"No, Crawford," he screamed, as the first one struck, with a fleshy spissitude, knocking him to his knees in the thicket, "they're all around me," and his voice broke as a second one caught him. "For Christ's sake, Crawford, get me out. I told you, didn't I?" he sobbed, trying to crawl on through. And then another one struck him. "Oh, for God's sake, Crawford, please, for God's sake." And another, and he was lying on his belly, still trying to crawl, and his voice had sunk to a pitiful wailing, like a little child weakening, sinking until it was barely audible. "Please, get me out, oh, please, Crawford, get me out," and then dying finally, beneath the crescendo hissing of the snakes, "Get me out, I'll do anything, only please get me out—"
After it had ceased, Crawford felt himself twitch, and realized how long he had been crouching there in a dazed shocked immobility at such a bizarre, terrifying display. It was like awakening from a deep sleep. There was a thick, sweet taste in his mouth, and he was sweating, and movement came with a strange pain. He saw that Merida was standing over him, staring at the brush with that same stunned horror in her face. His movement caused her to turn in something akin to surprise. She looked at him a moment before her eyes dropped to his hand; he was rising, but the sound she made stopped him. It must have struck him sometime during his struggles with Huerta. He did not remember when. The twin red punctures on the back of his hand were oozing blood thickly. With a curse, he started to rise again and get the rifle, but Merida caught him.
"No, Crawford. The knife. Your bowie. You've got to get it now before it spreads." She was on her knees beside him, pulling the bowie from his boot where he had thrust it after winding those strips of blanket on.
"The snakes," he said, "the snakes—"
"If we sit still they won't come for a minute. Now—I've got to." She met his eyes, then bent over his hand with the blade. He felt himself turn rigid, but it caused him less pain than he anticipated. She did it in three quick, skillful strokes. "I told you my mother was a curandera. I've seen her do this a dozen times. Find some Spanish dagger and you can get a poison from it that makes as good an antidote as any."
She bent to suck the wound, and now it was beginning to come. Take it easy. The hissing bore in on him with a physical weight. Take it easy, damn you. That's why Huerta's through. He lost his head. All right. Get up, then, damn you, get up. He got up.
The motion drew his hand from Merida's fingers, and she rose too. He had scooped up the Henry in rising, and he pulled the lever down. No fired shell popped out, and he realized the magazine must be empty. He reached in his right-hand pocket for fresh loads, and pulled out his hand, empty. The woman's eyes followed the movements in a fascinated way as he shifted the rifle so he could reach into his left-hand pocket. Again his hand came out empty. Merida's gaze raised to his, and they stared at each other blankly for a long moment. A small, hopeless sob escaped her.
The first, faint, snapping crackle came from behind, turning him that way. It was a big diamondback, slithering from the switch mesquite. It stopped as it caught sight of them, and its long, shimmering body coiled with oily facility. The ugly hammerhead raised, and the glittering opacity of its cruel little eyes held Crawford's gaze in a viscid mesmerization. Then it began to rattle.
"Crawford—"
The woman's agonized whisper brought his eyes around the other way. Another serpent, as big around as his lower leg, had crawled from a mogote of huisache. Again it was the soft snap of decaying vegetation that lay thickly over the ground, and the cessation of this as the snake saw them and stopped, and that swift coiling movement, and that sibilant rattle.