His face darkened, and he turned away from Crawford, setting the frying pan down. From one of the terraced shelves he took a grease-soaked paper, unwrapping it from about the piece of bacon, rubbing the meat sparingly across the frying pan.
"Isn't that the same piece of side meat you had when we were here last?" said Crawford.
Delcazar tried to smile. "Almost, I guess. Some day I have a hog of my own and we grease the pan with a fresh piece every morning."
"You said you hoped I had killed Rockland," Crawford murmured, watching Delcazar's back. "Why?"
"Nada," said Delcazar. "Nada."
Crawford's levis had been drying over the fire, and he rose to get them. "Because if I had done it, the whole thing could have been nothing more than the quarrel between me and Rockland?"
The old man pulled a pot of boiled beans out and dumped them into the frying pan. "Frijoles fritos, Crawford. You always like them."
"But if it wasn't me who did it," said Crawford, pulling on his damp levis, "there would have to be some other reason for Rockland being murdered. Santa Anna's chests, for instance." He saw Delcazar's whole body stiffen. The beans started to hiss as the flames licked at the bottom of the frying pan. "What do you know, Del?" said Crawford.
"Nada, nada." The old man turned around, rising with effort. "I don't know nothing."
"Your uncle was the capitán of that mule train," said Crawford.