"Bueno," he said. "I'll bet the pull isn't more than half a pound on that now."
"Where is Quartel?" asked Crawford.
"If you don't blow your foot off, you'll blow your head off," Innes told Bailey. "I never heard of anybody filing a hair trigger down below a pound."
"Where is Quartel?"
Tongue between his teeth, Bailey slipped the mainspring into the butt of his Dragoon, tightening the strain screw against it carefully. "You don't think that's too much of a hair trigger, do you? I knew a Mexican up in San Antonio that used to carry an old Remington filed down to a quarter-pound pull."
"All right," said Crawford, through his teeth. "I am going up to the house, Innes. Will you get out of my way?"
"That Mex would still be alive if he didn't have the cussed habit of jumping off his horse when it stopped," said Bueno Bailey, slipping the trigger down through the frame and screwing the trigger stud into its proper hole. "But I don't jump off my nag. I get off real easy all the time."
"Please, Innes." It was Jacinto's voice, from behind Crawford. "Let him through this time. It ain't the same as before. Please. It's different. He's different. Don't you know? En el nombre de mi madre. Can't you see—"
"This bravo's pretty good," said Aforismo, swinging his legs. "Nothing compares with my kiss. But I guess I like the other dicho better. Which do you like best, Crawford?"
"Oh, Dios." Jacinto's voice was quavering now. "Please, Innes. I hate violence so. Let him go. I was not born for such as this. Wassail and song, Innes. Can't we all have wassail and song—"