"Dammittohell!" screamed Quartel, and stepped in to spin around with his arm held out. The backhand blow caught Jacinto squarely in the face. Jacinto's hand clutched Crawford's arm spasmodically as the blow knocked him backward, jerking Crawford off balance. Then Jacinto's three hundred pounds of sweating brown flesh struck the wall of the bunkhouse. The building shuddered, and a shower of pale adobe flakes descended on the huge Mexican as he slid to the ground.
Quartel stood there a moment, his face diffused with blood till it looked positively negroid, his whole body shaking with rage. For the first time, the utter, primal violence of the man struck Crawford. Without a word, Quartel turned and walked across the compound.
The true suffocation in all this heat seemed to close in on Crawford as he moved to follow Quartel. He found himself breathing with a heavy effort. Cabezablanca was standing by the group of horses near the corral. The white-headed man held his Winchester tenderly.
"How are you, Crawford?" he said softly. Crawford glanced at him without answering, and Cabezablanca's eyes narrowed and he ran one finger up and down the gleaming barrel of his carbine. "You still refuse to be civil with me. That is unfortunate. I am a very dangerous man, Crawford."
"That's your horse." Quartel nodded at a ewe-necked old paint standing near the corral fence. It had rheumy eyes and rope scars all over its gaunt shoulders and a saddleback the shape of hickory bow and the weediest legs Crawford had ever laid eyes on. Yet, standing even this near the animal, Crawford could feel that nebulous excitation begin to rise in him. Or was it excitation? The sweat broke out on his palms. In a sudden burst of anger, he clamped his fists shut.
"What kind of crowbait is this?" he said.
Quartel shrugged. "I thought—I mean your legs—"
"I told you that was over." Crawford did not know whether the anger was at himself or at Quartel. He might not have said it under more control. "I can ride anything you can!"
"Africano?" said Quartel. He saw Crawford stiffen and grow pale, and his laugh had a scraping sound. "Never mind, Crawford, never mind. You won't have to fork the puro negro. He ain't broke yet. You saw that yesterday." Then the laughter left Quartel. He jerked a thumb at the paint. "Get on."
"The hell." Crawford had bent forward slightly, his whole body rigid. That bitter intensity had drawn the flesh taut across his cheeks beneath his scrubby beard. He turned abruptly toward the corral.