"No. But Del was my friend. I was busting broncs for Otis Rockland at the time. I went to him and told—"
That hand tightened again. "I know what you told him, Glenn. Maybe you were right. Maybe Rockland even had that cinch cut on the black killer so it would roll you. But listen, Glenn—" Kenmare took a weary, wheezing breath—"this ain't the way."
"What isn't the way?" said Crawford with growing heat. "I told you Rockland sent for me, Ed."
"There must have been half a dozen Big O hands heard you threaten to kill Rockland after that bronc rolled you under," Kenmare told him heavily.
"Don't you think three months in the hospital cools a man off some, Ed?" said Crawford. "Now get out of my way. It's too hot for an argument. I'll buy you a beer on the way out."
He shoved past the sheriff and into the tiled patio. The alamo tree dropped its deep, dappled shade over the cattlemen sitting tilted back in the line of peeling cane chairs against the adobe wall. Their lazy, sporadic conversation died abruptly, and the only sound was the hard beat of Crawford's heels against the tiles. His lips formed a thin, bitter line against his teeth as he passed the speculation in their lifted gazes and entered the foyer. The cool, inner chill struck him with a distinct physical force, after the stifling heat of the day without, and caused him to draw in a quick breath. He skirted a potted palm and went up the broad, carpeted stairs to 211, the room Otis Rockland always took when he came to San Antonio.
He had lifted his hand to knock, when the sound came from inside. It was muffled and dim at first, rising to a thumping crescendo, with someone calling something, the whole thing ceasing then, abruptly. After a moment of silence, Crawford seemed to hear heavy breathing. He let his knuckles strike the pine panel of the door. It rattled mutedly. That was his only answer.
"Otis?" he called.
He waited a moment longer, then turned the knob. The door opened into the sumptuous parlor of the suite. The wine overhangings were drawn across the windows against the sun, casting into semi-gloom the spidery pattern of white and gilt furniture in the room. He heard a shutter clack in the bedroom and knocked his knee against a low marquetry table in front of the sofa as he headed for the door. He took his Henry in both hands and shoved open the door with its tip. The first thing he saw was a pile of blue chintz on the floor. It was the hanging, torn off the tester of the four-poster, and Otis Rockland must have clutched it when falling, for his hand was still gripping it in terrifying desperation. The portieres had been pulled back by an opened shutter, and the avenue of bright light, splashing across the rich Brussels carpet, touched Rockland's feet and led Crawford to turn momentarily toward the window.
"No—Crawford—"