"Whitehead found him in the brush watching the house," said Huerta. "I thought perhaps we might like a little talk with him. You, as Rockland's lawyer, should appreciate the value of that."
"Isn't it a little dangerous," said Tarant.
"I think Crawford knows how little chance there is of escape," said Huerta. "By whatever door a man leaves this house, he has to cross several hundred yards of open compound before reaching the protection of the brush. At the present moment, there are half a dozen men out there, just waiting for the chance. As for his presence among us, you aren't afraid of him, are you, Wallace?"
Tarant flushed, moved stiffly to pull out a chair for Merida. Crawford could not tell if it was deliberate, but in passing him the woman's body touched his hip. His whole frame stiffened with the momentary, warm, silken pressure, and he could not help the sharp breath he drew. Then she was by, and he saw the faint, ironic smile twitch at Huerta's lips. Crawford turned angrily toward the table, but before he could reach a chair, the whole room began to tremble. He knew who was coming before the man appeared. Jacinto del Rio had cooked for the Rocklands as long as anyone in the brush could remember. The three dominating factors of his life were apparent enough as he rumbled into the doorway from the entrance hall. His prodigious belly was a remarkable edifice to tortillas and frijoles. The blue network of broken veins patterning his flushed jowls indicated a singular capacity for tequila and pulque. The reluctance of his every movement reflected his veritable passion for the national pastime of siesta. He held a great silver tureen of soup on a tray high before his face, and it prevented him from seeing Crawford at first.
"Trabajo, trabajo," he grumbled, "always work. First it's breakfast in the bunkhouse. 'Hyacinth cook some more eggs.' 'Hyacinth this coffee tastes like alkali.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Then breakfast for the big house. 'Hyacinth you're late.' 'Hyacinth you didn't put enough clabber in the biscuits.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Me, who was made for nothing but wassail and song and laughter, sweating like an esclavo all my life. You know what my father he tell me?"
"Yes, yes," said Huerta wearily. "If you don't set that tray down soon we'll be eating breakfast instead of dinner."
"He tell me, 'Hyacinth, there are two sins in the world—working and fighting, working and fighting—and if you avoid both of them, you will surely go to heaven.'" Jacinto set the tray down, his eyes rolling upward in a fat face. "Por Dios! it looks like I'll never get there now. My poor padre must be turning over in his grave to see how I have desecrated his wishes. To think of me, little Hyacinth of the River, meant for nothing but——"
His eyes had focused on Crawford for the first time, and his words ended in a bleat. He held up a fat hand, trying to say something, but nothing would come out. He turned toward Huerta, sweat rolling down his face with his effort to speak. He whirled back to Crawford, his whole body twitching. Then he looked to Huerta again.
"Por Dios!" he croaked. "Doctor. Please. Crawford. That's him. I was born for laughter and wassail and song. You aren't going to do anything. How did he get here? No violencia. Please. My delicate sensibilities would revolt. You won't—"
"My dear Hyacinth," said Huerta. "There won't, I assure you, be any violence. Now please go and bring the rest of the meal." Jacinto backed out of the room, sputtering, and Huerta's sardonic glance slipped around to Crawford. "Won't you sit down? You make me nervous."