"Hurt?"
"Hit in the head."
Chavela set down tortillas, beans and a glass of milk.
"Oh ... I can eat now," said Gabriel.
Gun shots cracked.
"Someone shot me as I crossed the court and shot Calvo in front of the chapel.... I sent someone to find that fellow." Storni's words ran together.
Raul, armed with a .38, stepped to the front windows. They won't get any more of us, Raul thought. I've got more men on the walls. Someone sneaked in, over the wall. He won't last long.
Shoulder against wall, Raul watched: he moved the length of the room, stationed himself near the front door, then slipped outside and hid behind the arches. He began to work his way the length of the veranda.
Sure, they wanted corn of their own, beef of their own, pulque, eggs, whisky, land—they wanted what any man deserved. They could have part of Petaca, but not all. Salvador rushed up the veranda steps toward Raul, his rifle on its sling. He waved, thumped himself on the chest and roared: "I got him. He's dead."
"Who's dead?"