Part 8

"_Sí?_" The man had released Merida and wheeled to face Crawford. For a moment he stood there, his heavy chest rising and falling gently with his breathing. The mockery faded from his face, leaving a heavy, deliberate intent. His shift to the side was unhurried, but Crawford's effort to keep facing the man came in a swift, spasmodic reaction. Then Quartel stood there again. "Nobody swears at me, Crawford," he said, and then, moving with incredible speed for such a bulky man, he leaped forward. Crawford had been waiting for something, but it came so fast his move to block it was aborted. Quartel had him by the shoulders, knocking him off balance, and Crawford had to stumble backward to keep from falling. "Do you understand that?" Quartel was shouting it now, hoarsely, allowing his ebullience to escape finally. "I'm _amansador_, here, I'm foreman, and nobody swears at me or tries to stop me whatever I'm doing. I rod this outfit and I can do anything I want and nobody can stop me, do you hear?"

It was then Crawford realized what he had brought up against. Stumbling backward, he had lurched into the _trigueño_ and it had kept him from falling. He was held against it now by Quartel's hands gripping his shoulders. The animal heat of it penetrated through his shirt, and something else clawed at him, somewhere way down in his vitals.

In a new spasm, Crawford tried to lurch free of Quartel's grip; but the man had still managed to keep him off balance, and he was held there, with his knees bent and his body pushed off to one side so that he had no leverage. He was shoved back hard against the horse again, and the hot, living, hairy, animal resilience of it against his back intensified that vague alarm inside him.

"Do you hear me, Crawford, do you hear me--"

Quartel's voice came through to him as if the man were far away. Crawford was writhing from side to side, trying to escape, but he was still held at that disadvantage. He had his hands on the man's arms, tearing at them. The effort rocked Quartel from side to side, but failed to loosen his grip. Crawford's face was twisted, and he was gasping hoarsely, because it was growing in him now, raking at him insistently with its subtle, insidious nails. His legs were beginning to tremble and the muscles across his belly were twisting up into little involuntary knots.

"Let go, let go--"

The violent movement and their shouting had excited the horse, and it began to shift around behind Crawford. It had been standing there against the fence where Quartel left it when he slid off. Crawford had it pinned up against the bars, and the animal whinnied nervously, trying to get from between him and the fence. Aforismo moved from the crowd to grab the _trigueño's_ reins and pull its head down.

"What's the matter, Juarez?" he said. "Crawford, don't do that, you're spooking this horse."

"Yeah, quit shouting!" roared Quartel. "Can't you see what you're doing to my _trigueño_? Hasn't he been through enough today? Quit jumping around like that."

He realized what they were doing. That had been the intent in Quartel's face. It didn't help him now to understand. Nothing helped him now. It had its grip on him. His struggles had become a blind, frenetic effort to escape. Not from Quartel, now. It was the horse. The shrill sound of the _trigueño's_ whinny and the rising turbulence of the beast's nervous movement against him drove Crawford to a new violence in his attempts at escape. It was no longer small or vague in him. It filled his whole consciousness. It spread through his legs and lower body in a clutching, stabbing pain that caused his knees to tremble and jerk. It filled his chest with a terrible constriction. And as before, the pain was rapidly turning to something else.

"Let go, damn you, let go--"

He was screaming it now, in animal panic, his face contorted, his whole body writhing and struggling in a blind frenzy that only excited the horse further. He felt it rear up, and would have fallen backward beneath it had not Aforismo yanked it down hard with his grip on the reins. The hot hide was wet with nervous sweat against Crawford's back, and he could feel the ripple of its muscle with every movement it made, and every ripple sent a new wave of panic through him. All reason was gone from his mind and he was sinking into a dark vortex of that terrible panic like a cow sinking into a black bog.

"What's the matter, Crawford? Are you afraid of the horse?"

"Let go, please, for God's sake, let go."

"What's the matter, Crawford?"

"Leggo, leggo, leggo--"

He stopped screaming. It took him a long time to comprehend he was no longer being held against the horse. He crouched there on his knees where he had fallen when Quartel had stepped back, releasing him. The movement of the animal behind him raised a flurry of dirty brown dust. Coughing in it, Crawford stared up at Quartel. The rage had disappeared from Quartel's face. His lips were spread in that pawky smile.

"Sure," he said, "I'll let you go. What will you do if I let you go?"

Aforismo had pulled the _trigueño_ out from behind him now, and Crawford crouched there on his hands and knees, black hair falling dankly over his feverish eyes. He looked like a trapped animal, his breath escaping him in hoarse gasps, his head turning in quick jerks as his wild glance leaped from one person to another. First it was Merida. There was a desperate plea in the way she bent toward him, her bosom rising and falling, her red lower lip dropped away from the shadowed white line of her teeth, glistening damply. Then Huerta, managing to convey a bored amusement without actually expressing anything in his face, as he studied Crawford distantly. And Jacinto, great, lugubrious globules of sweat sliding down his brown face, wringing his fat hands, making small, unintelligible sounds of pain.

A vagrant anger swept Crawford and he tried to collect it and hold it in him, bitter and acrid and violent. But it held no strength, and a shift of the wind swept the fetor of the _trigueño_ to him once more, and the anger disappeared. There was none of the spasm of panic now. It was heavy and oppressive in him, holding him down like a physical weight, robbing him of all resolve, dominating all other emotion. He was still shaking violently, and the salty tears blinded him. He felt a dim impulse to move twitch at his legs, and he knew a moment there when he thought he could rise. Then he heard the guttural, frustrated sound he made, and knew he was still on the ground, and felt an overpowering impulse to give way and cry.

"I thought so," said Quartel, and turned to take the reins from Aforismo. He checked the animal to prevent its whirling away from him, and jumped onto its back. He released the rein, and the _trigueño's_ head came around with a snap as it spun to trot off toward the fires. The other _vaqueros_ followed one by one, in an uncomfortable silence. Huerta patted a yawn.

"They've got some cane chairs over under those coma trees," he said. "I think I'll watch the proceedings from there. Coming, Merida?"

She did not answer. She was looking at Crawford, her face pale. Huerta shrugged, moved languidly across the dusty compound. Then it was just the two of them, with Crawford finally gaining his feet, unable to meet her eyes. Merida's weight had settled back onto her high heels slowly. That ripe lower lip had contracted against her teeth till her mouth was twisted across them faintly. Her husky voice was barely audible.

"I had hoped Huerta was wrong."

He stared at her, wanting to turn and run, unable to, somehow, and finally it came from him, guttural, hardly recognizable. "Whadda you mean?"

"About that fellow in the mine," she said.

"Whaddaya mean?" Had that been him? Shrill, and cracked, like that?

"You know what I mean," she said. "Not only pain. Fear. And not only fear of what originally caused the pain."

"No--"

"Yes!" she said thinly. "Yes! It's not just the horses any more. It's everything. You're a coward, Crawford. You're a coward!"

_Chapter Nine_

STILL IN THE THROES OF FEAR

The girandole candelabra on the mantel looked like a brooding ghoul in the evening gloom which shrouded the living-room of Otis Rockland's house. The French windows at the front extended completely to the floor, double-hung sashes forming the upper half, paneled gates of unpolished oak being the lower section. The damask hangings had been pulled across during the afternoon to shut out the sun, but the windows themselves were partly ajar, allowing the sounds from the corrals to enter the room. Someone was playing a guitar over there where they were still roasting the bulls that had been killed. A woman's laugh came dimly.

Crawford raised his head a moment where he sat in a willow chair by the window; then he lowered it once more into his hands. His face was bleak and empty. He did not know how long it was since he had come here, unable to face them out there.

When the creak of the porch came mutedly to him, he gave no sign. Then there was more sound, louder, more recognizable. His head lifted as the noise terminated with a muffled crash.

"Crawford!"

Just once like that, shrill and cracked. He got to his feet and ran to the door, tearing it open. It was the side table in the entrance hall which had made the crash. Merida must have pulled it over, falling. The marble top had smashed, and a piece of it lay on the floor beside her. The front door stood open wide.

"Merida?" he said, dropping to one knee. "You fell?"

"No." She stirred feebly, rising to one elbow with his help, hanging her head over against his knee a moment. The kitchen door opened, and her maid padded down the hall in bare feet, a small, wizened Indian, so dark she looked negroid, dressed in nothing more than a white cotton shift.

"It's all right, Nexpa," Merida told her. "A little accident. Crawford will help me to my room."

She allowed him to help her up the stairs, leaning heavily on his arm. The warmth of her body flowed through Crawford, and when they reached the second floor he was breathing heavily. Beyond the last step, Merida pulled away from him, her eyes meeting his in a swift, unreadable way.

She turned and moved toward her room, halting a moment outside Huerta's closed door, as if listening. Then she opened the door of her bedroom. He had kept from asking by an effort, but now he followed her in hesitantly, speaking.

"Huerta came up?"

She closed her door softly. "He wasn't at the corrals when I left."

"Maybe he got hungry for his red beans." Her face lifted to him, eyes widening, and he shrugged. "Jacinto said something about dope."

She pursed her lips, moving around him toward the table. "Couldn't you see it? Opium when we were in Mexico City. Peyote now."

"Those beans."

"Yes. You've heard it. The Indians call it _raíz diabólica_. Devil weed. They've been using it for centuries in Mexico. Even the Aztecs knew of it. They called it peyotl. It's effect isn't as marked as opium. He seems capable of eating those beans all day. They make a drink of it that's more potent."

"He said something about a complaint," Crawford told her.

Her mouth twisted somewhat. "Maybe he has an old wound. He's been around. He'd take dope anyway. That's just the kind he is. You saw the kind. Dissolute? I don't know. Whatever you want." She had got a punk off the table and was lighting the candles in the porcelain candelabra supported by oak wall brackets. Then she saw how he was looking at her, and turned part way. "What is it?"

He looked away. "Nothing."

She caught his arm, turning him back.

"No," she said. "It is something. Huerta?"

Crawford pulled away from her hand, uncomfortable, somehow. "I just can't see you with him. You're not the type."

"What type do you think I am?"

He started to answer. Then he moved his shoulders again, letting out a muted, rueful sound. "I guess I don't know, really, do I?"

"Don't you?" She was meeting his glance with a wide, candid demand in her eyes.

"Santa Anna's chests?" he said.

She drew in a long, slow breath, and nodded, finally. "You do know, then," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "You have known, all along." She hesitated, studying him. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. "That's inconceivable to you, isn't it?"

"No--"

"Yes!" She blew out the punk with the word. "You've lived in the _brasada_ most of your life. Money to you represents no more than a barren, lonely ranch like this and a herd of cattle to support it. You have no conception of what riches can really mean. Not just the horses, the servants, the jewels. The grace, Crawford, the ease, the beauty, the way of life." An intensity had gripped her voice, and her face was flushed. "Do you know what it is to be a peon in Mexico? No. You've never seen it, have you? You've seen the women in the brush here, living like animals in a one-room mud house with nothing but a cotton sheet for a dress. That's nothing. They're rich. They're hidalgos compared with a real peon. I should know. I was one, Crawford. I won't be one again. I'd rather steal and lie and cheat. I'd rather murder. Can you understand that? I will, if it's necessary. I--"

She broke off, breathing deeply, looking wide-eyed up at him. Then a short bitter laugh escaped her, and she turned away, the line of her shoulders bowing faintly. Light drew a soft glow from the rich black hair drawn tightly across the back of her head. With a new understanding of the woman, he stepped in behind her.

"All right," he said.

The simple acceptance of that drew her around. They were standing so close her breast touched his when it stirred faintly to her breathing.

"You were going to tell me what happened downstairs," he murmured.

"_Derrotero?_" she said, watching his face narrowly.

It was an effort to keep it expressionless. "The map?"

"It's why Huerta wanted to keep you here in the first place," she said. "Quartel and Tarant were against it, but Huerta thought you had some reason for coming here. He was right, Crawford. Nothing else could make you take what they've been doing. You've got part of the _derrotero_, and you think one of us has the rest. Well, one of us has!"

She turned around and did something with the waist of her dress, beneath the fichu. When she turned back, she held a piece of torn, yellowed paper in her hand.

"There are three pieces to the map," she said. "This is one of them."

"Lopez?" he asked.

"Yes," she muttered. "Santa Anna had many wives. My mother was one. You will recall that the captain of the mule train sent one third of the map to Santa Anna himself. It was about all my mother got out of Santa Anna's estate when he died."

"Who was it downstairs?" he asked.

"He came from behind. It was dark. I did not see."

He stared at the section of paper a long time, scratching his dirty beard with a thumbnail. "Huerta's been trying to find out all along if I have the _derrotero_. The fact that he doesn't know for sure has kept him from making any definite move, one way or another. What would he do if he found out, for sure, one way or another?"

"Why should he find out?" she said.

"You're with Huerta."

"Am I?" she said, moving in close again. "Maybe I _was_."

"You tried that before," he said.

"No," she said hotly. "Will you never trust me, Crawford? I want to help you. Not just the map. That doesn't matter, now. Out there, with the _trigueño_. I'm sorry for what I called you."

"Maybe you were right," he said, bitterly.

"No! You're not a coward, intrinsically. Can't you see what they were doing? Maybe Huerta was the first to see how it was--about your legs. Now they all know. They're using it, Crawford. Quartel used it today. He shoved you up against the horse and held you there till you were half-crazy with panic. He knew you wouldn't fight him in that state. It wasn't fear of him that demoralized you. It was horrible to watch." She reached up to grasp his elbows with her hands, lifting her weight toward him. "But I've seen what you used to be, too. When you brought Whitehead back. No coward could have done that. Come back, with Whitehead that way, knowing what you would have to face, here. Do you realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that morning and see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing what it meant. It doesn't happen to a person often in her life, Crawford. That sort of feeling. Let me help you, Crawford. I want to. I can't if you don't trust me."

She was up against him now, almost sobbing it, and his hands had slid around her waist, the flesh hot and silken against his palm through her gown. For one last moment he tried to fight it. But he had fought so long, so alone, without anyone, and the warm resilience of her body against him filled Crawford with a giddy weakness.

"Merida," he muttered thickly, bending her back, "Merida--"

She pulled away, her face flushed. "I can't--if you don't trust me--"

He held her that way, breathing heavily, her back arched away from him by the pressure of her hands against his chest. He searched her wide, dark eyes, and found no guile there. Still filled with that desire and driven by it, he made a guttural, inarticulate sound, releasing her, and took one step to the bed, lowering himself on the embroidered muslin coverlet. He bent to take off his right Justin. The fancy stitching across the top of the boot unknotted, and he pulled it away from half a dozen eyelets in the leather, revealing a double thickness which formed a pocket.

"Used to keep my money here," he said, pulling out the piece of parchment Rockland had given him. The woman's hand trembled as she took it from him, laying it on the bed beside her piece, fitting them together. Then her pale finger crossed the map until it reached a word printed on his section. Her voice was no more than a whisper.

"Mogotes Serpientes."

"Yeah," he said, watching her. "Yeah. I never got around to using the map. Kenmare was on my tail a lot since I left San Antonio. I didn't take too much stock in the story anyway. Del never told me anything about it, and it was his uncle supposed to have been captain of that mule train. How did Rockland get hold of this portion?"

"Delcazar's uncle escaped to Mexico City, where he died, his effects being turned over to the family lawyer down there," she said. "Rockland originally wanted the Delcazar land up here for the water. He sent Tarant down to Mexico City to make sure there was nothing in the Delcazar papers which would prevent having clear title to the land when he got hold of it. Tarant found this part of the chart when he was going through those papers." She straightened slowly, allowing her gaze to reach his face. "Do you know who has the other piece, Crawford?"

"No," he said.

Her eyes grew blank; and he stood swiftly, grasping her hand. "I've trusted you, Merida. Now you've got to trust me. I don't know."

"It's got to be more than trust now," she said. "We're in it together, Crawford. If I'm to help you, you've got to help me. Will you?"

"Haven't I proved that?" he said, trying to pull her toward him with that hand. "Anything, Merida--"

She held back, calculation hardening the planes of her face. "Perhaps I should have said, _can_ you?"

Just the feel of her wrist in his fingers that way, soft and satiny, started it up again in him, and he quit trying to pull her in, and took a step in toward her. "What horse you on now?"

"I mean, maybe you can't. Maybe you're incapable of it. You can't do much the way you are now, Crawford. You're only half a man. It's not just the horses any more. It's your whole life. Everything you do is affected by it. I've thought of trying to get you a gun. A dozen times. It would be hard, but I might be able to do it. To stay unarmed here, like this--" She put her free hand against his chest to stop him. "What good would it do, Crawford? If you'd had a gun, would you have used it today? Quartel carries one. Would you have pulled yours on him?"

No woman had ever affected him so violently before. Hardly aware of what she was saying, the blood pounding through his head, he sought to force her hand aside and bend his face to hers, wanting only to feel her against him again.

"Merida," he said, the blood so thick in his throat it made him sound strangled, "I told you--anything--"

She took a deep, ragged breath, and he could not tell whether she was fighting him or herself, now. "No, Crawford. It wouldn't be any different with a gun. Not the way you are now. A gun wouldn't do you any more good than your bare hands. Quartel wanted you to fight him with your hands. You wouldn't even do that. Nothing will do you any good until you can step on a horse again without feeling that pain in your legs--that fear." She forced herself away, saying it in a cold tone, "Africano?"

It was like throwing ice water on a fire. All his ardor disappeared before the abrupt clutch of fear that word engendered in him. He stiffened for a moment, still holding that one hand. Then he dropped it and stepped back, his mouth twisted. Just the word, like that. Just the name.

"Yes." The heavy rise and fall of Merida's breast abated as she studied him, the candor gone from her face now, a cold, critical speculation filling her eyes as she studied him. "Perhaps I was wrong, Crawford. Perhaps you can't help me. Perhaps I can't help you."

"No? Let me show you," he said desperately.

_Chapter Ten_

FLIGHT FROM SNAKE THICKETS

This time of night did strange things to the brush. The moon had not yet risen enough to light fully the trails winding their secretive way through the jealous chaparral, and what vague dim light did seep through the gloom held a reflected, synthetic quality. Most of the _vaqueros_ were in a drunken stupor when Crawford and the woman left the house, getting one of Rockland's prized copperbottoms and a pinto mare from the corrals without being detected. They rode north from the spread, following one of the ancient game traces which the _vaqueros_ used when working the cattle. In the eerie illumination, the berries ripening on the granjeno bushes formed yellow shadow patches against the velvet backdrop of darkness farther back, and the white filament of the horse-maimer was turned to a sick erubescence where it crouched on a stony ridge. Crawford caught the dim glow of the cactus's silky blossoms, and pulled his reins in a hard jerk against the pinto's neck. The animal shied to the right, away from the horse-maimer.

"Crawford!"

The woman said it softly from behind him, a controlled anger in her voice. She moved the copperbottom up beside him, peering at his face.

"It's all right," he said impatiently.

"Crawford," she said again, in that low, insistent tone.

He tried to relax his legs against the pinto. Just a walk, and they were like that. He felt his shirt sticking to his armpits and knew the sweat was showing on his face. That terrible frustration was biting at him.

"I told you it was all right," he said harshly.

A savagery entered her voice, struggling with that restraint. "Will you quit trying to hide it, Crawford. From me. From yourself. I know all about it now. I've seen it. There's no use being ashamed of it with me. It's there. We both recognize it. Admit it. That's the first thing you've got to do."

"All right. I'm afraid. Every time it moves. Every time it bats an eyelash. Every time it--"

He stopped, realizing how violent the release had been, and it seemed the mocking echoes of his voice were dying down the sombrous lanes of the brush. He turned away from her, feeling a new wave of shame.