Innes was slumped halfway down the wall now, still making those horrible sobbing sounds as he refused to give up. Crawford shoved the gun clear back against the adobe, and hit him again. The redheaded man slid completely to the floor, dropping the Remington. Crawford whirled around, wondering why Bueno had not come back in. Then he saw who had been yelling.
Bueno Bailey was huddled in a corner, and standing over him, beating at him with the broken end of the bench, was the fat cook. "That for your bacon grease, you rumbero," squealed Jacinto, and the bench made a crunching sound striking Bueno, "that for your—"
Crawford leaped across the room and grabbed the bench before Jacinto could strike again. The huge Mexican fought him crazily, trying to tear loose and get back at Bueno. "Just one more, Crawford, please, just one more. He deserves it. Did you see what they were trying to do with you? Barba del diablo, just one more. Look at the scabby pordiosero—"
"Who was it didn't like violence?" shouted Crawford.
Jacinto stopped abruptly, looking at Bailey, crouching dazedly against the wall. He stared around at the carnage of the room, the smashed table, Innes sprawled out against the wall clutching his face.
"A fe mía," he said in a hollow voice. "Upon my word. It looks like they turned a toro loose." Then his popping eyes came back to Bailey. "I did—that—" he waved an incredulous hand at the man. "No, Crawford, tell me I didn't." Jacinto turned around to clutch at him. "Violencia. Caramba, I couldn't, not me, not little Hyacinth of the River. My father would be desecrated. Please, tell me I didn't do it—"
"Dios, somebody, come and pull it out, damn you, Crawford, somebody, you chingados, come and help me, come and get this cuchillo, damn you—"
It was Aforismo's voice, breaking in on Jacinto's plea. Jacinto turned toward the man, where he still sat up in the bunk. Aforismo must still have had his right hand held back over one shoulder to throw his belduque when Crawford's knife struck him, for the bowie was up to its hilt through his palm, pinning the hand to the adobe wall. With the inconsistency of a child, the tortured look left Jacinto's sweating face, and he began to chuckle.
"Look at him. Aphorisms? Hah! What good are they now? Proverbios. Why don't you give us a saying now, Aforismo?" He had begun to drag the table toward the bunk. "Dichos? What right have you got to dichos? Tripe is sweet? Hah! How does that belduque know?" With a great effort he had managed to climb on the table and bend over the bunk to grab the hilt of Crawford's bowie. "Nothing compares with my kiss. That makes me laugh. That belduque never kissed anything but the inside of your belt—"
"Madre," howled Aforismo, "take it easy, will you?"