"Yes," said Crawford, watching Aforismo come from the bunkhouse and Quartel step out the door now, yawning and cursing. The shutter on an upstairs window clattered against the dilapidated weatherboarding, and Huerta leaned out to look down a moment. Then he withdrew his head, and Crawford could hear movement from within his room. Quartel came across the compound after Aforismo, slipping a dirty cotton shirt over his head.
"What happened?" he said. He looked at the body slung across the horse without much expression in his face. What lay in his eyes was not apparent till he got closer. They were narrowed, and the pupils held a strange oblong felinity.
"Es muerto," said Jacinto stupidly.
"I know he's dead," said Quartel. "What happened?"
"Out in the brush," said Crawford, watching Quartel.
The Mexican looked at him, then glanced at the horse. He reached out to pull the Winchester from beneath the stirrup leather, opening the front end of the magazine and tilting the gun down. Two copper rim-fires clinked into his calloused palm.
"Looks like he did a lot of shooting," said Quartel.
"He always carried that gun in one hand when he rode," said Jacinto. "I told him he'd fall and break his neck sometime."
"Did you?" said Quartel. He was studying Crawford, shaking the two .44 shells up and down in his closed hand. "You still haven't told us what happened."
"His neck's broken," said Jacinto hopefully.