"Coffee?" It was Jacinto again, waddling in with a big pot. He set it down, looking around at the men. He wrung his great fat hands together, speaking in a small, strained voice. "Please, señores, please. Violence. I cannot stand it. You won't do this. Tell me you won't do this. My father, he say—"
Aforismo turned toward him, lifting the belduque. "Would you like my Loyal Lover to see inside the sack?"
"No." Jacinto backed out, lugubrious tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "No, lástima de Dios, tears of God, no—"
"You ain't told us what happened yet," said Innes, still eating.
"Yeah." Quartel shoved Crawford from behind. "How did you lose the sorrel? You could ride any horse I could, remember?"
Crawford's hands were clasped desperately between his knees. There was a taut, set expression to his features. Sweat had begun trickling down his cheeks into his beard. His whole body was trembling.
"So you brought Whitehead in with a broken neck," said Innes.
"Yeah." Bueno poked Crawford with the spoon again. "How did it get broke?"
"Yeah." Aforismo pricked him from the other side with the knife. "What happened?"
"How did it get broke?"