[Chapter Six]
"Tell Us What Happened."
An adobe banco ran down one side of the cookshack on the inside, forming a bench, and it was upon this that Jacinto had deposited his generous bulk. He was bent in childish concentration over a block of wax from which he carefully peeled thin strips, depositing these with much care into a clay bowl. Small, intimate mutters rumbled up from him with each process.
"Ah, so," he mumbled, slicing off a piece, "ah sí," and sliced off another, and then jumped erect in startled surprise, dropping the block of wax. "Ah, Crawford!"
Crawford stepped on in through the door, sniffing. "Smells like bayberry."
"How—how did you get out?" quavered Jacinto, grunting painfully with the effort it cost him to stoop over and retrieve the wax.
"Nobody stopped me," said Crawford. "They gave me that upstairs bedroom, but I couldn't sleep."
"You better not come in here, Crawford," said the gross cook. "Maybe they're not watching you like they did, but you better get out of here. Why do you think Huerta kept you up at the house this morning? Didn't you see how Quartel looked at you? You're just lucky he didn't get you down here."
There was a dish of cracklings on the table, and Crawford took one, pulling a three-legged stool out to sit on it. "Quartel and the others are out chousing cattle. Making candles?"
"Sí," mumbled Jacinto, lowering himself back on the bench. "Nobody can make them like me. That was bayberry you smelled all right. I didn't have enough sheep tallow. First I make it into blocks and then cut it into small scraps so it melts quick without burning. I put the wax in hot water and scoop the grease off as it comes to the top. Then I strain it through a horsehair cloth to remove whatever dirt I missed in skimming. I am now heating the wax to pour in the molds. Did you ever see such fine molds? My father owned that brass one in El Paso. It holds two dozen candles at one pouring. If you came here to find out what's going on, I can't tell you."