"I waited for Don Raul to leave."
"Afraid of him!"
Pedro did not care to reply; he was impervious to the old man's jibes.
One hand was stuck in his enormous leather belt, he was dressed in white, no guns, no cartridges. His boots were dusty. He had left his hat somewhere. A long timothy straw dangled from his mouth.
"You went too far," Fernando exclaimed. "I don't want Raul killed.... you were to kill Manuel. Farias was to have been a blunder for the Jesuits. That didn't work out. You're clever but you're not clever enough. I'm not the murderer of my son. My business with my father taught me something. Now, I want you to leave Petaca. Get out!"
"What?" said Pedro, hand to the straw in his mouth.
"Raul has gone to Colima to talk with the rurales. They'll come here for you. They'll scour the hacienda. At least you're warned." Fernando grinned at the other's dilemma. "Get out. You're licked."
This was something Pedro had not foreseen. He removed the straw from between his teeth and smelled the end of it, frowning.
"You may need me," he mumbled, unable to think.
"Go to Mountain Rancheria. You have friends there. It'll be safe enough. Get out, before I decide to turn you over to the rurales." Fernando chuckled.