"... two hundred, three hundred, four-eighty, six hundred, seven hundred ... seven hundred and twelve pesos." He stopped counting, hurriedly stuffed the money inside his hat, and strapped the cord under his chin. His face was red. His jaw sagged. Guns ... guns. They'll be afraid of me at Mountain Rancheria. His tongue skated round his teeth. In the gloom of the stall, he smoked a cigarette and thought of his Yaqui home, the Sonora country, how far away it was. Of a sudden, it seemed close. With hundreds of pesos he could take the train.... Nobody would know him.
Again he counted the money, got up to fifteen hundred and fifteen pesos and stuffed the bills inside his hat, fingering his chin strap. Rising, with a great sigh, he got his horse and threw on his saddle.
As he rode uphill, he watched volcano smoke elbow across the lagoon, a calm gray surface. Petaca lay below. Oxcarts crowded the courtyard as men returned from an irrigation job along the lagoon. Sitting his gray, a spirited stallion, he knew the renegade's fear: the Clarín had planned to pay him off, could trap him if he wanted to. Well, Don Fernando might never recover. To hell with Petaca and the old man! He had money enough to make out. Roweling his horse, Pedro climbed the slope toward Mountain Rancheria. He would buy and sell guns there ... somebody would want his services.
10
Alberto Saenz, the Christ-faced musician, balanced empty birdcages on top of his head, as he trudged along the shore of the lagoon. Soon he would reach Petaca and could rest. A string of smoke hung out of the volcano, but the air was clear. No doubt the worst was over. Scooping water from the lagoon, he drank from his palms, and the sedgy flavor pleased him. Rising, he stroked his beard and resumed his walk, along the pebbly shore. Herons let him come close, wading no deeper, beaking their feed calmly: what harm could a fellow do with cages on his head?
At Petaca, he sat for a while on the veranda, watching, drowsing. Workers were busy at the far end, where the quake had demolished roof and arches. Stonecutters pecked with hammers and chisels, fast, light strokes; a mason sloshed mortar in a box, adding sand to his mixture. All were bare-headed, barefooted and all wore white. Alberto wore white—his trousers slashed on the outside, above the ankles, his buttonless shirt open on his white-haired chest. Head against a veranda arch, he dreamed of other visits, Raul's kindly mother, the runaway carriage from La Calera, the fiesta of the Virgin of Petaca when they had burned four castillos.
Before taking his cages to Raul, he prayed in the chapel. Kneeling, he let the whiteness of the room take him: he had been a lover of Mary ever since he could remember: without a doubt She had saved his mother during the black plague. Strains of music he had played through the years came to him, as he knelt. Stepping toward the altar, he touched the glass dome covering the Virgin: her rubies, emeralds and diamonds never changed. Some night, as the dawn arrived and birds began their day, She would speak and Jesus would gently remove him from this life. Friends would wash him and borrow the hacienda grave box.
Back on the veranda, he picked up his cages, knocked, and asked for Raul.
A new servant from Ameca said harshly: