Chapter ThirteenViolence in the Bunkhouse
The morning sun had not yet warmed the mud walls of the bunkshack through, and the dank reek of adobe filled the dog-run as Crawford passed down its narrow corridor toward the kitchen, still limping with the pain of his ride on Africano the evening before. Coming from the run, he almost knocked over Jacinto, who had been sitting propped against the wall on a three-legged stool, his head bent forward on his fat chest.
“What are you doing?” said Crawford.
The huge cook had barely caught himself from falling, and he blinked sleepy eyes up at Crawford in surprise. “Sitting on a stool.”
“You been sitting there all night,” Crawford accused him.
Jacinto looked sheepishly at the prodigious butcher knife across his lap. “No—I—I just—” He waved the blad
