"Crawford," said Merida, in a hoarse, strained whisper. "We can't move. They'll strike as soon as we move. They're all around us and we can't move—"
"No," he said gutturally. "Remember they don't often strike above the hip. You've got those batwings. Just keep your feet, that's all, just keep your feet."
"There's another one," she said, and he saw the panic was gripping her the way it had Huerta. "We can't move, Crawford. Not a step. They'll have us."
"Merida," he said. "You've got to. Don't lose your head. Just start walking."
"I can't," she said, in a strangled, pathetic way, "Crawford, I can't—"
He could feel that animal fear rising up in him, to blot out all his terrible control. Sweat formed gleaming streaks through the grime of his face. His right hand was clenched so hard around the useless gun it ached. Gritting his teeth, he summoned the awful, supreme effort of will it would take for him to make that first step. His whole body was stiffened for it, when the first thunderous detonation came from out in the brush. There was a second, and a third, before Crawford recognized them as gunshots. This was followed by a long crashing of brush, and Quartel burst into view. This movement caused the snake on Crawford's right to strike. It hit his leg with a solid thump, knocking him over against Merida, and though he knew the fangs had not penetrated the triple thickness of Chimayo blanket around his calf, he could not hold back his hoarse, fearful shout. Quartel had fired twice at the second rattler, knocking it back before it could strike. The serpent tried to recoil and strike again, in a weak, abortive way, and Quartel jumped at it with a curse, stamping on its head. Then he whirled away to fire at a third one beyond Merida.
"Hola!" bellowed Quartel. "Let's go. You only got a little stretch left and we'll be out."
"You!" said Crawford blankly, gaping at him.
"Who else?" grinned the man. He caught Crawford by the shoulder, shoving him forward. "Come on, I tell you. We ain't got time for coffee."
The rest of it was Quartel's bellowing gun and the crash of mesquite and Merida's hoarse, uncontrollable sobbing and a nightmarish sense of movement within and without him as he staggered through the thickets. At last he found himself face down on gritty sand, his breathing settling down to the shallow exhalation of complete exhaustion. He looked up to see Quartel squatting over him, that grin on his sweaty, greasy face. The woman was sitting up on the bank beyond Quartel, the batwings lying at her feet. Crawford realized he was barefooted and the blanketing had been stripped off his legs.