an adobe banco ran down one side of the cookshack on the inside, forming a bench, and it was upon this that jacinto had deposited his generous bulk. he was bent in childish concentration over a block of wax from which he carefully peeled thin strips, depositing these with much care into a clay bowl. small, intimate mutters rumbled up from him with each process.
"ah, so," he mumbled, slicing off a piece, "ah sí," and sliced off another, and then jumped erect in startled surprise, dropping the block of wax. "ah, crawford!"
crawford stepped on in through the door, sniffing. "smells like bayberry."
"how—how did you get out?" quavered jacinto, grunting painfully with the effort it cost him to stoop over and retrieve the wax.
"nobody stopped me," said crawford. "they gave me that upstairs bedroom, but i couldn't sleep."
"you better not come in here, crawford," said the gross cook. "maybe they're not watching you like they did, but you better get out of here. why do you think huerta kept you up at the house this morning? didn't you see how quartel looked at you? you're just lucky he didn't get you down here."
there was a dish of cracklings on the table, and crawford took one, pulling a three-legged stool out to sit on it. "quartel and the others are out chousing cattle. making candles?"
"sí," mumbled jacinto, lowering himself back on the bench. "nobody can make them like me. that was bayberry you smelled all right. i didn't have enough sheep tallow. first i make it into blocks and then cut it into small scraps so it melts quick without burning. i put the wax in hot water and scoop the grease off as it comes to the top. then i strain it through a horsehair cloth to remove whatever dirt i missed in skimming. i am now heating the wax to pour in the molds. did you ever see such fine molds? my father owned that brass one in el paso. it holds two dozen candles at one pouring. if you came here to find out what's going on, i can't tell you."
the abrupt transition brought crawford's head up in surprise. jacinto set the mold end up in a dishpan, chuckling.
"i am not as stupid as i am corpulent, crawford. you didn't come here just to eat my cracklings." his great bloodshot eyes slid upward in their pouches till they met crawford's. "but i can't tell you anything, crawford. i know something is going on. huerta and that woman. something not quite right. tarant too, somehow. maybe you can tell me."
"hyacinth, what did you think of that story about santa anna's chests?"
"i—santa maria, that wax is hot." jacinto sat shaking his finger a moment. then he put it into his mouth. "if santa anna lost some chests up here, i guess he lost them, that's all. mm, you ought to taste that bayberry. i think i'll season my chiles rollenos with it some time."
"you heard the one about the map?" said crawford.
"the derrotero? sí, i guess there was supposed to be a map. isn't there always, with something like that?"
"ever stop to think of santa anna's full name?"
"ciertamente. everybody knows it. antonio lopez de san—" jacinto stopped, staring at crawford. wax dripped from the tin ladle onto the floor. crawford popped a last crackling into his mouth.
"would that give her a connection?" he said.
"lopez is a common name," said jacinto, almost defensively.
"a woman like that don't trail through this kind of country just for the scenery," said crawford. he closed his eyes, rolling the name meditatively off his tongue. "merida lopez."
it must have been about then the first sound floated in from outside, the creak of saddle leather, a man's hoarse cough. jacinto jumped across the room, jerking crawford up out of the chair. "they're back, crawford, you got to go, you got to get out of here, if quartel ever gets you alone after whitehead, he'll—"
he stopped shoving crawford toward the doorway, and his voice faded into a series of small, choked sounds. aforismo stood there, sweat streaking the dust in his smooth brown face, holding a belduque in his hands.
"el amante fiel," he said, running his finger down the keen edge, "the loyal lover. did you ever see my knife, crawford? truly a remarkable weapon. handed down in my family for generations. the hilt was once studded with precious stones, but they have long since been picked out by various members of my illustrious house who were in temporary financial destitution." he took a shuffling step toward them. "look at the bravos on the blade. see this one. nothing compares with my kiss. isn't that a delectable motto?"
jacinto shrank back, staring in fascinated horror at the words cut into that side of the gleaming blade. through the dog-run, crawford could hear the thump of a chair in the bunkhouse, the clatter of spoons on the table.
"please, aforismo, please," quavered jacinto. "let him go. madre de dios! let him go out the door before they find him in here. you know what will happen. quartel would—"
"and this one," aforismo said, turning the blade over and pointing to another motto cut into that side. "this is my favorite bravo i think. tripe is sweet but bowels are better. don't you like that one, jacinto?" he took another shuffling step toward them with the point almost touching crawford's belly. "don't you like that bravo, crawford? tell me you like it. it is my favorite, i think."
"please, please." jacinto was cringing behind crawford, wringing his hands, sweat dribbling down his coarse face. "en el nombre de dios, aforismo, let him go, he never did anything to you, he never harmed one little hair of your head, i hate violence so, oh, i do hate violence so, my father he always tell me there are two sins in the world, work and fighting, and—oh, por dios, aforismo, santa maria, nombre de mi madre, let him go, let him go—"
"they say down in durango a coyote always howls loudest in the trap," said aforismo, nudging crawford gently back with that needle point. "i think maybe we better all go in the bunkhouse, eh? the hands are getting hungry. tripe is sweet but bowels are better, eh?" crawford did not step back quickly enough, and that needle point went through his shirt with a soft ripping sound. the stinging bite of steel in the hard muscle of his belly caused his move back to be involuntary. his breath left him in a hoarse gust and he bent forward with the impulse driving through him. that was as far as it went. aforismo's boots made that bland shuffle on the hard-packed earth, moving forward. his face twisted with frustrated anger, crawford shifted back into the dog-run, shoving the cringing cook behind him.
"dios, aforismo, por dios, no violence, please, i could not stand the sight of blood, it would make me regurgitate, please—"
jacinto knocked over a chair backing from the dog-run into the bunkhouse. it made a loud clatter. then crawford was in the bunkhouse, still bent forward that way, his breath coming out harsh and swift, and he could see them. bueno bailey was seated at the table.
"i was just showing crawford the bravos on my belduque," said aforismo. "in durango they say it is an ignorant man who cannot tell his sons at least one bravo."
"bueno." bailey trailed the word out in a pleased, nasal twang, shoving the bench back from the table. "siddown, crawford. we was just about to eat."
"i guess you never met ford innes, did you, crawford," said quartel. "this is crawford, ford. he is the one who brought your amigo back this morning."
the redheaded man in the doorway emitted a flat, harsh grunt. he must have just stepped in, for he held his saddle under one arm. the short, square lines of his body held all the lethal threat of a snub-nosed derringer. he had a flat-topped hat set squarely on his head. the bottom of his red beard was dirty from rubbing against the grease daubs on the chest of a buckskin ducking jacket with square tails that hung outside his chivarras and which were caught up on one side by the wooden handle of his remington.
"ford just got back from taking wallace tarant into san antonio," said quartel. "as many times as that shyster's been back and forth between here and town, he still can't find his way through the brush himself."
the leather rigging clattered against the hard earthen floor when innes dropped his pack. his bushy bleached brows formed a reddish dominance above shrewd little eyes that had not left crawford's face since he entered. he moved over and sat down across from bailey.
"so you brought whitehead back." his voice held the same lack of intonation as his grunt.
"ford had been whitehead's saddle mate for a long time," said quartel. "i guess he'd like to know how it happened to whitehead."
"get us some grub, jacinto," said aforismo. with his belduque he indicated a place beside bailey. "an empty seat there, crawford. sit down."
crawford looked at the knife. he sat down.
the table groaned as aforismo lowered himself onto it and put his feet on the bench, running a finger up and down his belduque. ford innes began playing with his spoon on the table. jacinto came from the dog-run with a dish of beans. he fumbled the plate at the last moment and almost tipped it onto the table. his fat jowls were trembling with his chin.
"please, please, let's not have any—"
"so whitehead broke his neck out in the thicket," said innes.
"have some beans, glenn," said bailey, ladling them onto a plate he had shoved before crawford.
"they call them nacionales down in durango, because so many mexicans eat them," said aforismo. "it is said of one who is weak that he lacks nacionales."
"how did it happen to whitehead?" said innes.
"we don't know," said bailey, helping the man to beans. "crawford just brought him back over his horse with his neck broke and said he found him out in the brush that way."
"how did it happen?" innes asked crawford.
"there was eleven shots gone from whitehead's carbine," said quartel.
innes began eating in a slow, mechanical way, his jaws working steadily beneath his red beard, looking at crawford. "where's your iron?"
"whitehead took away crawford's rifle when he first came," said aforismo.
innes's bleached eyebrows raised, and he ceased chewing for a moment. quartel was standing behind crawford to one side, and crawford caught the sly grin spreading the man's pawky lips.
"there was no other marks on whitehead's body," quartel said.
"well," said innes, still looking at crawford that way. finally he went back to spooning up the beans, his eyes never leaving crawford's face. "what happened?" he said again, around a mouthful.
"yeah." bailey nudged crawford on the shoulder with his spoon. "what happened?"
crawford could hear his own breathing now. it held a harsh, driven sound. he looked from innes to bailey, from bailey to quartel, from quartel to aforismo. there was a patent brutal intent in all their faces. he was hunched over so far now the heat of the beans in his plate penetrated his shirt and warmed his chest.
"where's the sorrel?" said bailey.
"what sorrel?" said innes.
"the horse he took out," said quartel. "he never brought him back."
"coffee?" it was jacinto again, waddling in with a big pot. he set it down, looking around at the men. he wrung his great fat hands together, speaking in a small, strained voice. "please, señores, please. violence. i cannot stand it. you won't do this. tell me you won't do this. my father, he say—"
aforismo turned toward him, lifting the belduque. "would you like my loyal lover to see inside the sack?"
"no." jacinto backed out, lugubrious tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "no, lástima de dios, tears of god, no—"
"you ain't told us what happened yet," said innes, still eating.
"yeah." quartel shoved crawford from behind. "how did you lose the sorrel? you could ride any horse i could, remember?"
crawford's hands were clasped desperately between his knees. there was a taut, set expression to his features. sweat had begun trickling down his cheeks into his beard. his whole body was trembling.
"so you brought whitehead in with a broken neck," said innes.
"yeah." bueno poked crawford with the spoon again. "how did it get broke?"
"yeah." aforismo pricked him from the other side with the knife. "what happened?"
"how did it get broke?"
"how did you lose the sorrel?"
"what happened?"
crawford jerked away as aforismo bent forward with that belduque again. it carried him against bueno, sitting on his other side. bueno pushed him back roughly. quartel shoved him from behind so hard his chest struck the table. a small, strangled sound escaped him.
"tell us what happened."
"sí, tell us, crawford."
"what happened, crawford?"
"talk, damn you." bueno's shove was harder.
"tell us, crawford." the knife prick was deeper. he jerked away from it. bailey caught him and shoved him back brutally. he made a spasmodic effort to rise. quartel put both hands on his shoulders and forced him back down. he tried to twist around. aforismo's belduque was in his face. he jerked back the other way into bailey. his hands knotted and writhed between his knees underneath the table. his whole body was shuddering now.
"where's the sorrel?"
"how'd he break his neck?"
"talk, damn you!"
"tell us, crawford."
"what happened?"
"gentlemen!" it came from the doorway, and it stopped them abruptly. huerta stood there, bent forward slightly, and those bluish lids were almost closed over his eyes.
"i think we all know what happened to whitehead," he said, "don't you?" he stood there a moment, but no one answered. he dropped his eyes to the jade cigarette holder he held in one hand, tapping it to knock the ash from the cigarette, and still looking down that way, spoke again. "i think it would be wise, now, crawford, for you to come with me, up to the house, don't you?"
