But Crawford had stopped hearing the cook. It held him completely now. It lifted him so high he didn't feel his feet hit the floor when he started to walk. He moved past Jacinto with a dazed, twisted expression on his face, not even seeing the fat Mexican. The only thing within his awareness was that sweeping, tingling sense of exaltation, so strong and poignant it approached a nausea. The kitchen door faced away from the house, and it was more direct to go through the dog-run and out the bunkhouse; he must have gone that way unconsciously, not remembering his passage through the covered run.
"Where you going?" It penetrated only dully. He kept on walking. Then somebody was in front of him. "I said where you going?"
Innes! The singular odor of sweaty leather reached Crawford from the red-bearded man's buckskin ducking jacket.
"The house," he said, trying to get around the man. Ford Innes shifted again, and this time Crawford was brought up against the man's body. It was like walking into an oak tree.
"Not right now," said Innes.
It was the other things, then, brought in with a clarity almost painful. Bueno Bailey. Sitting at the table. Filing the sear on the trigger of his gun. Aforismo. Sitting on the upper bunk to Crawford's right. His legs dangling over the sideboard.
"Did you ever see the dichos on my belduque?" he asked, seriously. "I like the one on this side best. Tripe is sweet but bowels are better. Don't you like that one best?"
The contraction of Crawford's muscles began with his calves. They twitched faintly, stiffening up, and the tightening ran up the inside of his legs and pervaded his belly and crossed his chest. His whole body was taut as he took the step back away from contact with Innes.
"That's it," said the red-bearded man.
Bueno's gun was an old 1848 percussion Dragoon, converted to handle cartridges. Rubbing his finger delicately across the sear, Bailey nodded his head approvingly.