An banco ran down one side of the cookshack on the inside, forming a bench, and it was upon this that Jacinto had deposited his generous bulk. He was in childish concentration over a block of wax from which he carefully peeled thin strips, depositing these with much care into a clay bowl. Small, intimate mutters up from him with each process.  
"Ah, so," he , slicing off a piece, "ah sí," and sliced off another, and then jumped in startled surprise, dropping the block of wax. "Ah, Crawford!"
 
Crawford stepped on in through the door, . "Smells like bayberry."
 
"How—how did you get out?" quavered Jacinto, painfully with the effort it cost him to stoop over and the wax.
 
"Nobody stopped me," said Crawford. "They gave me that upstairs bedroom, but I couldn't sleep."
 
"You better not come in here, Crawford," said the gross cook. "Maybe they're not watching you like they did, but you better get out of here. Why do you think Huerta kept you up at the house this morning? Didn't you see how Quartel looked at you? You're just lucky he didn't get you down here."
 
There was a dish of cracklings on the table, and Crawford took one, pulling a three-legged stool out to sit on it. "Quartel and the others are out chousing cattle. Making candles?"
 
"Sí," mumbled Jacinto, lowering himself back on the bench. "Nobody can make them like me. That was bayberry you smelled all right. I didn't have enough sheep tallow. First I make it into blocks and then cut it into small so it melts quick without burning. I put the wax in hot water and the grease off as it comes to the top. Then I strain it through a horsehair cloth to remove whatever dirt I missed in skimming. I am now heating the wax to pour in the molds. Did you ever see such fine molds? My father owned that one in El Paso. It holds two dozen candles at one pouring. If you came here to find out what's going on, I can't tell you."
 
The transition brought Crawford's head up in surprise. Jacinto set the mold end up in a dishpan, .
 
"I am not as stupid as I am corpulent, Crawford. You didn't come here just to eat my cracklings." His great bloodshot eyes slid upward in their till they met Crawford's. "But I can't tell you anything, Crawford. I know something is going on. Huerta and that woman. Something not quite right. Tarant too, somehow. Maybe you can tell me."
 
"Hyacinth, what did you think of that story about Santa Anna's chests?"
 
"I—Santa Maria, that wax is hot." Jacinto sat shaking his finger a moment. Then he put it into his mouth. "If Santa Anna lost some chests up here, I guess he lost them, that's all. Mm, you ought to taste that bayberry. I think I'll season my chiles rollenos with it some time."
 
"You heard the one about the map?" said Crawford.
 
"The derrotero? Sí, I guess there was supposed to be a map. Isn't there always, with something like that?"
 
"Ever stop to think of Santa Anna's full name?"
 
"Ciertamente. Everybody knows it. Antonio Lopez de San—" Jacinto stopped, staring at Crawford. Wax dripped from the tin ladle onto the floor. Crawford popped a last crackling into his mouth.
 
"Would that give her a connection?" he said.
 
"Lopez is a common name," said Jacinto, almost defensively.
 
"A woman like that don't trail through this kind of country just for the scenery," said Crawford. He closed his eyes, rolling the name off his tongue. "Merida Lopez."
 
It must have been about then the first sound floated in from outside, the creak of saddle leather, a man's cough. Jacinto jumped across the room, jerking Crawford up out of the chair. "They're back, Crawford, you got to go, you got to get out of here, if Quartel ever gets you alone after Whitehead, he'll—"
 
He stopped shoving Crawford toward the , and his voice faded into a series of small, choked sounds. Aforismo stood there, sweat the dust in his smooth brown face, holding a belduque in his hands.
 
"El amante fiel," he said, running his finger down the keen edge, "the Loyal Lover. Did you ever see my knife, Crawford? Truly a weapon. Handed down in my family for generations. The hilt was once studded with precious stones, but they have long since been picked out by various members of my illustrious house who were in temporary financial ." He took a step toward them. "Look at the bravos on the blade. See this one. Nothing compares with my kiss. Isn't that a motto?"
 
Jacinto shrank back, staring in fascinated horror at the words cut into that side of the gleaming blade. Through the dog-run, Crawford could hear the of a chair in the bunkhouse, the of spoons on the table.
 
"Please, Aforismo, please," quavered Jacinto. "Let him go. Madre de Dios! let him go out the door before they find him in here. You know what will happen. Quartel would—"
 
"And this one," Aforismo said, turning the blade over and pointing to another motto cut into that side. "This is my favorite bravo I think. is sweet but are better. Don't you like that one, Jacinto?" He took another shuffling step toward them with the point almost Crawford's . "Don't you like that bravo, Crawford? Tell me you like it. It is my favorite, I think."
 
"Please, please." Jacinto was behind Crawford, his hands, sweat down his coarse face. "En el nombre de Dios, Aforismo, let him go, he never did anything to you, he never harmed one little hair of your head, I hate violence so, oh, I do hate violence so, my father he always tell me there are two sins in the world, work and fighting, and—oh, por Dios, Aforismo, Santa Maria, nombre de mi madre, let him go, let him go—"
 
"They say down in Durango a coyote always howls loudest in the trap," said Aforismo, nudging Crawford gently back with that needle point. "I think maybe we better all go in the bunkhouse, eh? The hands are getting hungry. Tripe is sweet but bowels are better, eh?" Crawford did not step back quickly enough, and that needle point went through his shirt with a soft ripping sound. The stinging bite of steel in the hard muscle of his belly caused his move back to be involuntary. His breath left him in a hoarse and he bent forward with the impulse driving through him. That was as far as it went. Aforismo's boots made that on the hard-packed earth, moving forward. His face twisted with anger, Crawford shifted back into the dog-run, shoving the cringing cook behind him.
 
"Dios, Aforismo, por Dios, no violence, please, I could not stand the sight of blood, it would make me regurgitate, please—"
 
Jacinto knocked over a chair backing from the dog-run into the bunkhouse. It made a loud clatter. Then Crawford was in the bunkhouse, still bent forward that way, his breath coming out harsh and swift, and he could see them. Bueno Bailey was seated at the table.
 
"I was just showing Crawford the bravos on my belduque," said Aforismo. "In Durango they say it is an ignorant man who cannot tell his sons at least one bravo."
 
"Bueno." Bailey trailed ............