"Yeah." Crawford put the rotting bayeta blanket off him, moving his arms and legs tentatively, grimacing with the pain it caused him. Hail had come after that first downpour of rain, and the white skin of his shoulders was marked with small purple bruises. He sat up, swinging his legs off, watching the Mexican. "I remember we had a terrible time in that storm. Last I recollect is trying to build a fire beneath some coma trees."
"That must have been a long time before I find you," said Delcazar. "I was in my jacal here when I hear somebody yelling my name. You was carrying Merida across your shoulder. Both near froze to death. I put you to bed like that time in Austin when the red-eye got you." He saw how Crawford was looking around the dim room, and Delcazar grinned hesitantly. "She's out getting water for the coffee."
They were still watching one another that way, waiting, and Crawford waved his hand around the room. "I didn't think you'd hide out here."
Delcazar bent toward him, squinting. "Hide out? How do you mean?"
"A lot of people know about it," said Crawford. "I should think it would be the first place they'd look."
"They?" Then Delcazar seemed to understand. He pointed at himself with a thumb. "You think—that I—I—" He halted with a confused grunt, staring at Crawford. "Then—you didn't?"
"Don't you know?" said Crawford.
"Dios, no," said Delcazar. "How could I know? Bueno told me how you threaten Rockland after Africano rolled you. I thought—" he gave a short, rueful laugh—"I guess I even hoped—"
He trailed off, shrugging hopelessly again, and Crawford bent toward him. "Del, are you trying to tell me you didn't kill Rockland?"
"Trying!" The old man bristled. "Trying to tell you? You doubt my—" He broke off, staring at Crawford. When he spoke again, it was simply, without vehemence. "No, Crawford. I didn't. I thought you did. You're on Bible Two. There was a couple of Rangers in the brush. Torbirio spoke with them. He tell me they had you on the fugitive list."