Benito Serrato had a lean black that carried him proudly, ribboned tail switching. Benito, wearing black, tilted his derby as he rode, sitting erect, quirt dangling from his wrist.
The circle in front of the house had become dusty, but a breeze carried the dust away from the veranda, toward the lagoon.
"How many families are here today?" asked the count.
"Um, several ... four or five ... I hope others will come," said Raul.
Federicka Kolb wore red. Her cousin, Eloise Martini, rode a gray which she had matched with a finely tailored outfit. The pair rode side by side, laughing as their mounts cleared the hurdles gracefully.
Roberto jiggled the ice in his glass. "It's getting too muggy to ride—or I'm getting too fat," he said, and patted his paunch. "Nothing like beautiful women on beautiful horses to rest the eyes."
Raul had a horse, known locally as a good jumper, and he put the mare over the hurdles, enjoying her leaps, thinking her so much steadier than Chico. Her great yellow mane, tied with white ribbons, flared at every jump.
Vicente tagged behind.
"How are you coming, boy?" Raul called, as his son curbed his range pony.
"Some people have come to see you, Papa. See, Captain Cerro and his horsemen ... a lot of rurales. I guess you'll have to speak to them."