"So somebody shot them," Raul said, barely opening his lips.
"It was no accident," said Gabriel.
"Deliberate."
"Yes."
"My Petaca is taking a beating."
Gabriel turned to go.
"What can I do?" asked Raul.
"Nothing now. I want to see their families. Perhaps..." But he did not bother to finish; instead he read Raul's face, the pain, the struggle for hope.
Shortly after Gabriel had gone, Salvador tramped in, boots clacking. A ricochet bullet had hit him in the head and he had a bloody rag around his skull. A bandolier x'd his chest; he carried a Winchester; his trousers, ripped on the side, sagged over his stomach.
"I have two men at each turret now," he said. "They all have extra bullets. We're ready." He grinned, obviously enjoying himself.