"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—"