"Manuel—que tal?"
Manuel rolled a cigarette, the man walking toward him.
"Any word about Farias?" he asked of this family servant.
"Not a word."
"Raul was shot by one of Pedro's men. He's at Palma Sola. I've just come from there."
"Is he badly hurt?"
"Pretty bad. In the shoulder."
"Madre de Dios."
His old musket and old bare legs and thin arms seemed to have been eaten by the rain. His torn whites stuck to the quivering bird. Thinking of Raul, he rubbed his fingers over his powder horn.
By the time Manuel reached Petaca it was nearly noon; pigeons drowsed on the roof; dogs snoozed on the cobbles. Manuel stabled and rubbed his horse and, while he rubbed the flanks, whistling a little, a man hurried in: El Cisne, the stable hands called him, a flour-skinned fellow, young, tubercular looking.