Huerta took one of his hands out. His long, pale fingers moved slightly across Cabezablanca's head and face, sifting the dense white hair and testing the skull with a professional casualness. "No contusions about the head or face."
Huerta was running his forefinger delicately across the back of Cabezablanca's shirt now, flattening it over the resilient planes of the man's back. Then he moved around to the other side of the shaggy horse, tugging at the man's pants legs. "No other wounds either," he said at last. His head turned slowly till he was looking at Crawford. Something had begun to dissipate the jaded glaze from those eyes, something that grew in them as he watched Crawford. He spoke, however, to Quartel. "How many shots does that Winchester hold?"
"It's an 1866 with King's improvements," said Quartel. "Thirteen."
"Oh." It was a soft, hissing intonation. Then Huerta motioned toward the bunkhouse with the hand he had out. "Better take him down and bury him out back of the bunkhouse."
Quartel jerked the Winchester at Crawford. "Let's go."
"No," said Huerta, putting that hand back in his pocket and walking up the steps to the porch. "I think Crawford had better stay here at the house for breakfast. You did such a poor job of keeping tabs on him yesterday."
Quartel's face darkened and he took a quick breath before he spoke the word. "Huerta—"
"Yes?" said Huerta, turning around at the top of the steps to face Quartel. He leaned forward slightly, his satanic brows arched upward, those heavy lids slipping down across his eyes. There was a faint, inquiring smile on his thin, bloodless lips. For a moment Quartel stood there staring at him, mouth still open a little. The rooster crowed again. A chachalaca started scolding his mate out in the thicket. With an abrupt jerk, Quartel turned to catch up the trailing reins of the pony and started off toward the bunkhouse in that stiff-legged walk of his, wooden boot heels thumping in a swift, hard tattoo against the ground. Aforismo watched him go a moment, scratching his bare stomach absently.
"You can't tell a man's been picking tunas just because he has nopal thorns all over his coat," he said.