Part 2

The roof of San Aguayo had fallen in, and only a few windows were left in the south wall, protected by the remains of delicate iron _rejas_, their tarnished panes flashing dully in the sun as Crawford passed by. He was barely conscious of this. He was sweating now, his fists gripping the reins so desperately the knuckles gleamed translucently through the skin. The pain seemed to have sound now. His head was roaring with it. He was shaking violently now, and the horse felt it and began reflecting his lack of control, breaking its stride, shifting from side to side down the road.

The stepped belfries of San Francisco de la Espade rose into view. The last ruins of the _baluarte_ built for the defense of the mission ran parallel to the road, sections of this bastion crumbling off into the ruts of the highway. The horse changed leads to side-step some of the adobe fallen onto the road, and Crawford lurched out of the saddle, barely recovering himself. He heard someone making hoarse, guttural sounds, and realized it was himself. And now, more than the pain, something else was rising in him. The hot, sweaty fetor of the horse filled him with a violent nausea. He had a wild impulse to escape it. He caught himself actually stiffening up to throw himself free of the running horse.

"No!"

Again, he did not know if it was in his head, or if he had shouted it. The very sound of the running horse seemed to fill his brain now. Each thundering hoofbeat was a separate note of agony. And more than the agony which filled him, that other something he could not define, or would not, so confused with the pain now he could not tell the two apart. Finally he could stand it no longer. Brutally, he reined in the horse. The animal brought himself to a series of stiff-legged halts that almost jolted him over its head. He swung off the lathered, heaving animal, and then, standing with his face toward its hairy wet hide, he was filled with that nausea again. He wheeled away from the horse, stumbling across the road to a pile of rubble that marked the remains of the aqueduct. With a hoarse exhalation, he lowered himself weakly to the adobe, dropping his head forward into his hands, so that the black hair fell through his grimy fingers in dank, sweaty tendrils.

"I _can_ ride," he said aloud, in a desperate voice, "I _can_ ride!"

_Chapter Two_

SANTA ANNA'S CHESTS

It had a million faces. At dawn it was a dim, foggy mask. At noon it leered in brassy, burning malignance. At night it was a cunning visage, sometimes filled with bizarre mutations by the caprice of moonlight, sometimes cloaked in the unrelieved sin of utter blackness. This was the _brasada_.

Glenn Crawford did not know how many weeks of weary travel lay behind him since he had left that cow pony by the mission and had struck out on foot for this borderland which had provided sanctuary for so many fugitives. Now, crouched in a thicket of black chaparral, with the late afternoon sun falling through the branches to cast a weird shadow pattern across his back, Crawford was filled with an oppressive sense of its infinite mystery. It was a Spanish word, _brasada_, and there was no English equivalent. For it was not brushland in the ordinary sense. Not scattered clumps of mesquite dotting an arid prairie, or small thickets of sage in a sandy plain. It was a jungle. A dry jungle, as vast and unexplored as the Amazon jungles, stretching through southern Texas between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande for uncounted miles, in many places so thick as to be impossible of penetration.

Until he had reached its safety, Crawford's primary instinct had been the simple animal urge of escape. But once within its borders, a desire to get at the root of this thing, and to clear himself, began to grow in him. And though he knew the dangers involved, it had inevitably drawn him to the Big O, where the whole thing had started.

Otis Rockland's father had established the spread here in the _brasada_ just before the Texas Revolution, shipping lumber for his house from New Orleans. It was a strange building, in a land where most structures were low adobe hovels. Its two stories rose gaunt and lonely against the dark horizon of brush, the flat gambrel roof supporting a pair of glassed-in cupolas over the front. Crawford had been here since noon, watching it, not yet knowing what he had meant to do when he reached the spread. The sun had burned bronze streaks through his shaggy mane of black hair, and a scrubby, matted beard grew up into the hungry hollows beneath his high cheek-bones, rendering his face gaunt and wolfish. His whole body jerked with the sudden crackle of brush behind him, and he started to whirl and rise from his hunkers and pull his gun around all in the same violent movement.

"Never mind, Glenn, you'd never do it in time," said the man standing there. He waited a moment, grinning, and then spoke again with a deliberate, slow irony. "If you'll drop that Henry, we'll be able to talk comfortably."

Crawford let the rifle slip reluctantly from stiff fingers, and then straightened his legs out until he was standing, faced toward the man they called Cabezablanca for his head of pure white hair. His face was as smooth and unlined as a coffee bean, and he wore a pair of tight buckskin leggings they called _chivarras_ this near the border, and a blue cotton shirt, and Crawford had never seen him without the Winchester he carried now.

"It's been a long time since you busted broncs for the Big O, Glenn," said Cabezablanca. "Ain't you going to say something? _Buenos días_, for an old _amigo_, or how are things?" He waited a moment, the smile slipping from his thin, beardless lips. "You better be civil to me, Glenn. I'm a very dangerous man." He halted again, and when he realized Crawford would not answer, a sullen anger tightened his lips. "Very well, let us go and see what they want to do with you."

Crawford turned around, moving from the screen of brush in stiff, catty steps, the tense forward thrust of his shoulders giving them that narrow appearance. He was aware that Cabezablanca stooped to pick up the Henry as he followed. Crawford had been watching the crew working a bunch of horses in the corrals, and now, as he drew near, he saw that they had pulled a new animal into the tight chute between the smaller pen where the animals were held and the larger one where they were worked. It was a big black animal the Mexicans called a _puro negro_, throwing itself crazily against the bars of the chute, the whole structure shuddering with its violent struggles. Crawford was not aware that he had stopped till Cabezablanca came up beside him.

"Yeah, Crawford," said the white-headed man, watching him narrowly. "Africano. Sort of brings back things, doesn't it? That black devil's still rolling them, and nobody's broke it yet."

A man threw a dally rope over the top of the chute, noosing the black animal's neck and pulling it tight against the bars. The beast fought wildly a moment, banging its skull against the cedar poles. The corrals shook again, and yellow dust rose about that section, obscuring the horse. When the dust settled, the _puro negro_ had quit battling, and stood with its forelegs stiff, breathing heavily through its nose. A tall, slat-limbed Mexican climbed to the top of the chute, and the men below handed him up a double-rigged Porter. He dropped the heavy saddle on the horse, and a man below reached through the bars to get the front girth, pulling the latigo through the cinch rings and yanking the girth tight. Africano squealed shrilly, trying to jerk away again. Then another Mexican climbed up the bars of the chute and stood at the top, pulling his belt up. He was so broad he appeared short, his close-cropped hair beginning to gray at the temples. His great shoulders bunched like sides of beef beneath the strained wool of a faded _charro_ jacket with a few tattered remnants of what might have been gold embroidery on its lapels. He wore a pair of tight rawhide leggings, and the rolling muscles of his thighs had burst the seams in several places between hip and knee.

Crawford licked dry lips. "Who is it?"

"Quartel," said Cabezablanca. "When you killed Rockland in San Antonio, a lot of the Big O crew drifted. Bueno Bailey and me are about the only ones left of the old bunch. Rockland didn't have no heirs. So his lawyer was given the job of cleaning up the estate. There's a lot of cattle to be choused out of that brush and Tarant had to get a new ramrod. And Quartel's him."

"But--" Crawford moved his hand vaguely toward the horse--"Africano--"

"The nigger sort of fascinates Quartel, I guess," grinned the other. "He's been trying to break it ever since he got here. That black devil almost stove him up a couple of times."

Quartel was straddling the bars of the chute with his feet, leaning down to tug at the saddle a couple of times and test the cinches. They finally got the bit in and pulled the rawhide reins up to where Quartel could take hold of them. He waved his free hand, and the man below pulled out the drop bar which held the door of the chute closed. Then they untied the rope from the black's neck and swung open the door. As the beast lunged forward, Quartel dropped into the saddle.

Africano was larger than most brush horses, though not any taller, standing maybe fifteen hands, with a prodigiously muscled rump that indicated more than a little quarter blood, and a savage, vicious action to its every movement. The animal boiled over almost before it had left the chute. Quartel had not found his right stirrup as the beast erupted, but by the time Africano hit the top of its first buck, the man's foot was in the oxbow, and when the black stiff-legged down into the ground, Quartel was set for it.

Even then, his broad, heavy body trembled to the awful jar of it. Crawford's face twisted, and his hands were gripping the bars of the corral with a strange desperation.

The black raced down the corral with a high, collected action and then stopped abruptly with its forelegs jamming the ground like ramrods, pin-wheeling in its own billow of dust. It was all balance with Quartel. Crawford did not think he had ever seen such a relaxed seat on a bucker. The man shifted his weight back and forth almost delicately, gauging each violent movement of the horse to perfection.

"There it goes," said Cabezablanca.

Crawford rose up on his toes against the bars. Africano had started to roll. Quartel stepped off with an incredibly lithe movement for his heavy body, as the horse went down. The black rolled completely over, and Quartel was there ready to swing onto its back again as the animal came up, jamming his feet into the stirrups and raking the animal's dusty, lathered flanks with great Mexican cart-wheel spurs. The black screamed in a frenzied, crazy way as it realized the man was still on its back. With a shrill whinny, it began rolling again, madly, cleverly, devilishly, watching Quartel out of its glassy eyes, heavy chest briny with lather. Crawford watched with a terrible fascination, unaware of how tightly he was hanging onto the bars or how loud and harsh his heavy, labored breathing was.

On its fourth roll, Africano twisted while still on its back and switched ends before coming up, kicking at Quartel with its hind feet. Quartel dodged the kick, shouting something, and slapped the animal's rump to come up over the legs as they struck the ground, hitting the saddle with a jar that drew a gasp from Crawford. Africano raced forward, halted abruptly, pivoted on one hind foot. Quartel was thrown off balance by the spin, and while his weight was still on the off side, the black reared up and fell back deliberately. Quartel had to kick free and jump to keep from being mashed beneath twelve hundred pounds of vicious black demon, and he lost control completely.

The animal came up with a triumphant whinny, whirling toward Quartel. The dust billowed up about the dim shouting movement filling the corral then, and Crawford could see only dimly what happened. A red-bearded hand was galloping in on one of the cutting horses to try and reach the black before it trampled Quartel. But the rider spun the big loop over his head once before throwing it, and the wily black saw it coming and wheeled away.

"Damn you, Innes, why don't you go back to snagging fence posts," shouted Quartel, stumbling to his feet and lurching for the rope. He caught that end and jerked it violently, almost unhorsing Innes as the rope was torn from his hands. Then Quartel whirled around, snaking in the rope with quick, skillful flirts until he had the other end. The red-bearded rider had wheeled and was trying to run into Africano broadside now to force it away from Quartel. But Africano leaped ahead, dodging the man, and wheeled toward Quartel again, that maniacal intent plain in its bloodshot eyes. "Get out of the way," Quartel roared hoarsely at Innes. "I swear you don't know any more about handling horses than a woman. Get out of the way----"

The Mexicans called it a _mangana_, and not many men could have done it in such a position. The black horse had outmaneuvered Innes, and was racing a dead run at Quartel. Quartel stood there with the rope in both hands, not even spinning it, a confident grin on his face. When the black was so near it looked certain to run Quartel down, the man made his toss. It was a California throw, down low without a spin so the horse could not spot it until the loop was actually in the air. Quartel snapped the rope behind him at his hip, then dragged it forward with a swift flirt of his wrist, hand pointed down and the loop swinging out so that it practically stood on edge. It was timed perfectly. Quartel took one step away like a bullfighter, and the _puro negro_ thundered past him, so close its lathered shoulder twitched his _charro_ jacket, and ran headlong into that loop standing there. Quartel turned away with the rope across his hip, and his thick body jerked hard as the horse snapped the rope taut and fell headlong. Then he casually dropped the rope to the ground and walked away, while other hands ran in with the short tie ropes they called peales, to hog-tie the vicious beast while it was still down.

Crawford realized only then how his fingers ached. He released them from the cedar-post bar. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, and he heard that heavy, labored breathing. Him? And something else. The same thing he had known on that cow pony up by San Antonio. Not pain exactly, though there were those little spasms twitching at his legs. But something more insidious than that, down in his belly somewhere, a thin, nauseating consciousness. His eyes went to the black horse, still kicking and squealing as they hog-tied it within the corral, and a new wave of it swept him. He turned away, clenching his teeth, trying to drown it with anger. Then he became aware of how Cabezablanca was looking at him.

"What's the matter, Crawford? You look like it was you riding the African instead of Quartel." The white-headed man waited, that sly grin fading as he saw Crawford was not going to speak. He indicated the house, finally, with the tip of his Winchester. "Let's go. Maybe Huerta will want to see you."

"But I've already seen him," said a heavy, jaded voice from behind them. "I've been watching him for some time now."

* * * * *

The overdrapes of green striped satin had been pulled aside from the front windows of the dining-room to let the last shafts of afternoon sunlight cross the dark Empire Aubusson and gleam brazenly on the brass-headed nails which studded the green morocco upholstering of the chairs. The man who had stood behind Crawford and Cabezablanca at the corrals was Doctor Feliz Huerta, and he followed Crawford into the dining-room now.

Crawford did not think he had ever seen such infinite dissolution in a face. The minute pattern of blood vessels was faintly visible in Huerta's heavy lids, giving them a bluish cast. His eyes, when they were visible behind these lids, held a dull, jaded lackluster in their black pupils, and his flesh was smooth and soft-looking, lined about the mouth and eyes like an old satchel. His black hair was parted in the middle, graying at the temples and receding there to form a peak down his forehead which, added to the strong arch of his brows, gave his features a satanic cast.

"You may go now, Whitehead," he said.

Cabezablanca shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, you don't seem to understand. This is Glenn Crawford----"

It seemed to cause Huerta infinite effort to turn toward the man. For a moment, their eyes met. Whitehead's mouth was still open from his words, and he drew a small, surprised breath through it. Then he began to back out of the room.

Huerta moved his glance around to Crawford when Cabezablanca had left. "They say he is a very dangerous man," he murmured, moving languidly to the old English sideboard. Lifting one of the brass rings on the top drawer, he pulled it open, taking a silver plate out and putting it on top. There was a small pile of reddish beans, and he selected one from this, popping it into his mouth. "You'll excuse me. An old complaint."

Crawford could retain it no longer. "What kind of horse you on?"

Huerta's face revealed some small surprise. "I thought you might like to have dinner with us. Jacinto will bring it in a few moments."

"No," said Crawford, moving his hand viciously. "Something else. What is it, Huerta? What are you doing here?"

One of Huerta's sardonic black brows lifted quizzically. "You are such a suspicious man, Crawford. I have known Otis Rockland for some time. He invited me to visit him. I arrived to find him murdered in San Antonio. It was quite a shock. Ah--" his glance had passed Crawford and was focused on the doorway--"Merida, Wallace, I'm glad you've come. We have a dinner guest."

Crawford turned around. Wallace Tarant had been Otis Rockland's lawyer a long time, and Crawford knew him well enough. But it was the woman who commanded his attention. Her beauty struck him with such an impact that he felt a distinct physical reaction pass through his body. Not many women could have worn their hair in such a severe coif without detracting from their allure. It was so black it looked blue, parted in the center and drawn back to a shimmering bun at the nape of her neck. It gave accent to the faintly exotic planes of her face. Her only jewelry was a large cabochon emerald in an onyx brooch that rode the mature swell of her breasts just below the low-cut top of her black silk dress.

Her slightly oblique eyes held a candid interest, meeting his. The blood thickened in his throat. A vague irritation swept Crawford that she should affect him so strongly.

"This is Merida Lopez, Crawford," said Huerta. "She came with me from Mexico City."

"Crawford." It escaped her on a throaty breath, and those large black eyes took in the tense line of his body, and a faint smile stirred her rich lips. "I imagined you, somewhat--like this."

Wallace Tarant took a step that placed him at the woman's side. He had a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame that looked good in his tailored town coat. His face, with its square brow and wide, thin-lipped mouth, should have held a palpable strength. But his eyes would not meet Crawford's. His voice was small for such a large man.

"What's the idea, Huerta?" he said.

"Whitehead found him in the brush watching the house," said Huerta. "I thought perhaps we might like a little talk with him. You, as Rockland's lawyer, should appreciate the value of that."

"Isn't it a little dangerous," said Tarant.

"I think Crawford knows how little chance there is of escape," said Huerta. "By whatever door a man leaves this house, he has to cross several hundred yards of open compound before reaching the protection of the brush. At the present moment, there are half a dozen men out there, just waiting for the chance. As for his presence among us, you aren't afraid of him, are you, Wallace?"

Tarant flushed, moved stiffly to pull out a chair for Merida. Crawford could not tell if it was deliberate, but in passing him the woman's body touched his hip. His whole frame stiffened with the momentary, warm, silken pressure, and he could not help the sharp breath he drew. Then she was by, and he saw the faint, ironic smile twitch at Huerta's lips. Crawford turned angrily toward the table, but before he could reach a chair, the whole room began to tremble. He knew who was coming before the man appeared. Jacinto del Rio had cooked for the Rocklands as long as anyone in the brush could remember. The three dominating factors of his life were apparent enough as he rumbled into the doorway from the entrance hall. His prodigious belly was a remarkable edifice to _tortillas_ and frijoles. The blue network of broken veins patterning his flushed jowls indicated a singular capacity for tequila and pulque. The reluctance of his every movement reflected his veritable passion for the national pastime of siesta. He held a great silver tureen of soup on a tray high before his face, and it prevented him from seeing Crawford at first.

"_Trabajo, trabajo_," he grumbled, "always work. First it's breakfast in the bunkhouse. 'Hyacinth cook some more eggs.' 'Hyacinth this coffee tastes like alkali.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Then breakfast for the big house. 'Hyacinth you're late.' 'Hyacinth you didn't put enough clabber in the biscuits.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Me, who was made for nothing but wassail and song and laughter, sweating like an _esclavo_ all my life. You know what my father he tell me?"

"Yes, yes," said Huerta wearily. "If you don't set that tray down soon we'll be eating breakfast instead of dinner."

"He tell me, 'Hyacinth, there are two sins in the world--working and fighting, working and fighting--and if you avoid both of them, you will surely go to heaven.'" Jacinto set the tray down, his eyes rolling upward in a fat face. "Por Dios! it looks like I'll never get there now. My poor _padre_ must be turning over in his grave to see how I have desecrated his wishes. To think of me, little Hyacinth of the River, meant for nothing but----"

His eyes had focused on Crawford for the first time, and his words ended in a bleat. He held up a fat hand, trying to say something, but nothing would come out. He turned toward Huerta, sweat rolling down his face with his effort to speak. He whirled back to Crawford, his whole body twitching. Then he looked to Huerta again.

"_Por Dios!_" he croaked. "Doctor. Please. Crawford. That's him. I was born for laughter and wassail and song. You aren't going to do anything. How did he get here? No _violencia_. Please. My delicate sensibilities would revolt. You won't--"

"My dear Hyacinth," said Huerta. "There won't, I assure you, be any violence. Now please go and bring the rest of the meal." Jacinto backed out of the room, sputtering, and Huerta's sardonic glance slipped around to Crawford. "Won't you sit down? You make me nervous."

Crawford moved across to pull out a chair across from the woman, feeling her eyes on him, and lowered his tense body onto the green morocco leather. They were all watching him now.

"Would you serve, Wallace?" said Huerta, leaning back in his chair. He surveyed Crawford for a moment. "You know," he said finally, "most people think your motive for killing Otis Rockland was revenge. But somehow, that doesn't satisfy us."

"Doesn't it?" said Crawford.

The woman's laugh was as throaty as her voice. It caused his glance to shift to her face with a jerk. She sat there with that smile, making no effort to explain her amusement. It drew a reasonless anger from him. He gripped his knees with his hands, beneath the linen cloth.