Mounting the defense wall, Raul learned that twenty-five or thirty men had attacked the hacienda; the appearance of some rurales--a handful of them--had discouraged the attack. But Raul could not be sure the report about the rurales was more than a rumor. Esteban insisted that the firing from the roof had driven off the attackers. Two men had been killed and Raul ordered them buried ... two men in white, one young, one middle-aged. Several of Raul's people had been wounded and Velasco dressed their wounds in the small patio. Gabriel rode in later and seemed less astounded at the attack than anyone. Limping about the patio, helping the wounded, he said Pedro had not led this attack. "What if he was with the men who attacked us! He didn't supply those guns, we know that. Raul took his guns. The hacienda of Primavera has been burned. I saw it in the Ciudad Guzman newspaper. Did Pedro do that, too? He can't be everywhere." "I saw him here," said Raul. "It's a good thing you had guards posted," said Velasco. "We'd have lost the place without them," said Raul, rolling a bandage. "I'll have to hand out more guns. There are still some in the game room." "Keep men on the walls and in the turrets," said Gabriel. Dr. Velasco's goatee quivered over a wounded youngster. "Can't you hold still? Damn you!" he grumbled. Instrument in hand, the thin wrist swiveling, he probed for a fragment. "I feel it," he said. The youngster moaned. "Shut up," Velasco said, on edge. "Somebody light me a cigarette." Back of all this mess, Raul saw his father. Full of bitterness, he walked to the living room and examined the smashed windows, the pocked walls, the damaged chandelier. He asked a scared maid to sweep up the smashed glass. Together they knocked out damaged panes. That job done, he sat down, but he had scarcely caught his breath when Gabriel came in, looking beaten. "Let's both have a brandy," said Raul. "I was thinking..." "No, not now. I..." "What is it?" "Two of our people were shot, a few minutes ago." "I heard no shooting. Where?" "Behind the corral." "Who got shot?" "Teresa and María Eugenia. They're dead." "Two women--the scum ... to shoot women!" Raul exclaimed. The last time he had seen María and Teresa they had been preparing food in the kitchen. "So somebody shot them," Raul said, barely opening his lips. "It was no accident," said Gabriel. "Deliberate." "Yes." "My Petaca is taking a beating." Gabriel turned to go. "What can I do?" asked Raul. "Nothing now. I want to see their families. Perhaps..." But he did not bother to finish; instead he read Raul's face, the pain, the struggle for hope. Shortly after Gabriel had gone, Salvador tramped in, boots clacking. A ricochet bullet had hit him in the head and he had a bloody rag around his skull. A bandolier x'd his chest; he carried a Winchester; his trousers, ripped on the side, sagged over his stomach.