Servants helped him into the house where he asked for Manuel or Raul. Then, gathering his wits, he told the servants about Miguel Calvo, and his head wound.
"... it may be serious. Get Dr. Velasco."
He gripped his leg, where the pain dug sharply, widening.
"Get somebody to find that sharpshooter," he said.
He sat on a sofa and began to dress his own wound, Chavela whimpering over a bowl of water, soap and rag. On the mantel, the Swiss clock chimed and he glanced at it, feeling hungry.
"Don't be a ninny, Chavela. And get me some tortillas."
"I will, Padre, I will," said Chavela, glad to escape to the kitchen.
"Bring some beans, too," said Gabriel, sighing. His glasses had become smudged and he wiped the old lenses on his robe, blew on them, wiped them again.
The pain became excruciating as he waited and he rocked from side to side. He had not felt such pain since his barranca mule had crashed on the rocks with him and broken his ankle not long after he had come to Mexico.
"Where did they shoot you?" asked Raul hurrying in.