"I just came from his room. He ate last night ... I've been wanting to talk to you. This time is as good as any. I've taken over the management. I want you to leave Petaca." Raul realized he had spoken too rapidly. He stopped. "I'm not leaving here," Pedro snapped, eyes on the floor. "I order you to leave Petaca, at once," said Raul, accenting each word. "I couldn't do that. It's my job." "I never hired you." "But your father hired me." Pedro talked slowly, the Yaqui way, clicking each syllable. A brown cricket crept over the red tiles, crept near Pedro's boots, crawled on, circling a little. "You're no longer employed here. Go to the Banco Nacional in Colima. I'll write a note to the bank. They'll pay you off. Manuel will give you my note for the bank." "Haven't you any money here?" "I'll pay you through the bank. I want it that way. That way there's no question about a record of payment." "I refuse to leave Petaca." "I'll speak to the rurales." Pedro lashed with the flat of his palm and smashed the cricket. He continued to squat, though he swayed on his heels. "I'll tell the rurales to remove you. They know how. You'll rot in jail a while. The police will appreciate my attitude. You have your choice. Now, get out. I've had more than enough of your killings. When Flores was tied behind a horse and dragged across the ground, you whipped the horse. I should have killed you myself then. God knows, I wanted to." Raul paused to wet his lips. Pedro glared at the floor between his legs. "You've killed four of our men, two without provocation. I'm not running that kind of hacienda." "I get the work done," Pedro muttered. "I can get the work done without beatings and killings. Don't be a fool, Pedro. Your job is over. My father can't keep you against my will. Go back to being a Yaqui sergeant." "I'll see," said Pedro. Raul jerked at his belt. The angry gesture made Pedro look up; it annoyed him to be reminded that Raul was unarmed; then he reconsidered that thought--his right hand stole toward his Colt: a secretive, instinctive movement: his hand had performed the same movement on the hunt or when among brawling men: the timing would be perfect. Raul had begun to turn away; instantly, instinctively, he whirled around. "Get out of here!" Raul's stony face moved Pedro. He got up, hitched his trousers, hitched his belt, snuffed, examined the cricket stain on his hand, and stalked off, his spurs nicking the stone steps. He had a cowboy sprawl, a cowman's gait; he strolled toward the corral, rolling a cigarette as he walked, feeling the weight of his Colt, insensible to everything but the urge to kill. 5