"Huerta came up?"
She closed her door softly. "He wasn't at the corrals when I left."
"Maybe he got hungry for his red beans." Her face lifted to him, eyes widening, and he shrugged. "Jacinto said something about dope."
She pursed her lips, moving around him toward the table. "Couldn't you see it? Opium when we were in Mexico City. Peyote now."
"Those beans."
"Yes. You've heard it. The Indians call it raíz diabólica. Devil weed. They've been using it for centuries in Mexico. Even the Aztecs knew of it. They called it peyotl. It's effect isn't as marked as opium. He seems capable of eating those beans all day. They make a drink of it that's more potent."
"He said something about a complaint," Crawford told her.
Her mouth twisted somewhat. "Maybe he has an old wound. He's been around. He'd take dope anyway. That's just the kind he is. You saw the kind. Dissolute? I don't know. Whatever you want." She had got a punk off the table and was lighting the candles in the porcelain candelabra supported by oak wall brackets. Then she saw how he was looking at her, and turned part way. "What is it?"
He looked away. "Nothing."
She caught his arm, turning him back.