Santa Anna's Chests

It had a million faces. At dawn it was a dim, foggy mask. At noon it leered in brassy, burning malignance. At night it was a cunning visage, sometimes filled with bizarre mutations by the caprice of moonlight, sometimes cloaked in the unrelieved sin of utter blackness. This was the brasada.

Glenn Crawford did not know how many weeks of weary travel lay behind him since he had left that cow pony by the mission and had struck out on foot for this borderland which had provided sanctuary for so many fugitives. Now, crouched in a thicket of black chaparral, with the late afternoon sun falling through the branches to cast a weird shadow pattern across his back, Crawford was filled with an oppressive sense of its infinite mystery. It was a Spanish word, brasada, and there was no English equivalent. For it was not brushland in the ordinary sense. Not scattered clumps of mesquite dotting an arid prairie, or small thickets of sage in a sandy plain. It was a jungle. A dry jungle, as vast and unexplored as the Amazon jungles, stretching through southern Texas between the Nueces River and the Rio Grande for uncounted miles, in many places so thick as to be impossible of penetration.

Until he had reached its safety, Crawford's primary instinct had been the simple animal urge of escape. But once within its borders, a desire to get at the root of this thing, and to clear himself, began to grow in him. And though he knew the dangers involved, it had inevitably drawn him to the Big O, where the whole thing had started.

Otis Rockland's father had established the spread here in the brasada just before the Texas Revolution, shipping lumber for his house from New Orleans. It was a strange building, in a land where most structures were low adobe hovels. Its two stories rose gaunt and lonely against the dark horizon of brush, the flat gambrel roof supporting a pair of glassed-in cupolas over the front. Crawford had been here since noon, watching it, not yet knowing what he had meant to do when he reached the spread. The sun had burned bronze streaks through his shaggy mane of black hair, and a scrubby, matted beard grew up into the hungry hollows beneath his high cheek-bones, rendering his face gaunt and wolfish. His whole body jerked with the sudden crackle of brush behind him, and he started to whirl and rise from his hunkers and pull his gun around all in the same violent movement.

"Never mind, Glenn, you'd never do it in time," said the man standing there. He waited a moment, grinning, and then spoke again with a deliberate, slow irony. "If you'll drop that Henry, we'll be able to talk comfortably."

Crawford let the rifle slip reluctantly from stiff fingers, and then straightened his legs out until he was standing, faced toward the man they called Cabezablanca for his head of pure white hair. His face was as smooth and unlined as a coffee bean, and he wore a pair of tight buckskin leggings they called chivarras this near the border, and a blue cotton shirt, and Crawford had never seen him without the Winchester he carried now.

"It's been a long time since you busted broncs for the Big O, Glenn," said Cabezablanca. "Ain't you going to say something? Buenos dÍas, for an old amigo, or how are things?" He waited a moment, the smile slipping from his thin, beardless lips. "You better be civil to me, Glenn. I'm a very dangerous man." He halted again, and when he realized Crawford would not answer, a sullen anger tightened his lips. "Very well, let us go and see what they want to do with you."

Crawford turned around, moving from the screen of brush in stiff, catty steps, the tense forward thrust of his shoulders giving them that narrow appearance. He was aware that Cabezablanca stooped to pick up the Henry as he followed. Crawford had been watching the crew working a bunch of horses in the corrals, and now, as he drew near, he saw that they had pulled a new animal into the tight chute between the smaller pen where the animals were held and the larger one where they were worked. It was a big black animal the Mexicans called a puro negro, throwing itself crazily against the bars of the chute, the whole structure shuddering with its violent struggles. Crawford was not aware that he had stopped till Cabezablanca came up beside him.

"Yeah, Crawford," said the white-headed man, watching him narrowly. "Africano. Sort of brings back things, doesn't it? That black devil's still rolling them, and nobody's broke it yet."

A man threw a dally rope over the top of the chute, noosing the black animal's neck and pulling it tight against the bars. The beast fought wildly a moment, banging its skull against the cedar poles. The corrals shook again, and yellow dust rose about that section, obscuring the horse. When the dust settled, the puro negro had quit battling, and stood with its forelegs stiff, breathing heavily through its nose. A tall, slat-limbed Mexican climbed to the top of the chute, and the men below handed him up a double-rigged Porter. He dropped the heavy saddle on the horse, and a man below reached through the bars to get the front girth, pulling the latigo through the cinch rings and yanking the girth tight. Africano squealed shrilly, trying to jerk away again. Then another Mexican climbed up the bars of the chute and stood at the top, pulling his belt up. He was so broad he appeared short, his close-cropped hair beginning to gray at the temples. His great shoulders bunched like sides of beef beneath the strained wool of a faded charro jacket with a few tattered remnants of what might have been gold embroidery on its lapels. He wore a pair of tight rawhide leggings, and the rolling muscles of his thighs had burst the seams in several places between hip and knee.

Crawford licked dry lips. "Who is it?"

"Quartel," said Cabezablanca. "When you killed Rockland in San Antonio, a lot of the Big O crew drifted. Bueno Bailey and me are about the only ones left of the old bunch. Rockland didn't have no heirs. So his lawyer was given the job of cleaning up the estate. There's a lot of cattle to be choused out of that brush and Tarant had to get a new ramrod. And Quartel's him."

"But—" Crawford moved his hand vaguely toward the horse—"Africano—"

"The nigger sort of fascinates Quartel, I guess," grinned the other. "He's been trying to break it ever since he got here. That black devil almost stove him up a couple of times."

Quartel was straddling the bars of the chute with his feet, leaning down to tug at the saddle a couple of times and test the cinches. They finally got the bit in and pulled the rawhide reins up to where Quartel could take hold of them. He waved his free hand, and the man below pulled out the drop bar which held the door of the chute closed. Then they untied the rope from the black's neck and swung open the door. As the beast lunged forward, Quartel dropped into the saddle.

Africano was larger than most brush horses, though not any taller, standing maybe fifteen hands, with a prodigiously muscled rump that indicated more than a little quarter blood, and a savage, vicious action to its every movement. The animal boiled over almost before it had left the chute. Quartel had not found his right stirrup as the beast erupted, but by the time Africano hit the top of its first buck, the man's foot was in the oxbow, and when the black stiff-legged down into the ground, Quartel was set for it.

Even then, his broad, heavy body trembled to the awful jar of it. Crawford's face twisted, and his hands were gripping the bars of the corral with a strange desperation.

The black raced down the corral with a high, collected action and then stopped abruptly with its forelegs jamming the ground like ramrods, pin-wheeling in its own billow of dust. It was all balance with Quartel. Crawford did not think he had ever seen such a relaxed seat on a bucker. The man shifted his weight back and forth almost delicately, gauging each violent movement of the horse to perfection.

"There it goes," said Cabezablanca.

Crawford rose up on his toes against the bars. Africano had started to roll. Quartel stepped off with an incredibly lithe movement for his heavy body, as the horse went down. The black rolled completely over, and Quartel was there ready to swing onto its back again as the animal came up, jamming his feet into the stirrups and raking the animal's dusty, lathered flanks with great Mexican cart-wheel spurs. The black screamed in a frenzied, crazy way as it realized the man was still on its back. With a shrill whinny, it began rolling again, madly, cleverly, devilishly, watching Quartel out of its glassy eyes, heavy chest briny with lather. Crawford watched with a terrible fascination, unaware of how tightly he was hanging onto the bars or how loud and harsh his heavy, labored breathing was.

On its fourth roll, Africano twisted while still on its back and switched ends before coming up, kicking at Quartel with its hind feet. Quartel dodged the kick, shouting something, and slapped the animal's rump to come up over the legs as they struck the ground, hitting the saddle with a jar that drew a gasp from Crawford. Africano raced forward, halted abruptly, pivoted on one hind foot. Quartel was thrown off balance by the spin, and while his weight was still on the off side, the black reared up and fell back deliberately. Quartel had to kick free and jump to keep from being mashed beneath twelve hundred pounds of vicious black demon, and he lost control completely.

The animal came up with a triumphant whinny, whirling toward Quartel. The dust billowed up about the dim shouting movement filling the corral then, and Crawford could see only dimly what happened. A red-bearded hand was galloping in on one of the cutting horses to try and reach the black before it trampled Quartel. But the rider spun the big loop over his head once before throwing it, and the wily black saw it coming and wheeled away.

"Damn you, Innes, why don't you go back to snagging fence posts," shouted Quartel, stumbling to his feet and lurching for the rope. He caught that end and jerked it violently, almost unhorsing Innes as the rope was torn from his hands. Then Quartel whirled around, snaking in the rope with quick, skillful flirts until he had the other end. The red-bearded rider had wheeled and was trying to run into Africano broadside now to force it away from Quartel. But Africano leaped ahead, dodging the man, and wheeled toward Quartel again, that maniacal intent plain in its bloodshot eyes. "Get out of the way," Quartel roared hoarsely at Innes. "I swear you don't know any more about handling horses than a woman. Get out of the way——"

The Mexicans called it a mangana, and not many men could have done it in such a position. The black horse had outmaneuvered Innes, and was racing a dead run at Quartel. Quartel stood there with the rope in both hands, not even spinning it, a confident grin on his face. When the black was so near it looked certain to run Quartel down, the man made his toss. It was a California throw, down low without a spin so the horse could not spot it until the loop was actually in the air. Quartel snapped the rope behind him at his hip, then dragged it forward with a swift flirt of his wrist, hand pointed down and the loop swinging out so that it practically stood on edge. It was timed perfectly. Quartel took one step away like a bullfighter, and the puro negro thundered past him, so close its lathered shoulder twitched his charro jacket, and ran headlong into that loop standing there. Quartel turned away with the rope across his hip, and his thick body jerked hard as the horse snapped the rope taut and fell headlong. Then he casually dropped the rope to the ground and walked away, while other hands ran in with the short tie ropes they called peales, to hog-tie the vicious beast while it was still down.

Crawford realized only then how his fingers ached. He released them from the cedar-post bar. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, and he heard that heavy, labored breathing. Him? And something else. The same thing he had known on that cow pony up by San Antonio. Not pain exactly, though there were those little spasms twitching at his legs. But something more insidious than that, down in his belly somewhere, a thin, nauseating consciousness. His eyes went to the black horse, still kicking and squealing as they hog-tied it within the corral, and a new wave of it swept him. He turned away, clenching his teeth, trying to drown it with anger. Then he became aware of how Cabezablanca was looking at him.

"What's the matter, Crawford? You look like it was you riding the African instead of Quartel." The white-headed man waited, that sly grin fading as he saw Crawford was not going to speak. He indicated the house, finally, with the tip of his Winchester. "Let's go. Maybe Huerta will want to see you."

"But I've already seen him," said a heavy, jaded voice from behind them. "I've been watching him for some time now."

The overdrapes of green striped satin had been pulled aside from the front windows of the dining-room to let the last shafts of afternoon sunlight cross the dark Empire Aubusson and gleam brazenly on the brass-headed nails which studded the green morocco upholstering of the chairs. The man who had stood behind Crawford and Cabezablanca at the corrals was Doctor Feliz Huerta, and he followed Crawford into the dining-room now.

Crawford did not think he had ever seen such infinite dissolution in a face. The minute pattern of blood vessels was faintly visible in Huerta's heavy lids, giving them a bluish cast. His eyes, when they were visible behind these lids, held a dull, jaded lackluster in their black pupils, and his flesh was smooth and soft-looking, lined about the mouth and eyes like an old satchel. His black hair was parted in the middle, graying at the temples and receding there to form a peak down his forehead which, added to the strong arch of his brows, gave his features a satanic cast.

"You may go now, Whitehead," he said.

Cabezablanca shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, you don't seem to understand. This is Glenn Crawford——"

It seemed to cause Huerta infinite effort to turn toward the man. For a moment, their eyes met. Whitehead's mouth was still open from his words, and he drew a small, surprised breath through it. Then he began to back out of the room.

Huerta moved his glance around to Crawford when Cabezablanca had left. "They say he is a very dangerous man," he murmured, moving languidly to the old English sideboard. Lifting one of the brass rings on the top drawer, he pulled it open, taking a silver plate out and putting it on top. There was a small pile of reddish beans, and he selected one from this, popping it into his mouth. "You'll excuse me. An old complaint."

Crawford could retain it no longer. "What kind of horse you on?"

Huerta's face revealed some small surprise. "I thought you might like to have dinner with us. Jacinto will bring it in a few moments."

"No," said Crawford, moving his hand viciously. "Something else. What is it, Huerta? What are you doing here?"

One of Huerta's sardonic black brows lifted quizzically. "You are such a suspicious man, Crawford. I have known Otis Rockland for some time. He invited me to visit him. I arrived to find him murdered in San Antonio. It was quite a shock. Ah—" his glance had passed Crawford and was focused on the doorway—"Merida, Wallace, I'm glad you've come. We have a dinner guest."

Crawford turned around. Wallace Tarant had been Otis Rockland's lawyer a long time, and Crawford knew him well enough. But it was the woman who commanded his attention. Her beauty struck him with such an impact that he felt a distinct physical reaction pass through his body. Not many women could have worn their hair in such a severe coif without detracting from their allure. It was so black it looked blue, parted in the center and drawn back to a shimmering bun at the nape of her neck. It gave accent to the faintly exotic planes of her face. Her only jewelry was a large cabochon emerald in an onyx brooch that rode the mature swell of her breasts just below the low-cut top of her black silk dress.

Her slightly oblique eyes held a candid interest, meeting his. The blood thickened in his throat. A vague irritation swept Crawford that she should affect him so strongly.

"This is Merida Lopez, Crawford," said Huerta. "She came with me from Mexico City."

"Crawford." It escaped her on a throaty breath, and those large black eyes took in the tense line of his body, and a faint smile stirred her rich lips. "I imagined you, somewhat—like this."

Wallace Tarant took a step that placed him at the woman's side. He had a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame that looked good in his tailored town coat. His face, with its square brow and wide, thin-lipped mouth, should have held a palpable strength. But his eyes would not meet Crawford's. His voice was small for such a large man.

"What's the idea, Huerta?" he said.

"Whitehead found him in the brush watching the house," said Huerta. "I thought perhaps we might like a little talk with him. You, as Rockland's lawyer, should appreciate the value of that."

"Isn't it a little dangerous," said Tarant.

"I think Crawford knows how little chance there is of escape," said Huerta. "By whatever door a man leaves this house, he has to cross several hundred yards of open compound before reaching the protection of the brush. At the present moment, there are half a dozen men out there, just waiting for the chance. As for his presence among us, you aren't afraid of him, are you, Wallace?"

Tarant flushed, moved stiffly to pull out a chair for Merida. Crawford could not tell if it was deliberate, but in passing him the woman's body touched his hip. His whole frame stiffened with the momentary, warm, silken pressure, and he could not help the sharp breath he drew. Then she was by, and he saw the faint, ironic smile twitch at Huerta's lips. Crawford turned angrily toward the table, but before he could reach a chair, the whole room began to tremble. He knew who was coming before the man appeared. Jacinto del Rio had cooked for the Rocklands as long as anyone in the brush could remember. The three dominating factors of his life were apparent enough as he rumbled into the doorway from the entrance hall. His prodigious belly was a remarkable edifice to tortillas and frijoles. The blue network of broken veins patterning his flushed jowls indicated a singular capacity for tequila and pulque. The reluctance of his every movement reflected his veritable passion for the national pastime of siesta. He held a great silver tureen of soup on a tray high before his face, and it prevented him from seeing Crawford at first.

"Trabajo, trabajo," he grumbled, "always work. First it's breakfast in the bunkhouse. 'Hyacinth cook some more eggs.' 'Hyacinth this coffee tastes like alkali.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Then breakfast for the big house. 'Hyacinth you're late.' 'Hyacinth you didn't put enough clabber in the biscuits.' Hyacinth this, Hyacinth that. Me, who was made for nothing but wassail and song and laughter, sweating like an esclavo all my life. You know what my father he tell me?"

"Yes, yes," said Huerta wearily. "If you don't set that tray down soon we'll be eating breakfast instead of dinner."

"He tell me, 'Hyacinth, there are two sins in the world—working and fighting, working and fighting—and if you avoid both of them, you will surely go to heaven.'" Jacinto set the tray down, his eyes rolling upward in a fat face. "Por Dios! it looks like I'll never get there now. My poor padre must be turning over in his grave to see how I have desecrated his wishes. To think of me, little Hyacinth of the River, meant for nothing but——"

His eyes had focused on Crawford for the first time, and his words ended in a bleat. He held up a fat hand, trying to say something, but nothing would come out. He turned toward Huerta, sweat rolling down his face with his effort to speak. He whirled back to Crawford, his whole body twitching. Then he looked to Huerta again.

"Por Dios!" he croaked. "Doctor. Please. Crawford. That's him. I was born for laughter and wassail and song. You aren't going to do anything. How did he get here? No violencia. Please. My delicate sensibilities would revolt. You won't—"

"My dear Hyacinth," said Huerta. "There won't, I assure you, be any violence. Now please go and bring the rest of the meal." Jacinto backed out of the room, sputtering, and Huerta's sardonic glance slipped around to Crawford. "Won't you sit down? You make me nervous."

Crawford moved across to pull out a chair across from the woman, feeling her eyes on him, and lowered his tense body onto the green morocco leather. They were all watching him now.

"Would you serve, Wallace?" said Huerta, leaning back in his chair. He surveyed Crawford for a moment. "You know," he said finally, "most people think your motive for killing Otis Rockland was revenge. But somehow, that doesn't satisfy us."

"Doesn't it?" said Crawford.

The woman's laugh was as throaty as her voice. It caused his glance to shift to her face with a jerk. She sat there with that smile, making no effort to explain her amusement. It drew a reasonless anger from him. He gripped his knees with his hands, beneath the linen cloth.

"Did you ever hear the story of Santa Anna's chests, Mr. Crawford?" Merida Lopez asked, finally, a strange, obscure mockery coloring her voice.

"No," answered Crawford stiffly.

She tasted her soup, eyes still on him. "In April of 1826, at the close of the Texas Revolution, General Santa Anna had led his Mexican army halfway across Texas after General Houston's forces, finally catching him at San Jacinto. There were two major political parties in Mexico at that time, the Federalists and the Centralists. The Centralists had been trying for some time to break Santa Anna's growing power in politics. For four or five months they had managed to have the army pay withheld, but Santa Anna finally got a pay train sent from Mexico City. The battle of San Jacinto was in progress when this mule train arrived, and a party of Texans cut it off before it could reach the Mexican army, chasing it westward into the brush somewhere south of the Nueces. The Texans finally caught the Mexicans, and in the battle that followed the greater part of the Mexicans were killed. But the mules had disappeared. They have not been found since."

"Neither has the Lost Nigger Mine, or Steinheimer's millions," said Crawford. "I been listening to windies like that since I was a button."

"Ah, a skeptic." Again that mockery, more palpable this time. She toyed with her soupspoon. The faint movement of her wrist drew his glance, and he found himself wondering how the soft white skin would feel. "And still, Crawford, doesn't it intrigue you?" Her voice penetrated his attention, and he raised his gaze self-consciously. Just her hand. Just the movement of her hand like that. What the hell? "Five months' pay for an army, Crawford. Does a man like you have any conception of that kind of money? Men would kill for it. Even governments. And there is more than just the story. There is what the Mexicans call a derrotero."

She let her eyes lift momentarily from the spoon, but he had kept his face carefully blank. He was beginning to notice her enunciation now. The accent was discernible sometimes. Her careful precision seemed an effort to hide it.

"This derrotero," she said. "Literally a map, a chart. It was made by the captain of the mule train. When he realized the Texans would inevitably catch him, he secreted the pay chests somewhere in the brush, making the chart. Fearing that, if he entrusted the whole of the chart to one man, that man might be captured, he divided it into three portions. Thus, if one or even two of the men were caught, the chests would still be safe, for the hiding place could not be located without all three portions. One section he sent with an Indian to Santa Anna himself at San Jacinto. The second part he gave to his lieutenant, to carry to the Federalists in Mexico City. The third he kept himself."

"Yeah?" said Crawford.

"Yes," she said, smiling in dim amusement at his acrid reticence. For a moment, her eyes were half-closed, studying him, and they held a slumberous, provocative temptation. It stirred something primal within him. He had felt it before. But not this way. Not just looking in a woman's eyes.

"The captain of that mule train was the uncle of your friend Pio Delcazar!"

It went through him with a palpable shock, and it was not till after she had finished speaking that Crawford realized what she had been doing, with those eyes. They had turned hard and speculative, now, and with the spell broken, Crawford felt the twisted expression her words had drawn to his face. He tried to regain that inscrutability, but knew it was too late. There was a certain triumphant satisfaction in the way Merida allowed her gaze to drop to the table as she began eating the soup again. And now the two men were watching him. He felt the sweat break out on his palms.

"Carne adobada, carne adobada?" said Jacinto, waddling in. "You don't know how long I pickled it in brine. I fry the spices and chile till the juices stream out of the pork, and—" he trailed off, seeing how they were all watching Crawford. He turned to Huerta, wringing his fingers. "Doctor, please, I beseech you—"

"The coffee, Hyacinth, the coffee," murmured Huerta, waving a languid hand at the cook without looking away from Crawford.

Jacinto almost choked on the breath he took, and backed out, staring wide-eyed at Crawford. "SÍ. The cafÉ. SÍ."

Tarant began to serve the meat dish Jacinto had brought. "When you had that ruckus with Rockland in the living-room here, Bueno Bailey said it was over Delcazar," he said.

"You know what it was over," said Crawford. "You got Del's land for Rockland that way."

Huerta leaned forward slightly. "Was it just the land?"

"Del's my compadre," said Crawford. "You're Mexican. You know what the word is."

"Crawford," said Huerta, bending farther forward, "we should, of course, send you back to San Antonio. But there are other things which could be done."

"You're riding a muddy creek."

"A colloquialism," murmured the woman. "How quaint."

Crawford's narrow, dark head turned toward her with an angry jerk. She was watching him from beneath her brows in that mocking way, chin tucked in, and it formed a small crease in the rich flesh beneath her jaw. There was something concupiscent about it.

"We think your quarrel with Rockland was over more than the way he acquired Delcazar's land," said Huerta.

Crawford found it difficult to take his eyes off Merida. "Do you?"

"Oh, Huerta," the woman muttered petulantly, "can't you see you'll never get anywhere beating about the bush with him—"

"You'll never get anywhere with him anyway," said Wallace Tarant. "I know Glenn Crawford, Huerta. We'd better send him back to San Antonio right now."

"Oh, no," said Huerta, leaning back. "Not at all. I think if we kept him here long enough, we would find a way of convincing him that it is to his advantage to—ah—" he moved his hand, as if seeking the word—"cooperate, with us. Yes. Co-operate. Don't you, Merida?"

The woman's laugh held a husky sensuality. "Perhaps. Even if not—it would be interesting."

Wallace Tarant put down his fork angrily. "Don't be a fool, Huerta. Having Crawford here is like sitting on a keg of powder with a lighted match. What would Kenmare do if he found we'd caught Crawford and hadn't notified the authorities?"

"Kenmare won't find out," said Huerta, turning toward the man, "unless someone tells him. Ah, our coffee."

Jacinto set the urn down hesitantly, glaring about at them. He started to speak, then caught Huerta's eye, and backed out of the room, muttering to himself. Smiling faintly, Huerta indicated that Tarant should pour. Then he held out a cup.

"Mexican style, Crawford. Perhaps you'll like it. Boiled in milk and water and sweetened in the pot with poloncillo, our brown sugar. I was surprised to find how few of the hands here drank it like this. I know Quartel sweetens it with molasses sometimes." His eyes dropped to his own cup, and he stirred it absently. "Speaking of Quartel, that was quite an exhibition this afternoon, wasn't it? I don't think I've ever seen such a vicious horse. And what a magnificent beast a man would have if he could break it." He looked up abruptly. "Oh, excuse me, Crawford, I—" he moved his hand in an apologetic gesture—"I wasn't thinking—"

The woman frowned at him. "Hm?"

"The horse," said Huerta, looking at Merida, "the horse."

"What about the horse?" she said.

"I don't mean that," said Huerta. "I—"

"Never mind," said Crawford. "My legs are all right."

"Oh?" Huerta's arched brows rose. "I got a different impression. You weren't riding."

"I lost my horse on the Flores Road."

"It was hit?"

"I lost it, that's all," said Crawford.

"Oh." Huerta took out a jade cigarette holder, fitting a smoke into it. He leaned back, looking at Crawford. "You were watching Africano out in the corral, that way."

"What about the way I was watching it?"

Huerta's eyes dropped meditatively to the coffee cup, and he allowed twin streamers of smoke to leave his nostrils. "I guess I got the wrong impression, Crawford. You'll have to pardon me."

"Impression about what, Huerta?" said Tarant.

Huerta seemed to rouse himself with an effort. "Ah, nothing. Nothing, Tarant. You're not drinking your coffee, Crawford. Is it too sweet for you? Pour him another cup, Tarant." The woman was watching him narrowly now, and Huerta let his eyes meet hers momentarily before he leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. He took a sip of his own coffee, looking down the middle of the table in that meditation again. "They say a man is getting old when he starts reminiscing, but I can't help being reminded of an instance I ran across in Monterrey some years ago. After the war I chanced to be employed by a Mexican firm with interests in a mine north of the city. I had been company doctor some months when one of the lower shafts caved in, killing half a dozen of the men. I managed to patch up most of those who escaped with minor injuries. There was one miner, a huge giant of a fellow, whose legs had been crushed somewhat beneath the slide. My operations were singularly successful, and within five or six months he was as good as new, the bones knit perfectly and the muscles gave no sign of the damage. During his convalescence, there had been no pain. Yet, the very first day he went back to work, he experienced the most acute agony in his legs."

The little muscles jumped out all along Crawford's jaw suddenly. Huerta looked up, smiled faintly. "Yes—the most acute agony. I could find nothing organically wrong with him, absolutely nothing. In my office, he did not feel the pain. I took him back to the mine. As he approached the mouth of the shaft in which he had worked, the agony returned. All the symptoms of genuine pain. Sweating, trembling, tears in the eyes. I could not account for it. There was utterly no reason for him to feel the pain. I administered drugs, enough to deaden the greatest agony. It had no effect. Then I took him away from the mine. As soon as it was out of sight, the pain receded, disappeared."

Merida's face had lifted as he spoke, a tight furrow appearing between her brows. "You mean—his mind—"

"SÍ," said Huerta. He was adjusting a fresh cigarette carefully in its holder. "I came to that conclusion finally. The mind plays funny tricks on us sometimes. That cave-in had been such a ghastly experience that he actually felt pain when he returned to the scene. And worse than the pain. Fear. He could never work at his trade again; he could never get near a mine without feeling that pain. And that fear. He tried to fight it. He had been a brave man once. He tried to force himself back into the mines. But in the shaft he became a sniveling, gibbering coward, crying and puking like a baby, unable to speak coherently even. Yes, the mind does play funny tricks on us—" Huerta held his cigarette holder out abruptly. "Crawford, you've spilled your coffee!"