"You haven't broken him," said Crawford.
Quartel flushed. "I will. There isn't any horse I can't break."
"He would have rolled you if you'd been a second later with that mangana yesterday."
"Well, I wasn't a second later," said Quartel. "Did you see that mangana? Nobody else could have done it so close." He thumped his barrel chest with a hairy fist. "I'm the best damn roper in the world, Crawford. I can rope better and ride farther and drink more and cuss dirtier than any hombre from here to Mexico City. Now let's go. I got a lot of cattle to clean out of that brush and I'm not wasting a man here to guard you."
Jacinto had come through the covered dog-run from the kitchen in time to hear Quartel. "The señorita will not like that," he said.
Quartel turned angrily toward him. "You in Merida's corrida or mine."
"Yours, Quartel, madre de Dios, yours," said Jacinto. "Still she won't like that. Only last night I heard her say—"
"Punta en boca," said Quartel. "Shut your mouth. All right, Crawford. We got the horses saddled."
Crawford's boots made a hesitant scrape on the hard-packed adobe floor; then he took a breath, and walked toward the door. Jacinto waddled after him, sweat glistening in the wrinkles between the rolls of fat forming his face. He caught Crawford's arm, trying to stop him.
"Listen, señor," he said breathlessly. "Don't let them take you out there. Merida is against it. I heard her and Huerta arguing about it. Just wait till I tell her and she'll stop Quartel. Don't let them get you out there." Quartel had moved outside to let Crawford through the door. The heat of the sun struck him like a blow on the face as he stepped out with Jacinto still tugging at him. "I'm telling you, señor, don't be a fool. If they get you—"