The moon floated directly overhead, a spray of cloud in front of it. Something shook the dried fingers of a palm—a bird.
"Pedro came to talk with Don Fernando," said Manuel.
"I won't stop him," said Raul.
"I hear he says he'll never leave Petaca."
"He talks big. He's afraid."
"No—he's not afraid. Don't make that mistake, Don Raul!"
"Pedro has to leave.... I won't put up with him," he exclaimed.
In his mind's eye, Raul saw Pedro roping cattle in their corral, his lasso pinning a yearling. In the corral and on the range he had no rival. But as overseer, his cowpuncher skill meant nothing. He had not the slightest concept of what cooperation meant.
Returning, they took the road that led straight to the hacienda and entered the feudal wall through a seldom used gate. Raul said good-night to Manuel and lingered on the terrace, beside the swimming pool. Lighting his pipe, he reminded himself he must fill his tobacco pouch. The pool was flecked with jacaranda flowers, bats zoomed. Elbows on the adobe wall, Raul searched the volcano for a sign of smoke. High on the flank, nearest the ocean, he detected a red spark; perhaps a charcoal burner's fire. In the living room, he put his pipe on the desk, filled his pouch, and blew out the candles.
During the night, Caterina called him: