The pain moved in again and Raul thought of Pedro. He wanted him out of the way. Perhaps the Yaqui had murdered somebody. At the earliest opportunity, he would spend a day in Colima, butter some palms and put the rurales wise: the gray-uniformed men would tip their caps and Pedro would be a marked man.
A marked man, for a dozen crimes ... the criminal instinct, nothing else. Protected by my father. How can there be law and justice when a single person can dictate? Yet I will be dictating when I summon the rurales ... the law protects me against the lawless ... and the church has a law against divorce. So I am dictated to, in turn.... Well, I must get up and walk around, toughen myself for that long ride tomorrow.
He got away early, before the sun broke through the low mist. He leaned out of the victoria and called goodbye.
"I hope that spring doesn't come apart," she said.
"Simon's a good driver," Raul said. "We have at least one good spring. We'll make out fine."
"I love you...."
"Goodbye."
"'Bye, Chulo.... Write me...."
It was a superb morning, the sun barely topping the palmera, mist blurring the ocean, haze concealing the volcano. Silver trimming on the guard's saddle sparkled. Creaking and bumping, sagging on its weak spring, the victoria rolled out of the sand, one of the horses whinnying. Sand gave way to hard ground and Simon cracked his whip.
"Vamos!" he shouted to his team.