"Vamanos," Quartel roared, and raked the animal's bloody flanks with his Chihuahua can openers, and they were racing at each other again. Quartel leaned forward and threw his arm out with a grunt as they went by one another. Crawford's own arm stiffened with the impulse to make his throw. Then he realized Quartel's clothesline was not coming.
The rest of it moved automatically, without any conscious volition from Crawford. Holding his throw, he allowed the black to race on past Quartel. Then, when he knew Quartel would be wheeling that trigueño to make his true cast at Crawford's retreating back, Crawford yanked the mecate against Africano's neck. He felt the movement of the horse's shoulders beneath him, changing leads as it spun in full gallop on its hind foot. No quarter turn this time. A half turn, switching ends completely in that instant, so that he was facing Quartel instead of going away and, with the horse still in motion, was racing back toward the Mexican.
It caused Quartel's rope to overshoot completely. Crawford saw the man's face twist in surprise. Then Crawford made his cast. It was an underhanded throw with a hooley-ann at the end. In wheeling, Quartel had come to a full stop. He made one last abortive effort to turn his animal away, but the small loop caught him before the trigueño reacted. Then Crawford was on past the Mexican, with the rope dallied on his horn and snapping taut. He heard Quartel make a strangled sound of pain. Then there was the thump of him striking the ground.
Crawford tried to keep his black in full gallop and drag Quartel, but something within him rebelled. He halted the animal and swung off, running back to catch the man before he could rise. Quartel was on his knees, that rope still about his thick neck, shaking his head dully. The mesquite rattled behind Quartel, and Merida stepped out. She must have passed the Henry where it had been dropped. She held it cocked in both hands, and her bosom was heaving, her face torn and bleeding from the brush she had run through. They stared at each other without speaking. Her eyes were wide and shining, and her lips started twisting across her teeth without any sound coming out.
Then, without any consciousness of having moved, he found her body in his arms and her lips against his and the sound of her expelled breath hot and hoarse in his ears. He didn't know how long he was lost in it. Finally the other things began to come. The cold, hard feel of the rifle barrel against his back where she held it in one hand with that arm around him. The guttural sounds of pain Quartel was making trying to get that noose off his neck. The crash of another passage through the mesquite.
"Crawford, Crawford, I knew you'd come, I knew they couldn't stop you, none of them—" It was Merida, whispering it in a husky, passionate, barely coherent stream against his chest. "I was so afraid. Thinking of you out there. All those snakes. I wanted you to come and I didn't want you to. I didn't know what I wanted. I do now, I mean. I guess I haven't known really what I wanted all my life, but I do now. I was so afraid—"
"Merida—Where are you?"
It was Huerta's voice, accompanying the rattle of the thicket. Crawford lifted his face from the woman's, staring at the doctor as he stumbled from the mesquite. The man's fustian was ripped and torn, and he was dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a silk monogrammed handkerchief. He brought himself to an abrupt halt, breathing heavily, when he saw them.
Crawford disengaged himself from Merida, taking the rifle out of her hand, still looking at the doctor. There was something about the man that vaguely puzzled him.
"Did you find it?" Crawford asked Merida finally.