Perhaps it was the sound. The constant, incessant, unrelenting sound of
those snakes. Standing in this narrow strip of bog formed by the rising
muck of the underground river, the hissing was audible on both sides
now. There was something infinitely evil about it that clutched at a
man's vitals. It filled Crawford with a vague, primal panic, akin to
the fear he had known of Africano before, yet different, in a subtle,
insidious way.
"I knew it was you." Quartel's voice startled him, coming from an
entirely different direction than before. "I heard you coming. I wish
I could cuss the way you can, Crawford." It was getting on Crawford's
nerves. The black was becoming unmanageable beneath him. Under other
circumstances he would have been willing to play the game. But the
thought of Merida somewhere in there drove all the conditioned wariness
from him. Suddenly the black raised its head again; he pulled on
the hackamore to stifle the whinny in its throat, but he saw which
direction it was turned in. He flapped his legs out wide and brought
the heels in hard, bolting the black into the mesquite. They crashed
through the _mogote_. Crawford had the Henry in his right hand as they
burst into the open, keeping it free of brush with the lever down. A
vague, blurred impression of Quartel sitting that _trigueño_ leaped
into Crawford's vision. With one motion he was jerking the hackamore
against the left side of the black's neck to wheel it toward the man,
and then releasing the hackamore completely to have both hands for
his rifle, bringing the Henry up into line with his right hand and
slapping his left palm against the barrel at the same time. In that
last instant, as fast as he had moved, he had time to see why Quartel
had been doing it this way. The man had no gun in his hand. Even as
Crawford wheeled and brought his Henry up, Quartel was leaning forward
with a grunt, his arm snapping out.
Crawford tried to duck the rope and fire at the same time. He heard his
bullet clatter through brush, after the thunder of the shot, and knew
he had missed. Then the edge of the loop struck his hand and slid down
his arm and closed over the gun. It was either let go the Henry or be
jerked from his horse.
The rifle bounced along the ground, and for a moment it looked as if
Quartel were going to be able to pull it to him. Then it slipped from
the noose. The Mexican wheeled his _trigueño_ toward the rifle, and
his intent was patent. Crawford turned the black and quartered in on a
line that would bring him between Quartel and the Henry. Seeing how he
would be blocked off from reaching the gun, Quartel reared his horse
to a stop, flirting in his rope and catching it up in loops. Crawford,
realizing that if he turned to approach the Henry his back would be to
Quartel and the man would have him with that rope, halted his black
too. For a moment, the two men sat there facing each other across the
open ground. It must have struck Quartel how it had to be, now, about
the same time the realization came to Crawford. The Mexican let out a
hoarse, violent laugh.
"All right," he said. "I am the best roper in the world, Crawford."
He sat there, grinning, allowing Crawford to unlash the 40-foot rawhide
lasso from the black's rig. A picture formed in Crawford's mind that
filled him with a growing tension. A picture of Quartel blindfolded
on that _trigueño_ in the corral with one end of a rawhide dally tied
about his neck and ten snorting, stamping, vicious _ladinos_ tearing
up the turf and the strange sighing sound rising from the crowd of
sweating, stinking _vaqueros_ every time he threw the bull. It didn't
help a man. It didn't help a man while he unhitched the rawhide lashing
on the saddle skirt from about the dally and shook out the loops and
watched the braided hondo slide down the slick rope. His motions were
stiff, jerky. He hadn't roped in a long time.
"Hola!" bellowed Quartel, and those great Chihuahua spurs rolled down
the flanks of his brown animal like cart wheels digging ruts in a road.
Crawford jabbed his own guthooks into the black, and Africano jumped
into a dead run. The brown horse seemed to come at Crawford in a surge
that left no space for conscious thought. He knew what a mistake it
would be for him to make the first pass, and he bent forward in the
saddle, watching Quartel's hand.
But the Mexican was waiting too, and the _trigueño_ was completely past
Crawford, with Crawford still holding his rope and twisting around
so he could watch Quartel, when the man made his throw. The Mexican
passed the rope over his shoulder, without looking at Crawford. In that
position, the movement of Quartel's arms was blocked off by his body,
and Crawford did not know the Mexican had made his toss till he saw
the small, tight loop spinning directly over his head. The throw was
calculated to compensate for Crawford's forward speed. All he could do
to escape it was rein to one side or the other. He bent forward so far
on Africano his chest struck the saddle horn, putting the reins against
the black neck hard.
The violence of the quarter turn almost snapped Crawford from the
saddle. He shouted with the pain stabbing through his middle. He heard
the faint sound of the rope striking Africano's rump. Then he was
tearing into a _mogote_ of mesquite.
Instead of going on through, he wheeled Africano within the thicket.
The horse reared up, screaming with the pain of turning in that cruel
brush, and Crawford was charging out the way he had come.
Evidently expecting Crawford to go on through the mesquite, Quartel
was racing around the fringe to intercept him on the other side.
This caused the Mexican to be at Crawford's rear as he burst out the
same spot he had gone in. Crawford put his reins against Africano's
neck, and again the horse responded with that incredible turn, and
Crawford found himself directly behind the churning brown rump of the
_trigueño_. The Mexican was already in the act of wheeling his horse
around to meet Crawford. Then he must have seen how Crawford had turned
after him, and realized how his own maneuver would place him, for he
tried to turn back. It was too late.
Quartel's first turn had placed him broadside to Crawford's oncoming
black. Crawford had that one free pass at Quartel's flank, with the
Mexican in no position to defend himself by a throw of his own.
Crawford saw his loop settle over the man's head.
"All right," he shouted, and dallied his end of the rope around the
saddle horn, wheeling Africano away to pull Quartel off.
But there was no weight on the rope. It fell slackly from the horn, and
Crawford twisted back to see what had happened.
He had seen Indians do it. One instant Quartel had been sitting the
horse, the next he wasn't. The loop fell across the back of the
riderless _trigueño_, caught on the cantle, slipped off. Then the
Mexican appeared in the saddle again. He had jumped completely off,
hanging onto the horn with but one hand, to strike the ground and
bounce back up, the rope hitting while he was off on the far side that
way.
The first wild action had left no time for much thought, but now, as
he recovered his rope and maneuvered to meet Quartel's next move, the
sheer deadliness of this struck Crawford fully. Like trying to figure
out three or four plays ahead in a poker game, with your life in the
pot instead of a few dollars. Well, he had been figuring one play
ahead, ever since he had seen the cards Quartel put down back there at
the bull-tailing. It was the trick Quartel had used on Indita. Crawford
had spotted the weakness of it, even then. A man could take advantage
of that, if he had a horse which could turn quick enough.
Crawford remembered Quartel and Indita had been racing head-on at each
other, and he placed himself in the position to meet Quartel that way
as the Mexican trotted toward him from across the clearing now. The
_trigueño_ was picking up its feet in a high, excited action, lather
marbling its snout and chest.
"_Vamanos_," Quartel roared, and raked the animal's bloody flanks with
his Chihuahua can openers, and they were racing at each other again.
Quartel leaned forward and threw his arm out with a grunt as they went
by one another. Crawford's own arm stiffened with the impulse to make
his throw. Then he realized Quartel's clothesline was not coming.
The rest of it moved automatically, without any conscious volition
from Crawford. Holding his throw, he allowed the black to race on past
Quartel. Then, when he knew Quartel would be wheeling that _trigueño_
to make his true cast at Crawford's retreating back, Crawford yanked
the _mecate_ against Africano's neck. He felt the movement of the
horse's shoulders beneath him, changing leads as it spun in full gallop
on its hind foot. No quarter turn this time. A half turn, switching
ends completely in that instant, so that he was facing Quartel instead
of going away and, with the horse still in motion, was racing back
toward the Mexican.
It caused Quartel's rope to overshoot completely. Crawford saw the
man's face twist in surprise. Then Crawford made his cast. It was an
underhanded throw with a hooley-ann at the end. In wheeling, Quartel
had come to a full stop. He made one last abortive effort to turn
his animal away, but the small loop caught him before the _trigueño_
reacted. Then Crawford was on past the Mexican, with the rope dallied
on his horn and snapping taut. He heard Quartel make a strangled sound
of pain. Then there was the thump of him striking the ground.
Crawford tried to keep his black in full gallop and drag Quartel, but
something within him rebelled. He halted the animal and swung off,
running back to catch the man before he could rise. Quartel was on his
knees, that rope still about his thick neck, shaking his head dully.
The mesquite rattled behind Quartel, and Merida stepped out. She must
have passed the Henry where it had been dropped. She held it cocked
in both hands, and her bosom was heaving, her face torn and bleeding
from the brush she had run through. They stared at each other without
speaking. Her eyes were wide and shining, and her lips started twisting
across her teeth without any sound coming out.
Then, without any consciousness of having moved, he found her body in
his arms and her lips against his and the sound of her expelled breath
hot and hoarse in his ears. He didn't know how long he was lost in it.
Finally the other things began to come. The cold, hard feel of the
rifle barrel against his back where she held it in one hand with that
arm around him. The guttural sounds of pain Quartel was making trying
to get that noose off his neck. The crash of another passage through
the mesquite.
"Crawford, Crawford, I knew you'd come, I knew they couldn't stop you,
none of them--" It was Merida, whispering it in a husky, passionate,
barely coherent stream against his chest. "I was so afraid. Thinking
of you out there. All those snakes. I wanted you to come and I didn't
want you to. I didn't know what I wanted. I do now, I mean. I guess I
haven't known really what I wanted all my life, but I do now. I was so
afraid--"
"Merida--Where are you?"
It was Huerta's voice, accompanying the rattle of the thicket. Crawford
lifted his face from the woman's, staring at the doctor as he stumbled
from the mesquite. The man's fustian was ripped and torn, and he was
dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a silk monogrammed handkerchief. He
brought himself to an abrupt halt, breathing heavily, when he saw them.
Crawford disengaged himself from Merida, taking the rifle out of her
hand, still looking at the doctor. There was something about the man
that vaguely puzzled him.
"Did you find it?" Crawford asked Merida finally.
A dim, bitter expression entered Merida's face. "Yes," she said, "we
found it."
"What do you mean?" Crawford muttered.
She inclined her head through the mesquite, that strange expression
still on her features. Crawford frowned at her. Then he turned to jerk
the Henry at Quartel. The man had finally got that rope off his neck
and stood there rubbing the bruised flesh sullenly. He moved ahead of
Crawford through the brush.
"You too, Doctor," said Crawford.
They passed through the thicket and crossed a boggy section. With the
violence of the action over now, the hissing of the snakes began to
impinge on Crawford's consciousness again. Rising out of the bog to
the thick mat of greenish-brown toboso grass covering an island of
firm ground, they reached the first aparejo. It was one of the old
X-shaped packsaddles used by the original Mexican muleteers, with two
brass-bound chests lashed into it so that one would fall on each side
of the mule.
"The Mexicans carrying this stuff must have been following the dry
river bed and hit the fringe of Snake Thickets about dusk," said
Merida. "That's the only way they could have got this far in. Then,
when the snakes started waking up, and they realized what they had
wandered into, the men left the stuff here, knowing it would be as safe
as anywhere they could have hidden it, and shot their way out through
the snakes again."
"Did you just stumble onto it too?" Crawford asked.
"Quartel had the other third of the _derrotero_," said Merida.
"Quartel?" Crawford's head lifted sharply to the man. He emitted a
small, humorless laugh. "That explains a lot of things."
"Does it?" said Quartel.
"It showed Quartel how to find the aparejos once he was inside Mogotes
Serpientes," Merida said. "But not how to find Snake Thickets." Her
eyes were on Crawford, and that odd expression still filled her face.
She moved her head toward the chest. "Go ahead," she said.
He kept Quartel and Huerta in sight when he knelt. The wood was rotten
and someone had torn the lid of one chest away from its brass bindings.
He lifted it, and stared at the black gunpowder filling the oak box.
The woman's voice sounded far away.
"The Centralists must have done this. They would have done anything to
break Santa Anna's power at that time. They knew his men were ready to
desert because they hadn't been paid in three months. It was only by
the promise of this pay that Santa Anna held them together long enough
to fight the battle of San Jacinto. You can imagine their reaction
if the train had reached the army and they had found their pay to be
nothing more than this." She stared emptily at the case. "Twenty chests
of gunpowder. That's ironic, isn't it? All this trouble over twenty
chests of gunpowder."
Crawford rose slowly, drawing himself back to present necessities by a
distinct effort. "We'd better start thinking about getting out of here."
Huerta's feet made a small, quick shift against the toboso grass.
Crawford realized what it was in the man now. That air of infinite
ennui was beginning to dissipate before something else; an indefinable
tension tightened the little muscles about Huerta's mouth till the soft
flesh was furrowed like an old man's. The bluish, veined lower lid of
his right eye was twitching noticeably. "We can't go out now," he said,
and the strain was palpable in his voice. "Not through all those snakes
again. They're awake now."
"This place dries up come daylight," said Crawford. "It won't be any
safer than out there. We have to leave sometime before then, and it
might as well be now."
He began peeling off his gloves and handing them to Merida; then his
heavy denim ducking jacket and the bull-hide chaps. Huerta's breathing
became more audible as he watched it.
"No," he said, "no--listen--"
"What's wrong with your gun?" Crawford asked Quartel.
"Merida's horse got hit by a snake about halfway through," said the
Mexican. "She got pitched and Huerta wouldn't stop to pick her up. I
was following them pretty close and came across her before she'd been
caught by the snakes. But they were all waked up in that section and I
used my lead up shooting our way on into here. That's why I had to use
the rope on you."
"What caliber you got?"