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
