The harsh laugh from the doorway caused Crawford to turn back that way. He wondered how long Quartel had stood there. The man moved on into the room, a pawky smile on his sensuous lips. The pores of his cheeks and nostrils were large enough to be clearly discernible, and they exuded a heavy sweat, lending a greasy look to the thick brown flesh of his face. He stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his dirty chivarras, leaning back slightly.
"It seems that you haven't got one friend left on the Rockland estancia, doesn't it, Señor Crawford?" he said.
"En la cárcel y en la cama se conocen los amigos," said the man who had come in with Quartel.
"Did I ask for any of your stupid proverbs, Aforismo?" said Quartel.
"It is just a saying they have in Durango," said Aforismo. "In jail and in bed we know our friends."
He was a thin, stooped man, Aforismo, his white cotton shirt soiled with dirt and horse-droppings, his eyebrows slanting upward toward the middle of his forehead to give him a habitual expression of mournful complaint.
"Maybe you got a proverb that tells how to find out where a man pins his badge," said Quartel, looking at Crawford.
"I know one about a stitch in time—"
"Knew a Texas Ranger once who pinned it to his undershirt," said Quartel.
Bueno Bailey had looked up. "What saddle you in now?"