As Raul crossed the patio, Gabriel appeared. He spoke, and Raul nodded significantly toward the bedroom. Gabriel limped past. Raul did not stop, but walked onto the veranda, to find Pedro Chávez, squatting on his heels by the steps.
Pedro was six foot two, about thirty-six, a Yaqui, with square shoulders, big arms, big hands, big legs and feet. His facial tissue folded thickly across sharp bones and he had the swarthy complexion of Sonorans. Deep-set brown eyes glared past a Mongolian nose. He wore his hair long, and strands of it hung over his plaid shirt and buckskin vest. A single silver button dangled loosely on his vest and other silver buttons ran down the seams of his black trousers. His feet bulged in a pair of chamois-colored boots. He carried a Colt and had a belt of cartridges.
Seeing Raul, he grinned a nervous grin (it was as if he had nothing to do with the grin) and his eyes blazed.
"I hear Don Fernando is worse," he said, continuing to squat disrespectfully on his heels. He spoke with obvious contempt.
Raul held himself straight.
"When did you hear that?" he asked.
"Last night. They say he won't eat," said Pedro.
"I just came from his room. He ate last night ... I've been wanting to talk to you. This time is as good as any. I've taken over the management. I want you to leave Petaca." Raul realized he had spoken too rapidly. He stopped.
"I'm not leaving here," Pedro snapped, eyes on the floor.
"I order you to leave Petaca, at once," said Raul, accenting each word.