"We can eat as we ride," he said. "Let's make for the nearest hill. Maybe we can see what's happened."
As Raul mounted, yellow cup-shaped primavera flowers spattered his saddle, hat, and shoulders. The tree, loaded with blossoms, had been a landmark for the last few miles. Manuel swung onto his horse, took a mouthful of iguana, checked his rifle in its scabbard, and nodded to Raul.
Here no trail cut through and both horse and rider had to worm ahead, a slow, painful ride, Chico rebelling, fighting back at fronds and lianas. Parrots sputtered and he snuffed and threw his head. When he tried to plunge through bamboo, Manuel dismounted and swung his machete.
"We'll have to do it slow. You take my horse, Raul."
A great hive of maggots, a brown clot, in the arms of a red birch, broke as Manuel swung the knife. Sweat dripped from his face and arms. He stopped to peel off his shirt and knot it around his waist. His Negroid features, streaked with dust and pocked with leaf fragments, had whitened. He worked with big long sweeps of the machete, realizing haste was futile. His eyes became slits, and he called back at Raul:
"There ought to be a place to break through soon ... soon now."
"You ride, Manuel. I'll cut."
"No ... you ride," said Manuel, wheezing as he chopped.
"I wonder what happened at Petaca?" Raul said.
"Plenty."