Crawford was clenching his teeth now with the effort at control. His knees were like vises against the animal's sides. Just a trot, and his knees were like vises. Oh, damn you, Crawford. Just a trot, and you're bouncing like a satchel in a spring buggy. He felt a desperate relief sweep him as Quartel drew up ahead of them, running a finger around the inside of the red bandanna he wore.
"God, it's like a furnace," he said.
"The drier the spring the more mesquite beans in the summer," said Aforismo.
Quartel glanced keenly at Crawford, then waved his hand at a big thicket of black chaparral starting a few yards away. "That mogote covers two or three miles. We been through once, but it's so thick a lot of the cimarrónes got away from us. Crawford is riding with Bailey and me. Whitehead, you take a line through the north flank of the mogote. Meet us at Rio Diablo about sundown."
Cabezablanca looked at Crawford before he wheeled his horse and trotted off into the brush, followed by Aforismo. Quartel forked a big brown animal with white hairs in its tail; they called it a pelicano. He reined the horse violently around, flapping his stirrups out wide. He did not have to kick the animal. As soon as the pelicano saw those feet fly out, it bolted into a wild gallop straight for the thicket. Crawford nudged the sorrel with a heel and followed, stiffening in the saddle as he broke into a trot. Quartel made a great ripping sound tearing through the first thin fringe of mesquite. Then they were in the dry heat of the thicket.
There was no more wily animal in the world than the ladino of the brasada. These outlaw cattle made nests for themselves in the thickest mogoles, lying there for days at a time when hunted, their food the very thicket that surrounded them. They ate off the prickly pear and other brush within the mogote until it formed a veritable room, with the walls and roof of entangled chaparral and mesquite so dense that they were invisible from without. This larger thicket the men rode through was in reality formed by many smaller thickets, with game trails and open patches throughout the thinner brush surrounding the minor mogotes. Quartel followed one of these game trails for some time without any apparent effort to find sign. Then, abruptly, he pulled up on his reins. The heavy pelicano reared to an instant's stop, head jerking up to the brutal jerk on its cruel spade bit. Quartel leaned toward the mogote of black chaparral and Crawford was close enough now to see the man's thick nostrils flutter.
"Cimarrónes in here," whispered the Mexican, finally. "Outlaws. You go around to the other side, Bueno. You'll get the first chance at whatever Crawford and I scare out from here."
Bailey pulled his dun around and cut through an opening between this smaller mogote and another, disappearing. Quartel wiped sweat off his face with the back of his hand. He grinned pawkily at Crawford.
"How's the sorrel?" he said.
"Good enough," said Crawford. He tried to relax. But he knew what was coming. It would be fast now. If there were ladinos in there, it would be fast.