Crawford had reached him by then. "What happened, Del? They did this to you?"
Dried blood darkened the old man's face, and the soles of his bare feet had a red, blistered look. "You got a hackamore on it," said Delcazar vacantly, still staring at the black. "You can't ride that killer with a hackamore. You're loco—"
"Who did it? Tell me who did it!" almost shouted Crawford.
"Merida—"
"She did this!"
"No, no," gasped Delcazar weakly. "Merida come first. She say she needed help. Say you weren't with her any more for some reason. Had an idea I knew about Snake Thickets. While she was still here, Huerta came. Followed her, I guess. He thought I knew about Snake Thickets too. Those cigarettes of Huerta's. I'm a viejo, an old man. I couldn't stand much. The woman try to stop him. She couldn't do it."
"How do you get in, Delcazar?" Crawford's voice shook with its low intensity.
Delcazar's eyes widened. "Crawford, you ain't going to try and follow them. It's suicide. Even if you know how to get in. Those serpientes. You been there. You heard them. Please, you and I been amigos too long. Let those fools kill themselves after a chest of pesos. Who wants pesos—"
"How do you get in?"
Crawford's voice held a shrill, driven stridor that stiffened Delcazar. The old man stared at him a moment, mouth open slightly. Maybe it was the pale, set look to Crawford's face.