"You seemed interested yesterday," said Merida. "You were quite upset that you had lost Crawford in the brush."
"What have you got in your hand?" said Huerta.
"A gun," Quartel told him.
"Don't be obtuse," said Huerta. "I mean the other hand."
Quartel opened his fingers. The two shells glinted dully in the growing light. Somewhere out back of the bunkhouse a rooster crowed. Both Huerta and Merida looked for a long moment at the two cartridges. Slowly, Huerta's jaded eyes moved to Crawford, and the heavy, blue lids were lifted farther open.
"You say his neck is broken?" Huerta asked nobody in particular.
"Jacinto said his neck was broken," said Quartel.
"Well," said the woman impatiently, "is it?"
Huerta drew a weary breath and came slowly down the sagging steps and around the horse. "Yes," he nodded, without taking his hands from his pockets. "Broken."
"Like in a fall?" That pathetic hope was in Jacinto's voice again.