Innes began eating in a slow, mechanical way, his jaws working steadily beneath his red beard, looking at Crawford. "Where's your iron?"
"Whitehead took away Crawford's rifle when he first came," said Aforismo.
Innes's bleached eyebrows raised, and he ceased chewing for a moment. Quartel was standing behind Crawford to one side, and Crawford caught the sly grin spreading the man's pawky lips.
"There was no other marks on Whitehead's body," Quartel said.
"Well," said Innes, still looking at Crawford that way. Finally he went back to spooning up the beans, his eyes never leaving Crawford's face. "What happened?" he said again, around a mouthful.
"Yeah." Bailey nudged Crawford on the shoulder with his spoon. "What happened?"
Crawford could hear his own breathing now. It held a harsh, driven sound. He looked from Innes to Bailey, from Bailey to Quartel, from Quartel to Aforismo. There was a patent brutal intent in all their faces. He was hunched over so far now the heat of the beans in his plate penetrated his shirt and warmed his chest.
"Where's the sorrel?" said Bailey.
"What sorrel?" said Innes.
"The horse he took out," said Quartel. "He never brought him back."