Crawford realized only then how his fingers ached. He released them from the cedar-post bar. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, and he heard that heavy, labored breathing. Him? And something else. The same thing he had known on that cow pony up by San Antonio. Not pain exactly, though there were those little spasms twitching at his legs. But something more insidious than that, down in his belly somewhere, a thin, nauseating consciousness. His eyes went to the black horse, still kicking and squealing as they hog-tied it within the corral, and a new wave of it swept him. He turned away, clenching his teeth, trying to drown it with anger. Then he became aware of how Cabezablanca was looking at him.
"What's the matter, Crawford? You look like it was you riding the African instead of Quartel." The white-headed man waited, that sly grin fading as he saw Crawford was not going to speak. He indicated the house, finally, with the tip of his Winchester. "Let's go. Maybe Huerta will want to see you."
"But I've already seen him," said a heavy, jaded voice from behind them. "I've been watching him for some time now."
The overdrapes of green striped satin had been pulled aside from the front windows of the dining-room to let the last shafts of afternoon sunlight cross the dark Empire Aubusson and gleam brazenly on the brass-headed nails which studded the green morocco upholstering of the chairs. The man who had stood behind Crawford and Cabezablanca at the corrals was Doctor Feliz Huerta, and he followed Crawford into the dining-room now.
Crawford did not think he had ever seen such infinite dissolution in a face. The minute pattern of blood vessels was faintly visible in Huerta's heavy lids, giving them a bluish cast. His eyes, when they were visible behind these lids, held a dull, jaded lackluster in their black pupils, and his flesh was smooth and soft-looking, lined about the mouth and eyes like an old satchel. His black hair was parted in the middle, graying at the temples and receding there to form a peak down his forehead which, added to the strong arch of his brows, gave his features a satanic cast.
"You may go now, Whitehead," he said.
Cabezablanca shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, you don't seem to understand. This is Glenn Crawford——"
It seemed to cause Huerta infinite effort to turn toward the man. For a moment, their eyes met. Whitehead's mouth was still open from his words, and he drew a small, surprised breath through it. Then he began to back out of the room.
Huerta moved his glance around to Crawford when Cabezablanca had left. "They say he is a very dangerous man," he murmured, moving languidly to the old English sideboard. Lifting one of the brass rings on the top drawer, he pulled it open, taking a silver plate out and putting it on top. There was a small pile of reddish beans, and he selected one from this, popping it into his mouth. "You'll excuse me. An old complaint."