"Still snipping cinches, Bueno?"
The stool crashed to the floor, and Crawford whirled from where he had been standing in the doorway to meet Bailey as the man came up against him. The only thing that prevented their bodies from meeting was the gun Bailey held against Crawford's body. The man's milky eyes were slitted, and the smell of that bacon grease in his hair nauseated Crawford.
"Chew that a little finer," said Bueno, through his teeth.
"Africano never could have rolled me under if that rigging hadn't come apart," Crawford said thinly. "I saw the cinch on that saddle afterward. It hadn't pulled loose by itself."
"Glenn—" Bailey let it out on a hissing breath—"I think you better change your mind about that."
"I know who did Rockland's stable jobs for him," said Crawford.
The gun dug into his belly. "Glenn—"
"Yes?" said Crawford. "Make it a better job than that first time, Bueno."
Bueno stood there a moment longer, his breath hot and fetid against Crawford's face. Then his weight settled back onto his heels. He turned around and set the stool upright and lowered himself onto it once more. He began twirling the cylinder again with his forefinger. Crawford saw it tremble against the blued steel.
"When the time comes, Crawford," said Bueno, not looking up, "I will make it a better job, you can depend on that. I'll finish the job."