A strange, defiant withdrawal drew Crawford's body up, accentuating for the first time its restless, animal lines. In his brass-studded levis, he had the lean catty legs and negligible hips of a man whose work had been much in the saddle, and though his shoulders were narrow, their muscularity was apparent beneath the denim jacket. His forehead was high and bony and pale below the short curling black hair; and, set deep within their sockets, his eyes held a sunken, almost feverish glow, which could have come from the recent sickness, or something else. His rope-marked fingers tightened about the brass receiver of his old Henry.
"I'll keep the rifle, Ed," he said. "Now let me by."
Kenmare did not release Crawford's arm. He dropped his gaze to one side, reaching up to rub the sweat exuding from the large, greasy pores of his rather bulbous nose.
"Something I never did get straight, Glenn," he said, looking at the worn boot he was scuffing in the earth. "This whole thing between you and Rockland seems to have started with the way Rockland got hold of Delcazar's land."
"Del was—"
"I know, Glenn, I know." Kenmare's fingers tightened momentarily on Crawford's arm. "You and Delcazar was pretty close friends. And you think Rockland gave Delcazar a raw deal."
"You know he did," said Crawford. "Del had a small spread, but it had the best water in that section of the brush. Rockland had to have that water. And he got it."
"But he did it all legal, Glenn."
"Legal." Crawford's voice was bitter. "He knew Del only held his spread with one of those old Spanish grants they call a sitio. His lawyers found out that this one was so mixed up through the years that Del couldn't prove ownership. He petitioned the state, had it declared public domain, and got it for a song. Yes, it was legal all right."
"Those things happen," said Kenmare wearily. "It wasn't your spread, Glenn."