it. An understanding he
couldn't name, yet. It prickled the hair on the back of his neck.
"Yes." Jacinto could see the strange wonder in his eyes. "You are
beginning to see, no? It took you long enough. There are not many women
with that kind of gravel in their craw. Not many women could have done
it that way."
It was starting to blossom in Crawford now, a strange, dim exaltation.
"Do you realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that
morning and see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing
what it meant?" Suddenly he knew how she must have felt. "It doesn't
happen to a person often in her life." Suddenly he knew what she had
been talking about. "That sort of feeling."
That sort of feeling. He looked around at Jacinto, his eyes wide.
"_Sí_," said Jacinto. "You understand now. It would take a lot of man
to accept it, Crawford, even when he understood. It would take _her_
kind of man. Admittedly she took a big chance on killing you. Maybe
she'd rather have you dead than a coward. That's the kind she is. Not
many men could take her. Not many men could realize she sent them out
deliberately that way, and still take her."
"Hyacinth," Crawford said almost inaudibly, "Hyacinth--"
"_Sí, sí._" The gross cook began to chuckle excitedly, for he must have
seen what was in Crawford. "You better go to her now, Crawford, before
it's too late. She thinks you're through with her, after what you told
her last night. She thinks you're not enough of a man to take it that
way. But you just didn't understand. Now you do. Go on, Crawford. You
won't get a woman with that kind of guts twice in your life. It's
almost as good as owning a vinegar roan. I owned a vinegar roan once--"
But Crawford had stopped hearing the cook. It held him completely now.
It lifted him so high he didn't feel his feet hit the floor when he
started to walk. He moved past Jacinto with a dazed, twisted expression
on his face, not even seeing the fat Mexican. The only thing within his
awareness was that sweeping, tingling sense of exaltation, so strong
and poignant it approached a nausea. The kitchen door faced away from
the house, and it was more direct to go through the dog-run and out the
bunkhouse; he must have gone that way unconsciously, not remembering
his passage through the covered run.
"Where you going?" It penetrated only dully. He kept on walking. Then
somebody was in front of him. "I said where you going?"
Innes! The singular odor of sweaty leather reached Crawford from the
red-bearded man's buckskin ducking jacket.
"The house," he said, trying to get around the man. Ford Innes shifted
again, and this time Crawford was brought up against the man's body. It
was like walking into an oak tree.
"Not right now," said Innes.
It was the other things, then, brought in with a clarity almost
painful. Bueno Bailey. Sitting at the table. Filing the sear on the
trigger of his gun. Aforismo. Sitting on the upper bunk to Crawford's
right. His legs dangling over the sideboard.
"Did you ever see the _dichos_ on my belduque?" he asked, seriously. "I
like the one on this side best. _Tripe is sweet but bowels are better._
Don't you like that one best?"
The contraction of Crawford's muscles began with his calves. They
twitched faintly, stiffening up, and the tightening ran up the inside
of his legs and pervaded his belly and crossed his chest. His whole
body was taut as he took the step back away from contact with Innes.
"That's it," said the red-bearded man.
Bueno's gun was an old 1848 percussion Dragoon, converted to handle
cartridges. Rubbing his finger delicately across the sear, Bailey
nodded his head approvingly.
"_Bueno_," he said. "I'll bet the pull isn't more than half a pound on
that now."
"Where is Quartel?" asked Crawford.
"If you don't blow your foot off, you'll blow your head off," Innes
told Bailey. "I never heard of anybody filing a hair trigger down below
a pound."
"Where is Quartel?"
Tongue between his teeth, Bailey slipped the mainspring into the butt
of his Dragoon, tightening the strain screw against it carefully. "You
don't think that's too much of a hair trigger, do you? I knew a Mexican
up in San Antonio that used to carry an old Remington filed down to a
quarter-pound pull."
"All right," said Crawford, through his teeth. "I am going up to the
house, Innes. Will you get out of my way?"
"That Mex would still be alive if he didn't have the cussed habit of
jumping off his horse when it stopped," said Bueno Bailey, slipping the
trigger down through the frame and screwing the trigger stud into its
proper hole. "But I don't jump off my nag. I get off real easy all the
time."
"Please, Innes." It was Jacinto's voice, from behind Crawford. "Let him
through this time. It ain't the same as before. Please. It's different.
_He's_ different. Don't you know? _En el nombre de mi madre._ Can't you
see--"
"This _bravo's_ pretty good," said Aforismo, swinging his legs.
"_Nothing compares with my kiss._ But I guess I like the other _dicho_
better. Which do you like best, Crawford?"
"Oh, _Dios_." Jacinto's voice was quavering now. "Please, Innes. I hate
violence so. Let him go. I was not born for such as this. Wassail and
song, Innes. Can't we all have wassail and song--"
"_Bueno_," said Bailey, as he finished tightening the hammer stud and
started putting on the metal side plates.
"_Compañeros_, can't you hear me? Wassail and song. No violence. Oh,
_carajo_--"
"I'll ask you once more." Crawford's voice was flat. "Get out of my
way."
"You're not going any place," said Innes, pulling his buckskin jacket
up off the handle of his own gun. "Why don't you sit down?"
"Yeah." Bailey had the walnut grips screwed on. He reached for the
barrel, fitting it in place. "Why don't you sit down?"
Crawford stooped over to grab the hilt of Delcazar's bowie in his boot
and lunged forward at the same time. He struck Ford Innes doubled over.
The red-bearded man expelled his air in a gasp and went down. Crawford
let himself go with Innes, rolling off the man as they struck. He came
face up with the knife in his hand. It happened so fast that Aforismo
only had time to pull his belduque back for the throw. Crawford's
position prevented an over-the-shoulder throw such as Aforismo's.
"All right, Del," he grunted, and heaved the bowie from his hip, point
foremost, while he was still in the act of rolling off Innes.
"_Chingado!_" he heard Aforismo scream. Bailey's body blocked the view
in that same moment. Crawford did not see the blow coming. He shouted
hoarsely with the pain of Bueno's Dragoon barrel slashing across his
head. Stunned, the most he could do was let his knee fly up. It caught
Bailey in the crotch. The man's explosive grunt held a sick agony.
Crawford was still sprawled partly across Innes, the redheaded man
had been striving to free his gun without wasting time trying to get
from beneath Crawford. He had it out now and was twisting to bring it
in line. Blinded by Bailey's blow, Crawford squirmed around, launching
a wild kick at Innes. It caught the redhead's fist as he pulled the
trigger, knocking the gun up. The Remington's boom filled the room, and
the slug knocked a rain of the whitewash they called _yeso_ off the
ceiling.
"_Lástima de Dios!_" Aforismo's voice came from somewhere after the
shot, "come and pull it out, you _chile_, come and get it out--"
Crawford struggled to his feet, striving to jerk free o£ Bailey. But
the man had him about the waist, head buried against Crawford's belly,
hair hanging in greasy yellow streamers, groaning with the pain of that
knee Crawford had given him in the groin.
Innes still had his Remington. He gripped it with his left hand too,
now, rolling back with the weapon in both fists to line it up on
Crawford. Struggling with Bailey, Crawford could do only one thing. He
threw the weight of his whole body toward Innes. Bailey tried to jerk
him back, but not soon enough. Before Innes got that Remington turned
in the right direction, Crawford was close enough to lift his leg above
the man's face. He saw Innes's eyes open wide with the realization.
Then he felt flesh and bone crunch beneath his stamping boot.
Lifting his leg robbed Crawford of his balance, and he fell backward
with Bailey's next lunging jerk. They struck the wall so hard the whole
building shook, and another rain of _yeso_ spattered down over them.
"_Cristo_, will somebody take it out? Oh, please, somebody come and
take it out--"
Bailey rose up, straddling Crawford. Before the man could strike,
Crawford doubled in beneath him and got his legs twisted around so he
could heave. Bailey went back with a cry, stumbling into the bench.
The plank splintered beneath his body, and the bench collapsed with
him. Innes was getting to his feet, hoarse, desperate sobs rending him.
He pawed blindly at his mutilated face with his free hand, blinking
his eyes as he tried to find Crawford. He must have caught Crawford's
movement against the wall. He whirled that way with the Remington
coming up.
Crawford jumped toward him, catching the gun in both hands. Still
unable to see, Innes clung desperately to the six-shooter. When
Crawford yanked the gun around, it pulled Innes too, swinging him
against the wall. Unable to tear the Remington free, Crawford let go
with one hand and lurched in close to sink his right fist deep into
Innes's square belly.
"That for your three-quarter-pound pull, you _pordiosero_," shouted
somebody from behind Crawford, "that for your bacon grease--"
Innes sagged against the wall with a pitiful sob, still trying to pull
the gun against Crawford. Crawford brought that fist in again.
"Oh, _madre, madre_, please come and get it out--"
"That for your hair trigger, you _lépero_, I hope it gives you
_corajes_, I hope it gives you worse than fits of the spleen--"
Innes was slumped halfway down the wall now, still making those
horrible sobbing sounds as he refused to give up. Crawford shoved the
gun clear back against the adobe, and hit him again. The redheaded man
slid completely to the floor, dropping the Remington. Crawford whirled
around, wondering why Bueno had not come back in. Then he saw who had
been yelling.
Bueno Bailey was huddled in a corner, and standing over him, beating at
him with the broken end of the bench, was the fat cook. "That for your
bacon grease, you _rumbero_," squealed Jacinto, and the bench made a
crunching sound striking Bueno, "that for your--"
Crawford leaped across the room and grabbed the bench before Jacinto
could strike again. The huge Mexican fought him crazily, trying to tear
loose and get back at Bueno. "Just one more, Crawford, please, just one
more. He deserves it. Did you see what they were trying to do with you?
_Barba del diablo_, just one more. Look at the scabby _pordiosero_--"
"Who was it didn't like violence?" shouted Crawford.
Jacinto stopped abruptly, looking at Bailey, crouching dazedly against
the wall. He stared around at the carnage of the room, the smashed
table, Innes sprawled out against the wall clutching his face.
"_A fe mía_," he said in a hollow voice. "Upon my word. It looks
like they turned a _toro_ loose." Then his popping eyes came back to
Bailey. "I did--that--" he waved an incredulous hand at the man. "No,
Crawford, tell me I didn't." Jacinto turned around to clutch at him.
"_Violencia._ _Caramba_, I couldn't, not me, not little Hyacinth of the
River. My father would be desecrated. Please, tell me I didn't do it--"
"_Dios_, somebody, come and pull it out, damn you, Crawford, somebody,
you _chingados_, come and help me, come and get this _cuchillo_, damn
you--"
It was Aforismo's voice, breaking in on Jacinto's plea. Jacinto turned
toward the man, where he still sat up in the bunk. Aforismo must still
have had his right hand held back over one shoulder to throw his
belduque when Crawford's knife struck him, for the bowie was up to its
hilt through his palm, pinning the hand to the adobe wall. With the
inconsistency of a child, the tortured look left Jacinto's sweating
face, and he began to chuckle.
"Look at him. Aphorisms? Hah! What good are they now? _Proverbios._ Why
don't you give us a saying now, Aforismo?" He had begun to drag the
table toward the bunk. "_Dichos?_ What right have you got to _dichos_?
Tripe is sweet? Hah! How does that belduque know?" With a great effort
he had managed to climb on the table and bend over the bunk to grab the
hilt of Crawford's bowie. "_Nothing compares with my kiss._ That makes
me laugh. That belduque never kissed anything but the inside of your
belt--"
"_Madre_," howled Aforismo, "take it easy, will you?"
Jacinto tugged more violently in his effort to pull the knife from
Aforismo's hand. "_Dios_, Crawford, how did you throw it so hard? No
wonder he couldn't get it out. I'll bet it goes clear through the wall
into--Crawford, where you going?"
He was almost out the door, and he threw it over his shoulder. "To the
house." Crawford ran all the way across the compound and up the steps
and through the close, suffocating heat of the entrance hall, glancing
through the door of the living-room.
"Merida?" The echo of his voice held a frightening ring, farther down
the hall. "Merida?" he called again, and whirled to take the stairway
up, knocking off a mahogany riser with his boot heel, leaping the
whole elliptical landing where the stairway turned, halfway up. It was
recognizable, now, a woman's sobbing, coming from Merida's bedroom.
This door was open, too, and he stumbled in. Nexpa was crouched at the
foot of the bed with her face in her hands. He grabbed her shoulders,
pulling her upward.
"_Dónde esta Merida?_" he shouted.
The maid turned a face up to him so dark it looked negroid, her eyes
wide and terrified. "_No sabe, no sabe_," she gasped.
"What have they done to her?" he cried hoarsely, shaking Nexpa. "You
know. Where is she? Did they take her? What happened?"
"_No sabe_," sobbed the maid again. "_Huerta, Huerta_--"
"Huerta took her," shouted Crawford. "What are you talking about?
Where? _Dónde, dónde?_"
"_En su cuarto. Merida eo puso alli, en su cuarto!_"
"My room?" he said, and dropped her roughly against the footboard and
wheeled to run down the hall to the chamber he had occupied, tearing
open the door. The reeded mahogany posts supporting the bare tester
frame formed a skeleton pattern in the gloom.
"Merida?" he called. He could not see enough in the semidarkness, and
he ran to the windows, yanking the heavy overdrapes of dark blue velure
away from the window. Noon sunlight flooded the room, turned the damask
covering on the wing chair to a gleaming china blue, caught brazenly on
the brass fixtures of the Franklin stove in the small fireplace. Then,
blinking his eyes, Crawford saw it, and realized what the maid had
meant. "In your room. Merida put it there."
On the chintz coverlet of the bed lay his rifle.
_Chapter Fourteen_