It was not a long fall, and he broke it by catching the edge of the balcony with his free hand and hanging there till his arm was stretched out with his weight, then letting go. One of his high heels turned under him as he struck the flagstones below, and he let himself go down on his knees and then roll it off to keep from spraining an ankle. As he leaped to his feet, Kenmare appeared on the balcony, gun out. Crawford was already running toward the front entrance, past the line of cane chairs. There were still half a dozen cattlemen sitting there, and two of them were standing at the end, and Kenmare was apparently fearful of hitting them if he shot.
"Stop him," shouted the lawman. "Crawford. He killed Rockland. Get him, you fools—"
The men standing made an abortive shift to block Crawford's passage, but he was already opposite them, and surprise held the other men in their chairs till he was almost to the door. He saw several pulling at their guns, but Mexicans and cowhands were passing by outside in the street, or stopping farther beyond in the Plaza to gape curiously, and a bullet might have struck one of them. There were half a dozen cow ponies at a cottonwood rack in front of the Manger, and as Crawford reached them he noticed that the reins of the first were tied in a hitch that could be knocked free. He did it with the tip of his gun, throwing the ribbons over the animal's neck. Excited by Crawford's running up like that, the hairy little black started to whirl inward. Crawford jumped for the stirrup with one foot, letting the centrifugal force slap him into the saddle as the horse whirled on around.
"Hey," shouted one of the cattlemen, streaming out of the patio behind him. "Get off that horse, Crawford, he's mine—"
But Crawford was already turning the animal into Blum Street. Halfway down the block he cut through an alley onto Commerce and turned at the corner of Commerce and Alamo, wheeling into another alley that led directly down to the river. He crashed through a line of washing hung behind a squalid Mexican hovel and scattered a bunch of cackling hens, tearing a white camisa off his head, his hat going with it. A Mexican woman ran from the hut, waving her arms and squealing at him, and behind that he could hear the dim sounds of running horses. He had gone down Blum to make them think he was heading west out of town, and hoped they would not discover his true direction till he had left by the south. He slid the pony down the stone coping banking the river, letting the current carry him beneath the Market Street bridge before trying to reach the opposite bank. He got out of town following back alleys and side streets, and then broke into South Flores Street. And now, as he pushed the laboring pony toward the twin spires of Mission Concepción, it began to come.
There had been no room for it in the violent excitement of those first few minutes, with all his concentration on escape. But now, with the steady beat of running hoofs beneath him, it began to grow in him. First, perhaps, it was a consciousness of that steady shuddering pound of hoofs beneath him. Then, the constant, heated movement of the horse's muscles, the dim sense of its flanks, rising and falling with the heavy breathing, the feel of its shoulders beneath the saddle moving back and forth. And finally, more than the movement and the sound outside him. Something within. He did not know where it started. In his legs, perhaps. Or his groin. Somewhere down there. A strange, thin, hollow sensation.
"No—"
He didn't know whether it had been in his mind or whether he had said it. He turned in the saddle, staring down the road behind, trying to blot it from his consciousness. He was past the fields of white niggerheads about Concepción, and was approaching the second mission, San José de Aguayo, which had been established by the Spaniards here in 1720. But it was growing in him. He was sweating beneath the armpits now. It was recognizable now. Pain. More than that—hollow, nebulous sickness at the pit of his stomach. Pain. Pinpricks of it, shooting up his legs. A hoarse, strained sob escaped him. How could it be? They had told him, no. He was healed. How can it be? I'm healed, damn you, I'm healed.
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.