Raul had Salvador bring water; there in the hut some of Tomás' fear vanished; he managed a twisted grin; his face, streaked with straw and sweat, had the eagerness and pathos of a student. Salvador's corn cob fingers removed straw from his hair; sitting beside Salvador, Raul lit a cigarette and then a second one for Tomás.
"What horse kicked you?" he asked.
Salvador picked up more straws.
"Yours ... Don Raul."
"Chico! That damn' horse! What the hell was Chico doing in that stall, Tomás?"
"I was leading him ... to be shod ... he kicked me ... I fell into that stall ... I fell."
"Ah," said Raul, smoking, disappointed in Chico.
Later, outside the stable, he watched men curing a batch of iguana hides; they had the pelts submerged in a chemical solution and kneaded them with wooden mauls. Other men padded saddles with milkweed and sewed and polished leather. Under a thatched ramada they had a dozen saddles on saw-horses; he noticed one of his own, a reddish McClellan, from Texas. The air smelled of leather, strong saddle soap and polish. Sun streaked the stable wall. Raul strolled among his men, chatting, whistling, smoking.
A teenager, in torn shorts, gutted a snake. Above him, head high from the ground, in a carved niche, stood the figure of St. Christopher. A Medina had placed it there generations ago, a pink stone carving done by a local artisan. A snakeskin dangled from St. Christopher's arm and another swung from the saint's sandal. The snake collector looked worried as Raul inspected his workshop.
"Why do you want so many skins?" Raul asked. "Are you trying to get rid of all our snakes?"