"I suppose not," said Raul. "We should go tigre hunting, way up the volcano, where there are plenty of them. Let's try our luck one of these days."
Dismounting, they rested under cocos de aceite, a woodland of thousands of short-trunked palms. They nibbled tortillas and a coil of cheese, an armadillo scrabbling in the distance.
"I remember that when it rains here the gnats take over," said Raul.
"Ssh, see, over there," whispered Raul.
Regardless of men and horses, three raccoons, one behind the other, filed toward the water. All stared at the ground, their tails low; the leader had an injured paw and limped badly.
"They're late for their food," said Raul.
"Something must have delayed them," said Manuel.
Raul dug for his pipe and filled it and Manuel rolled a cigarette and they lit from the same match. Again, something ignited in their eyes—they felt their close communion. Saddlebag under his head, Raul smoked, the smoke climbing and climbing, the cocos de aceite completely windless.
A blue flycatcher lit on a mossy log, where it preened its wing and tail feathers lazily.
"Have you heard that the flycatcher is from Quetzalcoatl?" asked Raul.