"I had hoped Huerta was wrong."
He stared at her, wanting to turn and run, unable to, somehow, and finally it came from him, guttural, hardly recognizable. "Whadda you mean?"
"About that fellow in the mine," she said.
"Whaddaya mean?" Had that been him? Shrill, and cracked, like that?
"You know what I mean," she said. "Not only pain. Fear. And not only fear of what originally caused the pain."
"No—"
"Yes!" she said thinly. "Yes! It's not just the horses any more. It's everything. You're a coward, Crawford. You're a coward!"
[Chapter Nine]
Still in the Throes of Fear