"Wasn't it filled with ferns?"
"Yes, it was."
Mona came trotting in and Raul picked her up and stroked her shaggy gray head and shoved some of her hair out of her eyes ... her tongue licked.
"We never escape the past, do we?" he said.
The past accompanied him as he rode home. With Manuel, he rode across country, under ceibas and palm, the trail winding, sometimes across streams, sometimes through boulder-piled land. They talked about Pedro. The people at Mountain Rancheria reported he was living there, buying and selling guns. The rurales had to be informed. It was a six-day trip. Would they go after him?
White ibis and rosy spoonbill flew up from a small lake ... a blue heron sat on a dead and leafless tree, its wings outspread in the sun. An alligator splashed away from the shore as the horses trotted along a shell-strewn beach.
"Do you remember this lake?" Raul asked.
"Sure. We shot a grandfather alligator here, years ago."
"I bagged a tigre in the bush," grinned Raul, "a fast, running shot."
"There are no tigres around now."