From the pocket of his levis, Crawford pulled a handful of his .44
flat-noses. He stood there with the copper cartridges in his hand,
meeting Quartet's eyes. He held out his hand.
Quartel stared at the handful of shells, then he threw back his head
and let out that Gargantuan laugh. "Crawford, you're the craziest
_barrachon_ I ever saw."
He took the cartridges and broke his Bisley and began thumbing them
into the cylinder. Huerta lowered the handkerchief from his scratched
face, and his effort at control was more obvious now.
"I haven't got a gun," he said.
"That's too bad," said Crawford.
"No, no, listen, you can't expect me to go out there without--"
He turned around and indicated Quartel should follow him through the
mesquite to their horses. Like the well-trained roper it was, the
_trigueño_ had stopped the instant Quartel left its back, and was
standing in the same spot they had left it. Africano must have run on
across the bog and been stopped by his fear of the snakes in the first
dry thickets over there, for he came trotting back through the mud,
whinnying nervously. Crawford blocked the animal off against a _mogote_
of chaparral and caught it.
"Get on first," he told the girl.
"Crawford," Huerta began again, "you can't--"
"Get your horse if you're coming with us," he told the man.
Huerta opened his mouth to say something more; then, with a strangled,
inarticulate sound, he turned and crashed back through the mesquite. In
a moment he returned on the copperbottom. It was a risky thing to do
with such a green horse, but there was no other way, and Crawford swung
onto the black behind the cantle. The animal kicked in a startled,
angry way and started to buck. Crawford swung his arms around in front
of Merida to grab the _mecate_ and yank back hard on it, spurring
Africano at the same time. The _puro negro_ quit bucking and broke
forward, slopping into a muddy stretch. Crawford turned the horse to
get Quartel in front of him. They rode toward the edge of the bog that
way.
"You go first, Quartel," Crawford said. "I'll follow you, Huerta. If
you can keep your head and stay in between us, we might be able to get
you out. Just keep your head. That's the whole thing. Get panicky and
you're through. You can even get bit a couple of times by snakes and
still live to tell about it if you don't let it throw you. It isn't the
venom that kills a man so quick; it's when he gets spooked and starts
running and yelling and pumping all that poison through him a hundred
times as fast as it would spread if he just stayed calm. Savvy?"
Huerta's copperbottom fiddled beneath him. "Crawford, I can't. Not
without a gun. You can't ask me to."
"Quartel?" said Crawford.
"_Sí_," grinned the Mexican, and flapped his feet out wide. The
_trigueño_ bolted before Quartel's feet came back in to kick his
flanks, and then crashed into the thickets. Crawford held the Henry in
one hand and he waved it at Huerta.
"Get going, damn you, I'm not going to wait for you to puke, get going!"
"No, I can't, not through there--" Huerta saw Crawford swing out his
feet, and whirled the copperbottom with a last desperate shout, and
crashed into the Snake Thickets after Quartel. Then Crawford's heels
struck the black, and they were going.
At first it was only the wild, crashing, pounding, yelling run through
the mesquite. With Quartel leading the way all they had to do was
follow the trail he made, running through holes he had burst in the
thickets ahead of them. Then the snakes began. First it was that
sharp, dry thump against Africano's _pechero_, and the woman's shrill,
startled cry. Quartel's gun crashed from ahead of them, but Crawford
was too taken up with reining the black to use his Henry. He had that
blurred impression of violent undulation around him. There was another
snapping thud against Africano's buckskin shield, and a big diamondback
fell to the ground beneath them as they went by.
Then it was the shrill scream from Huerta's copperbottom ahead.
Crawford saw the huge rattler dropping off the animal's rump, and the
copperbottom started to buck.
"There it is," screamed Huerta, "there it is!"
"Don't lose your head," shouted Crawford. "Get him to running again.
He'll last through, Huerta, get him to running--"
Another rattler flashed from the thickets. The copperbottom reared
up as the snake struck, pawing the air wildly. Crawford came up
from behind at a dead run and Huerta's panicky reining brought the
copperbottom down broadside to them. Crawford jerked his whole body to
the left with the desperation of his attempt to rein the black around,
but Africano smashed head-on into Huerta's animal.
Crawford had the sense of falling through a bedlam of Huerta's wild
yells and Merida's voice calling something and the animal's frenzied,
agonized screaming. Then he hit the ground with Merida coming down on
top of him. It knocked the breath from him and he struggled to get from
beneath her, making a horrible retching sound in his fight for breath.
He got to his knees, surprised that he still clutched the Henry. The
copperbottom was already crashing off through the brush, and Africano
was just scrambling to his feet. Crawford lurched at the black horse,
but Africano whirled and galloped at a _ramadero_ of _cejas_, smashing
through and disappearing. There was a whirring sound from behind and
Merida's shriek. He whirled, snapping the lever on his Henry down at
the same time, and fired from the hip at the serpent coiled just
beyond her. She had been in the act of throwing herself away, and the
slug driving into the snake aborted its strike. The head fell heavily
to the ground with only half its length uncoiled. Crawford leaped to
Merida, grabbing her roughly by the elbow and yanking her erect.
"Crawford, get me out, Crawford! Crawford!" It was Huerta, rising
from the patch of switch mesquite where he had been thrown. There
was a sallow, putty color to his face and that eye was twitching
uncontrollably now. He staggered toward them, his blasé, jaded
sophistication swept away before the terrible animal fear. A deadly
rattle rose from behind him and he tried to run, and stumbled, falling
against Crawford.
The woman's gasp made Crawford turn in the direction she was looking,
and he brought up the Henry, kicking free of Huerta, firing at the
snake which had writhed from the switch mesquite toward them, shouting
at Huerta. "Get up, then. I'll get you out. Get up!"
Panting, sobbing hoarsely, Huerta pulled himself up, staring about him
wildly, starting like a frightened deer at every new sound. Crawford
put the woman directly before him and started moving forward. Huerta
cringed at his side, clawing at him, and he had to keep shoving the man
away.
"Hurry, Crawford, hurry, please, what are you doing this for? We'll
never--"
"Let go," Crawford bawled at him. "It won't do to lose our heads and
start running. How can I--"
"No, Crawford, no--"
Shouting it, Huerta reeled back against him. Crawford had to fight the
man off and wheel that way and fire all at once. He couldn't have hit
the snake anyway. It had already been in the middle of its lunge.
"I'm hit," screamed Huerta. "Crawford, I'm hit. Save me. I'll do
anything. Help me!"
"Keep your head, Huerta. Quit fighting like that!"
"No, Crawford, for God's sake!" Huerta was floundering around blindly,
shouting and clutching at Crawford, who tried to kick him away so he
could keep the gun going. Another rattler slithered from the thickets,
and he fired wildly at it.
"Huerta!" cried Merida, tearing at the man, the panic gripping her
voice and twisting her face, "don't be a fool. Let him go, let him go--"
"No. Get me out! I'll do anything, Crawford, admit anything. You were
right. I'm no doctor. I had two years in France and they dismissed
me. The opium. There. Now. I've told you--" His babble broke off in a
wild shriek. Crawford had not seen the snake strike. It fell away from
Huerta's back, slithering off into the thicket. Huerta crawled toward
Crawford on his hands and knees, a faint, yellow froth forming at his
lips. He clutched at Crawford's legs, shouting up at him. "I'll tell
you anything, please, anything. I was the one who killed Otis Rockland.
Is that what you want? I knew Tarant had given him that piece of the
_derrotero_, and I knew Otis was in that hotel room. I'd just reached
him when you arrived, and I had to escape by the balcony without
getting the map--"
Again his hoarse bawling broke off in a scream. His struggles had
carried them both over to a thicket, and Crawford could see the same
snake Huerta did, coiled almost at their feet. He tore free of the
doctor's frantic hands, throwing himself back, and firing at the
serpent. He tripped and fell heavily onto his back, seeing the snake
jerk with the slug but reach Huerta anyway. Screaming, the doctor
fought to gain his feet.
"Get me out, Crawford, get me out," he howled, pawing the writhing,
thumping thing off in horror, whirling to run blindly away from it
across the small opening. "It wasn't Quartel who had Whitehead try to
bushwhack you that time, either. It was me. I wanted the third of the
_derrotero_ you had. And I was the one who tried to get Merida's third
in the house during the bull-tailing. Please, Crawford, what more can
you want? Get me out now!"
He looked like some frenzied beast, greasy black hair down over his
face, froth drooling off his chin. He stumbled blindly into a _mogote_
of chaparro _prieto_, and tried to turn and get out. But there must
have been a nest of them in the black chaparral, and they caught him
there.
"No, Crawford," he screamed, as the first one struck, with a fleshy
spissitude, knocking him to his knees in the thicket, "they're all
around me," and his voice broke as a second one caught him. "For
Christ's sake, Crawford, get me out. I told you, didn't I?" he sobbed,
trying to crawl on through. And then another one struck him. "Oh, for
God's sake, Crawford, please, for God's sake." And another, and he was
lying on his belly, still trying to crawl, and his voice had sunk to a
pitiful wailing, like a little child weakening, sinking until it was
barely audible. "Please, get me out, oh, please, Crawford, get me out,"
and then dying finally, beneath the crescendo hissing of the snakes,
"Get me out, I'll do anything, only please get me out--"
After it had ceased, Crawford felt himself twitch, and realized how
long he had been crouching there in a dazed shocked immobility at such
a bizarre, terrifying display. It was like awakening from a deep sleep.
There was a thick, sweet taste in his mouth, and he was sweating, and
movement came with a strange pain. He saw that Merida was standing
over him, staring at the brush with that same stunned horror in her
face. His movement caused her to turn in something akin to surprise.
She looked at him a moment before her eyes dropped to his hand; he
was rising, but the sound she made stopped him. It must have struck
him sometime during his struggles with Huerta. He did not remember
when. The twin red punctures on the back of his hand were oozing blood
thickly. With a curse, he started to rise again and get the rifle, but
Merida caught him.
"No, Crawford. The knife. Your bowie. You've got to get it now before
it spreads." She was on her knees beside him, pulling the bowie from
his boot where he had thrust it after winding those strips of blanket
on.
"The snakes," he said, "the snakes--"
"If we sit still they won't come for a minute. Now--I've got to." She
met his eyes, then bent over his hand with the blade. He felt himself
turn rigid, but it caused him less pain than he anticipated. She did
it in three quick, skillful strokes. "I told you my mother was a
_curandera_. I've seen her do this a dozen times. Find some Spanish
dagger and you can get a poison from it that makes as good an antidote
as any."
She bent to suck the wound, and now it was beginning to come. _Take
it easy._ The hissing bore in on him with a physical weight. _Take it
easy, damn you. That's why Huerta's through. He lost his head. All
right. Get up, then, damn you, get up._ He got up.
The motion drew his hand from Merida's fingers, and she rose too. He
had scooped up the Henry in rising, and he pulled the lever down. No
fired shell popped out, and he realized the magazine must be empty. He
reached in his right-hand pocket for fresh loads, and pulled out his
hand, empty. The woman's eyes followed the movements in a fascinated
way as he shifted the rifle so he could reach into his left-hand
pocket. Again his hand came out empty. Merida's gaze raised to his, and
they stared at each other blankly for a long moment. A small, hopeless
sob escaped her.
The first, faint, snapping crackle came from behind, turning him that
way. It was a big diamondback, slithering from the switch mesquite.
It stopped as it caught sight of them, and its long, shimmering
body coiled with oily facility. The ugly hammerhead raised, and the
glittering opacity of its cruel little eyes held Crawford's gaze in a
viscid mesmerization. Then it began to rattle.
"Crawford--"
The woman's agonized whisper brought his eyes around the other way.
Another serpent, as big around as his lower leg, had crawled from a
_mogote_ of huisache. Again it was the soft snap of decaying vegetation
that lay thickly over the ground, and the cessation of this as the
snake saw them and stopped, and that swift coiling movement, and that
sibilant rattle.
"Crawford," said Merida, in a hoarse, strained whisper. "We can't move.
They'll strike as soon as we move. They're all around us and we can't
move--"
"No," he said gutturally. "Remember they don't often strike above the
hip. You've got those batwings. Just keep your feet, that's all, just
keep your feet."
"There's another one," she said, and he saw the panic was gripping her
the way it had Huerta. "We can't move, Crawford. Not a step. They'll
have us."
"Merida," he said. "You've got to. Don't lose your head. Just start
walking."
"I can't," she said, in a strangled, pathetic way, "Crawford, I can't--"
He could feel that animal fear rising up in him, to blot out all his
terrible control. Sweat formed gleaming streaks through the grime of
his face. His right hand was clenched so hard around the useless gun
it ached. Gritting his teeth, he summoned the awful, supreme effort of
will it would take for him to make that first step. His whole body was
stiffened for it, when the first thunderous detonation came from out in
the brush. There was a second, and a third, before Crawford recognized
them as gunshots. This was followed by a long crashing of brush, and
Quartel burst into view. This movement caused the snake on Crawford's
right to strike. It hit his leg with a solid thump, knocking him over
against Merida, and though he knew the fangs had not penetrated the
triple thickness of Chimayo blanket around his calf, he could not hold
back his hoarse, fearful shout. Quartel had fired twice at the second
rattler, knocking it back before it could strike. The serpent tried to
recoil and strike again, in a weak, abortive way, and Quartel jumped at
it with a curse, stamping on its head. Then he whirled away to fire at
a third one beyond Merida.
"Hola!" bellowed Quartel. "Let's go. You only got a little stretch left
and we'll be out."
"You!" said Crawford blankly, gaping at him.
"Who else?" grinned the man. He caught Crawford by the shoulder,
shoving him forward. "Come on, I tell you. We ain't got time for
coffee."
The rest of it was Quartel's bellowing gun and the crash of mesquite
and Merida's hoarse, uncontrollable sobbing and a nightmarish sense of
movement within and without him as he staggered through the thickets.
At last he found himself face down on gritty sand, his breathing
settling down to the shallow exhalation of complete exhaustion. He
looked up to see Quartel squatting over him, that grin on his sweaty,
greasy face. The woman was sitting up on the bank beyond Quartel, the
batwings lying at her feet. Crawford realized he was barefooted and the
blanketing had been stripped off his legs.
"The chaps saved Merida," said Quartel. "And that Chimayo on you was a
good idea. The only thing you got is that hand. I don't think it will
cause you too much trouble, the way she fixed it."
"Why did you come back?" said Crawford.
Quartel shrugged. "For the same reason you gave me those shells back in
the bog when you didn't know for sure whether I'd use them on you or
the snakes, I guess." He sat there looking at Crawford a while. "I'm
sort of glad it was Huerta that killed Rockland," he said finally. He
laughed, at the look Crawford gave him. "_Sí._ You could have heard
that Huerta yelling up in San Antone. My horse went down just as I got
out, and I was lying here in the sand when Huerta cut loose. He really
cracked up good, didn't he? It sort of finishes my job out here."
Merida came over and lowered herself to her knees beside Crawford, and
he sat up, staring at Quartel. "Your job?"
That pawky grin was on the Mexican's face. "_Sí._ Like I said I knew
one who pinned it to his undershirt. Me, I couldn't even do that. Only
a damn fool would come into the _brasada_ with a badge. But I got a
commission back in San Antonio from the federal government."
Crawford continued to stare at the man a long time, and it all went
through his head, before he said it. "_Marshal_ Quartel?"
"That's right," said the Mexican. "Maybe I look like I should be a
_rurale_, but I'm a citizen of the States and my father was before
me. They sent me out to get you a couple of weeks after Rockland was
killed. Other lawmen had been given the job without meeting much
success. I guess you know about that. I figured you'd turn up at your
old corral sooner or later, so I had the Nueces Cattle Association
recommend me to Tarant as qualified to rod the roundup he was managing
for Rockland's estate. By the time you'd showed up at the Big O, I'd
been there long enough to find out that, whether you murdered Rockland
or not, there was more to the whole business than just the personal
trouble between you and him. That _derrotero_ for instance. I'd gotten
a third of it from Whitehead. He'd found it many years ago on the body
of one of the Mexican muleteers, who had been shot in the brush by
Houston's men but apparently had gotten away from them to die. It was
the section of the map which showed Snake Thickets, and how to find
the chests once you got inside the thickets, but not how to find the
thickets themselves. When you finally arrived, I had to choose between
nabbing you then, or staying on and trying to find out what was really
behind the murder."
"Then, those other lawmen--"
"The ones I told you about when I found you at Delcazar's?" Quartel
giggled slyly. "I'm the only lawman I seen in the _brasada_ since I
came. You were pretty jumpy, Crawford. I thought if I cinched the girth
up tight enough it might squeeze out some interesting things."
There was no apology in his voice for how he had used Crawford. The
elemental brutality of the man was in his greasy, thick-featured face,
and the courage, too. _And it would take that kind_, thought Crawford,
_to come into a place like this. I can cuss better and ride better and
rope better than any hombre in the world._
"Not rope better."
"What?" said Quartel.
"Nothing," said Crawford, sitting up to pull on his boots. "How about
Tarant?"
"He was involved all right," said Quartel. "He knew Rockland had
that section of the map, and allowed Huerta to stay at the Big O,
undoubtedly having made some deal with him to split the money when they
got it. Since it was Huerta that murdered Rockland, we might be able to
nab Tarant as an accessory."
With a weary breath, Crawford rose. "We can reach Del's from here in a
couple of hours. He needs tending to, and that old Chihuahua cart of
his will be better than walking back."
Quartel got up and turned to climb the bank toward the brush. Merida
started after him, but Crawford caught her arm.
"Out there in the thickets," he said. "I didn't quite get it. You were
all mixed up. Something about not knowing what you'd wanted all your
life, and knowing now."
"Maybe seeing those chests of gunpowder made me realize it fully," she
said. "It could be symbolical, in a way, of money. You seek it all your
life, and when you finally get it, you realize it isn't what you want,
after all."
"What _do_ you want?"
"Don't you know?"
He gazed at her without speaking for a moment. Her face had taken on
that feminine softness. Her eyes met his widely, shining a little. He
was suddenly swept with the desire to shout or cry or laugh or take
her in his arms, he didn't know which, the realization swelled so
swiftly within him. It had all been so broken and aborted and bitterly
frustrating between himself and Merida before, and now it was so
complete. Yet, somehow, it was too poignant to express here. He reached
out and took her hand.
"Let's go," he said.