Huerta leaned forward slightly. "Was it just the land?"
"Del's my compadre," said Crawford. "You're Mexican. You know what the word is."
"Crawford," said Huerta, bending farther forward, "we should, of course, send you back to San Antonio. But there are other things which could be done."
"You're riding a muddy creek."
"A colloquialism," murmured the woman. "How quaint."
Crawford's narrow, dark head turned toward her with an angry jerk. She was watching him from beneath her brows in that mocking way, chin tucked in, and it formed a small crease in the rich flesh beneath her jaw. There was something concupiscent about it.
"We think your quarrel with Rockland was over more than the way he acquired Delcazar's land," said Huerta.
Crawford found it difficult to take his eyes off Merida. "Do you?"
"Oh, Huerta," the woman muttered petulantly, "can't you see you'll never get anywhere beating about the bush with him—"
"You'll never get anywhere with him anyway," said Wallace Tarant. "I know Glenn Crawford, Huerta. We'd better send him back to San Antonio right now."