When the Owl Cries Part 41

"Yes. His father was born here too."

"Who'll play the harp for us now?"

"Cipriano."

"Cipriano's only a boy."

"He plays well."

"Do you know who taught him?"

"Alberto," said Manuel.

"How time pa.s.ses," said Raul.

He and Manuel found cowboys struggling with a bull, outside the main corral, the bull flat in the mud near a watering trough, three lariats on him. While mounted cowboys kept the lariats tight, a veterinarian stuck a hypodermic needle in the animal. The bull bellowed. At a signal, the lariats went limp and the bull struggled to his feet and made off.

The veterinarian, a small man wearing a five-gallon hat, explained the bull's serious condition to Raul, emptying his hypodermic as he talked.

He had been trained in northern France and had ideas and methods of treatment frowned upon by most _hacendados_. Raul welcomed his care, for under his supervision Petaca cattle losses had decreased 20 per cent.

In the dying light the volcano had a greenish mist over it and, with no smoke coming out of the crater, expressed indolence: it said men will dawdle in hammocks and rest on _petates_, that fruit will have time to ripen, that birds will be able to build their nests wherever they want to, that animals will find cool hideouts to escape the summer heat ...

nothing will change, only the clouds, the flying things, maybe a fish, nothing more.

Raul understood the lie, and grinned back at the old king.

15

Roberto sat on the veranda at Petaca and sipped a _ron fuerte_, his feet on the railing, a handkerchief in one hand. He felt happy though tired, happy to be showing off his new dark green riding suit and tired because he had already performed his stock of equestrian tricks. It was almost mid-morning and growing hot and humid, a clear, cloudless day.

"Federicka rides better every year," he said to Raul, sitting beside him, drinking, eyes on Federicka as she jumped a barrier.

Baroness Radziwill executed precise jumps on her claybank, her split skirt flapping gayly. For a stout woman she was a fine rider, and her horse carried her weight well, taking each hurdle rhythmically.

Armand Guerrero, her friend, followed on a Cuban horse, sailing over the whitewashed logs, all of them partic.i.p.ating in an improvised arena, sodded and graveled for their annual get-together.

"Armand's mare is heavy-footed," Raul said. "Maybe a bit too old."

Count de Selva sat down beside Raul, breathing through a corner of his mouth, an unlighted cigar between his fingers. Dressed in duck, like Raul, his clothes rather creased, he brushed dust off his knees and groaned because of his asthma.

"There used to be quite a showing of us--quite a showing," he said. "I can remember when as many as fifteen of us families turned out....

Say, that Benito does well enough. If he's as good a mayor as he is a horseman, we'll get things done in Colima."

Benito Serrato had a lean black that carried him proudly, ribboned tail switching. Benito, wearing black, tilted his derby as he rode, sitting erect, quirt dangling from his wrist.

The circle in front of the house had become dusty, but a breeze carried the dust away from the veranda, toward the lagoon.

"How many families are here today?" asked the count.

"Um, several ... four or five ... I hope others will come," said Raul.

Federicka Kolb wore red. Her cousin, Eloise Martini, rode a gray which she had matched with a finely tailored outfit. The pair rode side by side, laughing as their mounts cleared the hurdles gracefully.

Roberto jiggled the ice in his gla.s.s. "It's getting too muggy to ride--or I'm getting too fat," he said, and patted his paunch.

"Nothing like beautiful women on beautiful horses to rest the eyes."

Raul had a horse, known locally as a good jumper, and he put the mare over the hurdles, enjoying her leaps, thinking her so much steadier than Chico. Her great yellow mane, tied with white ribbons, flared at every jump.

Vicente tagged behind.

"How are you coming, boy?" Raul called, as his son curbed his range pony.

"Some people have come to see you, Papa. See, Captain Cerro and his hors.e.m.e.n ... a lot of rurales. I guess you'll have to speak to them."

Raul slipped from his saddle to shake hands with the arrivals. Cerro had brought a number of his best men. Could they ride? Perhaps it wasn't customary, but they would appreciate it very much. Dr. Velasco and Dr. Hernandez had also come. Then, to his astonishment and delight, he saw Lucienne.

Bareheaded, she stood in the midst of them, proud, one glove removed.

She seemed on the verge of running off and couldn't find much to say beyond civilities. When she got Raul alone she criticized herself for coming, for riding a white horse, for wearing white. She felt her hair falling about her neck and shoved it up underneath her beret.

"Lucienne, have a drink on the veranda with us," said Raul.

Roberto took her arm and hugged her.

"Lucienne ... something cool. Will you ride with us?"

Angered, she drew away, and said: "I wouldn't have come if something terrible hadn't happened yesterday. You know"--she paused to swallow--"they broke into the hacienda Refugio and killed the priest and killed Francisco Goya and his sons."

"Who?" asked Roberto.

"Armed men--I don't know."

"Who told you this?" said Raul.

"Jesus Peza. He told me. He was there, doctoring someone. He got away," said Lucienne. "He's back in Colima."

"My G.o.d!" exclaimed Roberto.

"How far is Refugio from here?" Raul asked. "What's the shortest way, Velasco?"

"Forty miles or more," said Velasco.

"Maybe fifty," said de Selva.

"What can we do to help?" asked Gabriel.

"I'm sending men immediately," said Raul. "Gabriel, look after Lucienne. I'll be back shortly."