"Can you shoot, Don Raul? See anyone?"
Raul hunched along the sand, dug his toes and squirmed behind a heap of vines and bush.
"Hope they don't get our horses," he muttered.
Pain drenched in a kind of perspiration over his brain and he lay motionless, eyes shut, gasping for breath. He thought: It's Pedro ... if I could only get him! It's no good, I've got to sit up, think straight. That damn bullet can't be so bad. Can't seem to see clearly. Now ... now, that's better. Cabrones, to chase us, hunt us. God damn them! Ai, chingado!
Manuel had begun firing, shooting across the trail, picking at trees and vines. His bullets clicked dry stuff and some of it shattered and the dry shattering sound emphasized the danger. A parrot squawked. A couple of shots spanged near Raul and he rolled on his uninjured side, forced himself to sit up and saw three men rushing through the bush, bent double.
"There they go!" he shouted.
Manuel fired several times, his old Remington shooting fast ... then silence.
Raul could hear Manuel crawling toward him; the horses were moving noisily, tangled among bushes; he recognized Chico's snuffling; Manuel's gun clicked against a rock; leaves scraped close by; his head appeared.
"Where did you get hit?" he asked, dragging himself closer.
"My shoulder."