With his hand on a bedpost, Raul contemplated his wife. Her face was tender, and she spoke sweetly. Her attitude helped him feel compassionate. Together, they placed Don Fernando in bed and covered him. How pitiful, shut off by sickness and age. His hate had raised walls around him. It was more than hate, Raul knew. In Guadalajara, three or four months ago, he and his father had attempted to locate a pump suitable for irrigation. After a futile day they had gone to the nearest cantina, a fairly disreputable place. His father had ordered drinks. Then, when the waiter had gone, he had turned to Raul: "I can't forget it, even here! I try to get away from it. I drink to get away from it; I ride like hell to get away..." "What are you trying to get away from?" "You're not that stupid, Raul! After all these years! Christ ..." Swiftly, he had gripped Raul's hand with cold fingers. "It's my father ... I often see him. I thought you knew." In Fernando's eyes, in the cantina, there had been the glaze of fear. Fear and regret had cut him with their termites. Nobody cared for him, unless it was little Caterina. She had not seen Flores dragged behind a horse, across a field and back again, across a field and back again ... she had been in school in Guadalajara. Chavela brought a tray of breakfast things, and Raul left the room as Angelina began to wash the old man's face, saying: "Come now, you're all right. Come now." In the patio, Vicente ran up to Raul and asked, "Is Grandpa dead?" "No, son, he fell on the floor." "Shall I go in?" "If you want to. Mama's there. You don't have to go inside." With a frightened face, he dashed off. As Raul crossed the patio, Gabriel appeared. He spoke, and Raul nodded significantly toward the bedroom. Gabriel limped past. Raul did not stop, but walked onto the veranda, to find Pedro Chávez, squatting on his heels by the steps. Pedro was six foot two, about thirty-six, a Yaqui, with square shoulders, big arms, big hands, big legs and feet. His facial tissue folded thickly across sharp bones and he had the swarthy complexion of Sonorans. Deep-set brown eyes glared past a Mongolian nose. He wore his hair long, and strands of it hung over his plaid shirt and buckskin vest. A single silver button dangled loosely on his vest and other silver buttons ran down the seams of his black trousers. His feet bulged in a pair of chamois-colored boots. He carried a Colt and had a belt of cartridges. Seeing Raul, he grinned a nervous grin (it was as if he had nothing to do with the grin) and his eyes blazed. "I hear Don Fernando is worse," he said, continuing to squat disrespectfully on his heels. He spoke with obvious contempt. Raul held himself straight. "When did you hear that?" he asked. "Last night. They say he won't eat," said Pedro.