"Who was it downstairs?" he asked.
"He came from behind. It was dark. I did not see."
He stared at the section of paper a long time, scratching his dirty beard with a thumbnail. "Huerta's been trying to find out all along if I have the derrotero. The fact that he doesn't know for sure has kept him from making any definite move, one way or another. What would he do if he found out, for sure, one way or another?"
"Why should he find out?" she said.
"You're with Huerta."
"Am I?" she said, moving in close again. "Maybe I was."
"You tried that before," he said.
"No," she said hotly. "Will you never trust me, Crawford? I want to help you. Not just the map. That doesn't matter, now. Out there, with the trigueño. I'm sorry for what I called you."
"Maybe you were right," he said, bitterly.
"No! You're not a coward, intrinsically. Can't you see what they were doing? Maybe Huerta was the first to see how it was—about your legs. Now they all know. They're using it, Crawford. Quartel used it today. He shoved you up against the horse and held you there till you were half-crazy with panic. He knew you wouldn't fight him in that state. It wasn't fear of him that demoralized you. It was horrible to watch." She reached up to grasp his elbows with her hands, lifting her weight toward him. "But I've seen what you used to be, too. When you brought Whitehead back. No coward could have done that. Come back, with Whitehead that way, knowing what you would have to face, here. Do you realize what it did to me? To come out on the porch that morning and see you standing there beside Whitehead's body, knowing what it meant. It doesn't happen to a person often in her life, Crawford. That sort of feeling. Let me help you, Crawford. I want to. I can't if you don't trust me."