When the Owl Cries Part 17

He was aware of the darkening sky as he ripped the shirt. He was aware, too, of the dark stalks of cactus and bush around them, the nervousness of the horses. All right, it was going to rain. All right, they'd be on their way soon enough. He'd have to steady Raul, help him mount. Lucienne's place was the closest. Tighten the bandage, help him get up. That crazy Chico might refuse to stand. All right, he would use his own horse.

Rifle in hand, he walked alongside Raul, his eyes mere slits. Raul rocked in his saddle, pain making it impossible for him to sit erect.

"Slow enough?" asked Manuel.

"It's not bad."

"I'm taking you to Dona Lucienne's. It's the nearest place. Chico's coming along behind."

"We'd better ride home," said Raul.

"It's too far to Petaca."

"I can make it."

"No, it's much too far."

The horse shied at something and the jerk cracked pain throughout Raul's body; without Manuel he would have fallen. They rode in silence, the rain coming in little spurts. Manuel sniffed the air--his nose opening wide.

"The rain smells bitter with smoke," Manuel said. "Can you taste it?

Let me get in front, to keep the branches from hitting you."

From time to time he stopped, suspecting ambush; he wanted a chance to think out his route, make it as short and easy as possible for Raul, whose gray, tense face haunted him. Such a tortured look! What an unlucky day--the eruption, the shoulder wound. It was as if old Don Fernando had power over everything.

Had he clipped one of Fernando's men? Pedro's silver-b.u.t.toned trousers had seemed close. But firing, lying down on rough ground, wasn't accurate. A bush could deflect a shot.

In a gully, among mesquite, cacti and palms, Manuel removed the b.l.o.o.d.y handkerchiefs, brushed off ticks, and wadded a strip of shirt. Their water gourd held half and he made Raul drink and then sopped the inside of his hat.

To Raul, for all the pain, the care meant a great deal, it slid him back into the past, when he had broken his arm while playing ball with Manuel; he recalled another morning on the lagoon, when the canoe had overturned ... he grinned at Manuel.

"You've been around a long time," he managed.

"Got to take care of you. Can you ride again?"

"Yes."

"Have some more water."

"I can't. You drink, Manuel."

"I can wait. Let's go on, to Lucienne's."

Raul wondered, as they rode, whether neighborhood haciendas had been damaged by the shocks: maybe San Cayetano, Palma Sola, Fortaleza, Santa Cruz del Valle.

At del Valle the Jesuits had a _mayordomo_ n.o.body could reason with; someday, when things calmed down a little, he would visit Senor Oc.

This Farias trouble had to be thrashed out. The hacienda folk mentioned Pedro, not Oc. Was that out of fear? He knew he wasn't thinking clearly. These border fracases were bound to lead to serious complications. Everyone said the Jesuits mismanaged del Valle through absentee supervision but something had to be done.

Jab after jab of horseback pain did away with his thinking. His eyes fogged. Clinging to the pommel, he ducked when Manuel directed, let himself be supported, swayed, straightened. Lucienne's? Where? When?

They could miss the hacienda in the growing dark. The rain was turning cold.

But, as they neared the ocean, the rain stopped and the sky cleared and shortly after dusk they reached her home. A frenzy of dog barks met them, then they heard the surf and then they heard women wailing in the open, in front of the chapel. Two bodies lay just inside the door, covered with burlap, candles beside them.

Built in 1820, Palma Sola had the white spread of seaside haciendas of that period: its porch stalked on salt gnawed posts, its Ma.r.s.eilles tiled roof defied storm and quake, every wall was thick and every window deep set. Grilles were salty green and shutters were paintless.

Nestled under palms, Palma Sola looked as though it could last another hundred years.

Manuel and a servant helped Raul into the living room, and Lucienne hurried in.

"What happened, Raul? Is he badly hurt, Manuel?"

"It's his shoulder, Dona Lucienne."

"Did Chico throw you? No--there's blood."

"Sit down, Don Raul," said Manuel, helping him.

"Not bad," said Raul.

"Sit here," said Lucienne, pulling up a chair.

Raul felt around for the chair. Dimly, he made out Lucienne; then, as strength returned, as he drank water, he saw her, her auburn hair, her look of concern. She touched him and at the same time he received a shock for there, at his feet, sat Mona, Caterina's fuzzy dog, tongue lolling. She barked happily; the bullet pain dug deeper; he tried to rise.

"Please sit down, Raul," said Lucienne, restraining him. "Jesus Peza is here. He can help you. Marta, run for Jesus."

Marta, a pigtailed girl, Lucienne's maid, dashed out of the living room, with Mona at her heels.

Raul fought his dizziness and tugged at his belt.

"Drink this," said Lucienne.

Someone had brought tequila.

Raul smelled it and the strong smell helped him before he could get it to his lips: tequila almendrada: he let the fiery stuff grab him. Why not get drunk? Why not wipe out pain that way? What could Peza do?

"Here's Peza," said Manuel, stripping off Raul's wet shirt.

"Well, Raul, what happened, man? I see you got drenched."

"h.e.l.lo, Jesus."

"Where are you hit?"

"In the shoulder," said Manuel.

"Shoulder ... hmm, hmm," said Jesus, and peered into his friend's face.

"The last time I saw you was when I filled a molar. A month ago, maybe two, wasn't it? Well, I can help you. I'll fix your shoulder.... You just settle back in that chair."

Jesus Peza had fixed many wounds in and around Colima: _tequila_ wounds, dog bites, stone wounds, wire, gun, knife and horse wounds: as dentist, teeth and mouth often came last. He had not brought his kit to Palma Sola but borrowed a poniard-like knife from Ponchito, Lucienne's gardener. Jesus had the head of a gamec.o.c.k and as he pecked at Raul's wound he talked fast:

"Fetch me several clean towels, Marta.... Hmm, I tell you that was a bad-enough earthquake; I don't know what's got into that volcano lately.... Fetch me a basin of water and some soap, Manuel.... Hmm, this knife is not so d.a.m.n dull.... h.e.l.l broke loose in Colima, they say; I've got to get back.... Did you hear about the church, Raul ...