"Never mind," said Crawford. "My legs are all right."
"Oh?" Huerta's arched brows rose. "I got a different impression. You weren't riding."
"I lost my horse on the Flores Road."
"It was hit?"
"I lost it, that's all," said Crawford.
"Oh." Huerta took out a jade cigarette holder, fitting a smoke into it. He leaned back, looking at Crawford. "You were watching Africano out in the corral, that way."
"What about the way I was watching it?"
Huerta's eyes dropped meditatively to the coffee cup, and he allowed twin streamers of smoke to leave his nostrils. "I guess I got the wrong impression, Crawford. You'll have to pardon me."
"Impression about what, Huerta?" said Tarant.
Huerta seemed to rouse himself with an effort. "Ah, nothing. Nothing, Tarant. You're not drinking your coffee, Crawford. Is it too sweet for you? Pour him another cup, Tarant." The woman was watching him narrowly now, and Huerta let his eyes meet hers momentarily before he leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. He took a sip of his own coffee, looking down the middle of the table in that meditation again. "They say a man is getting old when he starts reminiscing, but I can't help being reminded of an instance I ran across in Monterrey some years ago. After the war I chanced to be employed by a Mexican firm with interests in a mine north of the city. I had been company doctor some months when one of the lower shafts caved in, killing half a dozen of the men. I managed to patch up most of those who escaped with minor injuries. There was one miner, a huge giant of a fellow, whose legs had been crushed somewhat beneath the slide. My operations were singularly successful, and within five or six months he was as good as new, the bones knit perfectly and the muscles gave no sign of the damage. During his convalescence, there had been no pain. Yet, the very first day he went back to work, he experienced the most acute agony in his legs."