"Whitehead was Quartel's man?" said Crawford.
"Quartel is the foreman here," Huerta's agile mind had connected that even while he spoke, and his head tilted forward in a faint acquiescence. "All right. Why should Quartel want you killed?"
"He seemed to think I was a lawman," Crawford muttered.
"Is that sufficient reason?"
"You haven't been in the brasada long, have you?" said Crawford. "It's a good form of suicide for a lawman to show up in here."
Huerta nodded that way again, studying Crawford. "It is interesting," he murmured, "to watch it."
That took Crawford off guard. "What?"
"The way it works in you," said Huerta. "You're conscious of it all the time, Crawford, whether in the proximity of horses or not."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Crawford, getting up from the chair with such violence that he pulled one of the rich blue pillows off with him. He paced across the room in swift, inhibited strides. Huerta watched him a moment, putting the jade holder languidly to his lips. He did not smile, but the heavy blue lids, narrowing across his eyes with a feline torpidity, managed to convey a certain condescending amusement. His pale, pinched nostrils fluttered, emitting twin streamers of smoke.
"Did it ever occur to you," he said, "that the legs might not really be completely healed?"