Part 14

"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.