"A woman like that don't trail through this kind of country just for the scenery," said Crawford. He closed his eyes, rolling the name meditatively off his tongue. "Merida Lopez."
It must have been about then the first sound floated in from outside, the creak of saddle leather, a man's hoarse cough. Jacinto jumped across the room, jerking Crawford up out of the chair. "They're back, Crawford, you got to go, you got to get out of here, if Quartel ever gets you alone after Whitehead, he'll—"
He stopped shoving Crawford toward the doorway, and his voice faded into a series of small, choked sounds. Aforismo stood there, sweat streaking the dust in his smooth brown face, holding a belduque in his hands.
"El amante fiel," he said, running his finger down the keen edge, "the Loyal Lover. Did you ever see my knife, Crawford? Truly a remarkable weapon. Handed down in my family for generations. The hilt was once studded with precious stones, but they have long since been picked out by various members of my illustrious house who were in temporary financial destitution." He took a shuffling step toward them. "Look at the bravos on the blade. See this one. Nothing compares with my kiss. Isn't that a delectable motto?"
Jacinto shrank back, staring in fascinated horror at the words cut into that side of the gleaming blade. Through the dog-run, Crawford could hear the thump of a chair in the bunkhouse, the clatter of spoons on the table.
"Please, Aforismo, please," quavered Jacinto. "Let him go. Madre de Dios! let him go out the door before they find him in here. You know what will happen. Quartel would—"
"And this one," Aforismo said, turning the blade over and pointing to another motto cut into that side. "This is my favorite bravo I think. Tripe is sweet but bowels are better. Don't you like that one, Jacinto?" He took another shuffling step toward them with the point almost touching Crawford's belly. "Don't you like that bravo, Crawford? Tell me you like it. It is my favorite, I think."
"Please, please." Jacinto was cringing behind Crawford, wringing his hands, sweat dribbling down his coarse face. "En el nombre de Dios, Aforismo, let him go, he never did anything to you, he never harmed one little hair of your head, I hate violence so, oh, I do hate violence so, my father he always tell me there are two sins in the world, work and fighting, and—oh, por Dios, Aforismo, Santa Maria, nombre de mi madre, let him go, let him go—"
"They say down in Durango a coyote always howls loudest in the trap," said Aforismo, nudging Crawford gently back with that needle point. "I think maybe we better all go in the bunkhouse, eh? The hands are getting hungry. Tripe is sweet but bowels are better, eh?" Crawford did not step back quickly enough, and that needle point went through his shirt with a soft ripping sound. The stinging bite of steel in the hard muscle of his belly caused his move back to be involuntary. His breath left him in a hoarse gust and he bent forward with the impulse driving through him. That was as far as it went. Aforismo's boots made that bland shuffle on the hard-packed earth, moving forward. His face twisted with frustrated anger, Crawford shifted back into the dog-run, shoving the cringing cook behind him.
"Dios, Aforismo, por Dios, no violence, please, I could not stand the sight of blood, it would make me regurgitate, please—"