The horse shied at something and the jerk cracked pain throughout Raul's body; without Manuel he would have fallen. They rode in silence, the rain coming in little spurts. Manuel sniffed the air—his nose opening wide.
"The rain smells bitter with smoke," Manuel said. "Can you taste it? Let me get in front, to keep the branches from hitting you."
From time to time he stopped, suspecting ambush; he wanted a chance to think out his route, make it as short and easy as possible for Raul, whose gray, tense face haunted him. Such a tortured look! What an unlucky day—the eruption, the shoulder wound. It was as if old Don Fernando had power over everything.
Had he clipped one of Fernando's men? Pedro's silver-buttoned trousers had seemed close. But firing, lying down on rough ground, wasn't accurate. A bush could deflect a shot.
In a gully, among mesquite, cacti and palms, Manuel removed the bloody handkerchiefs, brushed off ticks, and wadded a strip of shirt. Their water gourd held half and he made Raul drink and then sopped the inside of his hat.
To Raul, for all the pain, the care meant a great deal, it slid him back into the past, when he had broken his arm while playing ball with Manuel; he recalled another morning on the lagoon, when the canoe had overturned ... he grinned at Manuel.
"You've been around a long time," he managed.
"Got to take care of you. Can you ride again?"
"Yes."
"Have some more water."