"What caliber you got?"
Quartel looked surprised. "It's an old Bisley .44."
From the pocket of his levis, Crawford pulled a handful of his .44 flat-noses. He stood there with the copper cartridges in his hand, meeting Quartet's eyes. He held out his hand.
Quartel stared at the handful of shells, then he threw back his head and let out that Gargantuan laugh. "Crawford, you're the craziest barrachon I ever saw."
He took the cartridges and broke his Bisley and began thumbing them into the cylinder. Huerta lowered the handkerchief from his scratched face, and his effort at control was more obvious now.
"I haven't got a gun," he said.
"That's too bad," said Crawford.
"No, no, listen, you can't expect me to go out there without—"
He turned around and indicated Quartel should follow him through the mesquite to their horses. Like the well-trained roper it was, the trigueño had stopped the instant Quartel left its back, and was standing in the same spot they had left it. Africano must have run on across the bog and been stopped by his fear of the snakes in the first dry thickets over there, for he came trotting back through the mud, whinnying nervously. Crawford blocked the animal off against a mogote of chaparral and caught it.
"Get on first," he told the girl.