"Oh, no," said Huerta, leaning back. "Not at all. I think if we kept him here long enough, we would find a way of convincing him that it is to his advantage to—ah—" he moved his hand, as if seeking the word—"cooperate, with us. Yes. Co-operate. Don't you, Merida?"
The woman's laugh held a husky sensuality. "Perhaps. Even if not—it would be interesting."
Wallace Tarant put down his fork angrily. "Don't be a fool, Huerta. Having Crawford here is like sitting on a keg of powder with a lighted match. What would Kenmare do if he found we'd caught Crawford and hadn't notified the authorities?"
"Kenmare won't find out," said Huerta, turning toward the man, "unless someone tells him. Ah, our coffee."
Jacinto set the urn down hesitantly, glaring about at them. He started to speak, then caught Huerta's eye, and backed out of the room, muttering to himself. Smiling faintly, Huerta indicated that Tarant should pour. Then he held out a cup.
"Mexican style, Crawford. Perhaps you'll like it. Boiled in milk and water and sweetened in the pot with poloncillo, our brown sugar. I was surprised to find how few of the hands here drank it like this. I know Quartel sweetens it with molasses sometimes." His eyes dropped to his own cup, and he stirred it absently. "Speaking of Quartel, that was quite an exhibition this afternoon, wasn't it? I don't think I've ever seen such a vicious horse. And what a magnificent beast a man would have if he could break it." He looked up abruptly. "Oh, excuse me, Crawford, I—" he moved his hand in an apologetic gesture—"I wasn't thinking—"
The woman frowned at him. "Hm?"
"The horse," said Huerta, looking at Merida, "the horse."
"What about the horse?" she said.
"I don't mean that," said Huerta. "I—"