It was of the same day that Quartel had found them at Delcazar's jacal. Crawford and Merida had ridden double on the copperbottom back to the Big O, where Merida had gone up to her room to change, while Crawford washed up in the kitchen. No one was in evidence when Crawford returned to the living-room for a drink, feeling and from that night in the storm and the long ride back. He was no , his experience with good liquor limited to the few times he had drunk Rockland's potables here, and he was at a loss to choose from the array of glittering bottles and decanters in the sideboard. He sampled one labeled curaçao and found it too sweet for his taste. Finally he settled on some armagnac, pouring himself a stiff and moving toward the French windows. He had meant to sit down in one of the chairs, but the strange silence outside caught his attention.  
It was for this time of day. There was no wind, and the mesquite berries hung in motionless clusters from trees. Dusk clouded farther , and only the nearest growths took form. The low mats of chaparral like waiting cats in the gloom. The dead hackberry by the road thrust skeleton arms skyward. It seemed to be waiting for something too. That oppressive sense of bore in on Crawford, and he emptied half the glass at one , his eyes as the brandy burned his throat. It did not help. Waiting. The sickish sweet of the lluvia de oro twining itself through the lattice of the front porch was so oppressive in the hot, still air that it him. Waiting—
 
The sound of someone rushing down the stairs caused him to turn toward the door. It was Merida, and he was surprised to see she had not changed from the torn, dirty leggings she had ridden in. Then he saw the expression on her face.
 
"Where's Quartel?" she cried.
 
"He went down to the bunkhouse I guess," Crawford told her, frowning. "What is it?"
 
"He was right."
 
"Who was right?"
 
"Quartel," she said, coming across the room in still, tense steps, her eyes to his face. "Nexpa saw him."
 
"Quartel?"
 
"No," she said. "Crawford, don't you understand? Nexpa saw him from an upstairs bedroom. He's out in the brush and he's coming back."
 
It struck him, then, whom she meant, and his fingers involuntarily around the glass. "The lawman?" She stared at him without answering, her mouth working faintly. He realized his fingers ached, and he eased his grip on the glass. "That's crazy, Merida. No badge-packer would come in here like that. Even Sheriff Kenmare was afraid to follow me this far. Nexpa must be mistaken." She shook her head, the planes of her face and strained-looking, her eyes glued in that wide, frightened way to his. He made a small, motion with the glass, his voice growing . "She must be, Merida. No lawman. Not even a Texas ." She shook her head again, emitting a small, sound. He toward her tensely, his chest moving perceptibly with the breath passing through it. He was remembering what Delcazar had said. Bible Two? "It is a Ranger?" Crawford almost whispered.
 
She caught his arm, the words torn from her. "You've got to get out, Crawford. Before he reaches here."
 
"Ranger," he muttered, almost to himself, turning to get past her toward the door. "It can't be—"
 
"Too much time, Crawford," she said swiftly, blocking him from that direction. "Can't you understand? He's coming back. You won't even be able to cross the compound before he's here. You won't even be able to reach the brush. You'll never make it on foot, Crawford."
 
He stared down at her twisted face. "What are you saying?"
 
"There's one in the small corral," she said. "Nexpa told me. It's one of Jacinto's, so it won't be spooky."
 
It took him a moment to comprehend what she meant, and then it escaped him in a strangled way. "Think I can do it that way?"
 
"You've got to." She was close to crying now, the tears in her eyes. "There isn't any other way, Crawford. Can't you understand? You've got to. Right now. You'll never make it to the brush. It's twice as far as the corral. You'd be out there in the open, and you'd be a clay pigeon. Your only chance is the corral."
 
"No!" He tried to break free of her grip on his arm. "I can't. You know I can't. You saw, out there in the storm, with that pinto."
 
"You can!" she cried. "You've got to, Crawford, you've got to."
 
He stared down into her twisted, pale face. Then, with a guttural, inarticulate sound, he whirled to the French windows, opening one farther, and stepped out onto the porch. He stood a moment behind the screen of yellow lluvia de oro covering the lattice. The silence lay across the compound so thick it almost gagged him. Waiting. There it was again. His shoulders forward, and his whole tense body had taken on the look of a hunted animal. He stared down the length of the porch. His shirt was wet with sweat now.
 
"Crawford—"
 
It came from Merida, in the window behind him. Without turning around, he moved down the steps, his boots making a in the silence. Then he was moving across the ground in an urgent, gait, his narrow, dark head turning ceaselessly from side to side. He realized he was still holding the glass, and threw it from him with a curse. With every step nearer the corral, something seemed to be contracting about his heart. He was fighting for breath, and sweat had turned his beard soggy when he reached the fence. In the semi-gloom, he could barely make out the shape of the horse. This was the corral they broke broncs in, built in three sections, the largest section on this side, with a chute at the other end, and beyond that, a small, tight holding corral not much bigger than a stall, where they held the animals before putting them into the chute to be saddled. It had been Otis Rockland's boast that this smaller section was built so hog-tight and bull-tight it would hold the wildest bronc that ever double-shuffled. The heavy, reinforced bars were so close together a man could not crawl between them but had to go through the gate. This gate itself was built so that it would close automatically, a rope run from its frame through a pulley on the overhead structure with a bucket of sand hanging at its end. Whenever the gate was open the weight of the sand bucket pulled it closed again, and the drop bar fell automatically into its on the outside.
 
Crawford stopped at this gate, glancing from one side to another at the brush. There was a small crackle behind the bunkhouse. With a startled , he pulled the rope that the drop bar from its sockets and lifted it above the top of the gate, allowing the portal to swing open. The bar would not drop back into position as long as the gate was ajar. Holding the gate open, Crawford found a rock large enough to wedge beneath the bottom bar and keep the sand bucket's weight from pulling the gate closed when he let go. The horse inside snorted softly. Crawford by the gate post. Then, his whole body so tense the muscles ached, he took a forced, jerky step toward the animal. The horse snorted again, louder. It had been to the corral and, as Crawford drew near, the animal began at the .
 
"Easy, boy, easy." Crawford tried to make his voice soft and , but it came out tight, harsh. "You're going to break your headstall. Easy, you jughead."
 
But as he drew near, the horse's efforts to get free became wilder. It whinnied and reared up. The sound halted Crawford in the middle of the corral, his whole body a line. The reins pulled free of their half on the cedar-post bar, and the animal wheeled away from Crawford toward the far corner of the small corral. Crawford's movements were forced, now, as he moved to catch the animal in that corner. He bent forward slightly to peer at the lines of the beast. The darkness revealed only a impression of broad rump and viciously churning legs and a roached mane. The stirrup leathers flapped loosely as the animal moved down the fence, trapped in the corner now by Crawford's advance. He was close to it when the horse wheeled with a strangled, screaming sound and broke toward him in a rush.
 
"No!"
 
It escaped Crawford in a hoarse shout. He stood there a moment longer, staring at the horse, his whole face contorted. Then he threw himself to one side, and the animal past. It saw the partly open gate and was in a dead run by the time it reached that side. But in its rush, the beast struck the opening partly broadside, rump crashing against the gate, head slamming into the fence post. The horse reeled back, screaming in rage, and wheeled to go through headfirst. But the blow of its body had jarred loose the rock Crawford had wedged beneath the gate, and the heavy bucket of sand with a rush to the ground, slamming the gate shut before the horse reached it. The drop bar outside fell into its sockets with a thud, about the same time the charging horse struck the gate once more. The whole corral with the impact, but the gate held firm. The dazed horse staggered away from the fence, making , guttural sounds of pain.
 
Crawford realized he was trembling now. Pain swept up his legs, and the muscles across his began to jump and knot. Still dazed, the horse wheeled about wildly. It caught sight of him again, and all its instincts must have pinned the cause of its pain on Crawford, for the animal screamed once more and rushed him.
 
"No," shouted Crawford, again, his voice choked with the terrible reasonless fear that him. He whirled and leaped to the high fence, trying to climb it. But he heard the pound of the animal's behind, and realized he would never make the top in time, and threw himself off. As he rolled to the ground, the animal crashed into the fence where he had been a moment before. Crawford stumbled to his feet, starting in a wild run for the gate which led into the chute. But he saw before he reached it that it was shut tight too. He turned to the other gate, his whole consciousness filled with the sound of the panting, whinnying, snorting animal behind him. At the por............