Part 10

The Mexicans constructed the roofs of their jacals by laying willow shoots in a herringbone pattern across the bare vigas which formed the rafters, and then piling a foot or so of earth atop the shoots. It was this pattern Crawford saw when he first opened his eyes. Then it was the estufa, built of adobe, in one corner of the room, with a raised hearth and a cone-shaped opening in front, the hood rounding from the center to each wall with two mantels terraced back toward the chimney. It was over this oven that the old man stood.

"Delcazar!"

Crawford's voice turned the aged Mexican, a rusty black frying pan still held in one gnarled fist. His face was seamed like an ancient satchel, and he squinted with the effort of focusing his rheumy eyes on Crawford. His soiled white cotton shirt hung slack from stooped, bony shoulders, and the inevitable _chivarras_ were on his skinny legs, glistening with daubs of grease. They gazed at each other in an uncomfortable silence, and finally Delcazar made a vague movement with the frying pan.

"Hard to know what to say," he mumbled. "After such a long time, and all that's happened."

"Yeah." Crawford put the rotting bayeta blanket off him, moving his arms and legs tentatively, grimacing with the pain it caused him. Hail had come after that first downpour of rain, and the white skin of his shoulders was marked with small purple bruises. He sat up, swinging his legs off, watching the Mexican. "I remember we had a terrible time in that storm. Last I recollect is trying to build a fire beneath some coma trees."

"That must have been a long time before I find you," said Delcazar. "I was in my jacal here when I hear somebody yelling my name. You was carrying Merida across your shoulder. Both near froze to death. I put you to bed like that time in Austin when the red-eye got you." He saw how Crawford was looking around the dim room, and Delcazar grinned hesitantly. "She's out getting water for the coffee."

They were still watching one another that way, waiting, and Crawford waved his hand around the room. "I didn't think you'd hide out here."

Delcazar bent toward him, squinting. "Hide out? How do you mean?"

"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_

CONQUEROR AND CONQUERED

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."

He stared down at her twisted face. "What are you saying?"

"There's one in the small corral," she said. "Nexpa told me. It's one of Jacinto's, so it won't be spooky."

It took him a moment to comprehend what she meant, and then it escaped him in a strangled way. "Think I can do it that way?"

"You've got to." She was close to crying now, the tears glistening in her eyes. "There isn't any other way, Crawford. Can't you understand? You've got to. Right now. You'll never make it to the brush. It's twice as far as the corral. You'd be out there in the open, and you'd be a clay pigeon. Your only chance is the corral."

"No!" He tried to break free of her grip on his arm. "I can't. You know I can't. You saw, out there in the storm, with that pinto."

"You can!" she cried. "You've got to, Crawford, you've got to."

He stared down into her twisted, pale face. Then, with a guttural, inarticulate sound, he whirled to the French windows, opening one farther, and stepped out onto the porch. He stood a moment behind the screen of yellow _lluvia de oro_ covering the lattice. The silence lay across the compound so thick it almost gagged him. Waiting. There it was again. His shoulders hunched forward, and his whole tense body had taken on the look of a hunted animal. He stared furtively down the length of the porch. His shirt was wringing wet with sweat now.

"Crawford--"

It came from Merida, standing in the window behind him. Without turning around, he moved down the steps, his boots making a clatter in the silence. Then he was moving across the ground in an urgent, shuffling gait, his narrow, dark head turning ceaselessly from side to side. He realized he was still holding the glass, and threw it from him with a muffled curse. With every step nearer the corral, something seemed to be contracting about his heart. He was fighting for breath, and sweat had turned his beard soggy when he reached the fence. In the semi-gloom, he could barely make out the shape of the horse. This was the corral they broke broncs in, built in three sections, the largest section on this side, with a chute at the other end, and beyond that, a small, tight holding corral not much bigger than a stall, where they held the animals before putting them into the chute to be saddled. It had been Otis Rockland's boast that this smaller section was built so hog-tight and bull-tight it would hold the wildest bronc that ever double-shuffled. The heavy, reinforced cedar bars were so close together a man could not crawl between them but had to go through the gate. This gate itself was built so that it would close automatically, a rawhide rope run from its frame through a pulley on the overhead structure with a bucket of sand hanging at its end. Whenever the gate was open the weight of the sand bucket pulled it closed again, and the drop bar fell automatically into its sockets on the outside.

Crawford stopped at this gate, glancing from one side to another at the brush. There was a small crackle behind the bunkhouse. With a startled abruptness, he pulled the rope that hoisted the drop bar from its sockets and lifted it above the top of the gate, allowing the portal to swing open. The bar would not drop back into position as long as the gate was ajar. Holding the gate open, Crawford found a rock large enough to wedge beneath the bottom bar and keep the sand bucket's weight from pulling the gate closed when he let go. The horse inside snorted softly. Crawford stiffened by the gate post. Then, his whole body so tense the muscles ached, he took a forced, jerky step toward the animal. The horse snorted again, louder. It had been hitched to the corral and, as Crawford drew near, the animal began tugging at the reins nervously.

"Easy, boy, easy." Crawford tried to make his voice soft and reassuring, but it came out tight, harsh. "You're going to break your headstall. Easy, you jughead."

But as he drew near, the horse's efforts to get free became wilder. It whinnied shrilly and reared up. The sound halted Crawford in the middle of the corral, his whole body a rigid line. The reins pulled free of their half hitch on the cedar-post bar, and the animal wheeled away from Crawford toward the far corner of the small corral. Crawford's movements were forced, now, as he moved to catch the animal in that corner. He bent forward slightly to peer at the lines of the beast. The darkness revealed only a hazy impression of broad rump and viciously churning hind legs and a roached mane. The stirrup leathers flapped loosely as the animal moved down the fence, trapped in the corner now by Crawford's advance. He was close to it when the horse wheeled with a strangled, screaming sound and broke toward him in a rush.

"No!"

It escaped Crawford in a hoarse shout. He stood there a moment longer, staring at the horse, his whole face contorted. Then he threw himself to one side, and the animal galloped past. It saw the partly open gate and was in a dead run by the time it reached that side. But in its frantic rush, the beast struck the opening partly broadside, rump crashing against the gate, head slamming into the fence post. The horse reeled back, screaming in rage, and wheeled to go through headfirst. But the blow of its body had jarred loose the rock Crawford had wedged beneath the gate, and the heavy bucket of sand descended with a rush to the ground, slamming the gate shut before the horse reached it. The drop bar outside fell into its sockets with a thud, about the same time the charging horse struck the gate once more. The whole corral shuddered with the impact, but the gate held firm. The dazed horse staggered away from the fence, making thwarted, guttural sounds of pain.

Crawford realized he was trembling now. Pain swept up his legs, and the muscles across his belly began to jump and knot. Still dazed, the horse wheeled about wildly. It caught sight of him again, and all its enraged bestial instincts must have pinned the cause of its pain on Crawford, for the animal screamed once more and rushed him.

"No," shouted Crawford, again, his voice choked with the terrible reasonless fear that inundated him. He whirled and leaped to the high fence, trying to climb it. But he heard the pound of the animal's hoofs behind, and realized he would never make the top in time, and threw himself off. As he rolled to the ground, the animal crashed into the fence where he had been a moment before. Crawford stumbled to his feet, starting in a wild run for the gate which led into the chute. But he saw before he reached it that it was shut tight too. He turned to the other gate, his whole consciousness filled with the sound of the panting, whinnying, snorting animal behind him. At the portal, he tried to reach through and lift the drop bar from its sockets, but the cedar-post log was too heavy. He grabbed the gate, heaving at it madly. The horse was trotting back and forth on the other side of the small corral in a dazed way, shaking its head, snorting. Crouched weakly on his knees by the gate, trembling and shuddering, Crawford tried to keep his voice down, hoping he would not arouse the horse again.

"Jacinto," he called. "I'm in the corral. The bar's dropped on this gate in the corral and I'm trapped inside with Africano. Jacinto, come and get me out--"