Again they rode through cactus country, sandy but free of boulders, the cactus tall and strong, with lianas and vines swinging from the top of one to the top of another, a desolate camouflage, suggesting primordial days. Sky had darkened appreciably and explosions indicated further eruptions, yet no quakes rumbled or shook the ground. When the riders topped a ridge, long-tailed, blue flycatchers winged from cactus to cactus, and parrots clattered in a forgotten language. An iguana slept on a log ... all seemed normal here. Feeling his cinch strap slip, Manuel got off, checked the strap and yanked it up a notch. A shot rang out as he pulled the leather. Raul felt something burn his shoulder; he felt he had been slapped by a heavy branch; then he remembered that they had not been moving and put his hand to his shoulder and saw blood. Swiftly, throwing himself off his saddle, he lay on the ground and shouted: "Down, Manuel. They hit me!" Manuel let go his bridle and yanked his rifle, tearing it from its scabbard. With rifle in his arms, he looped his bridle over Chico's head and then--all in a rolling motion--buried himself in the bush. Quietly, he asked: "Can you shoot, Don Raul? See anyone?" Raul hunched along the sand, dug his toes and squirmed behind a heap of vines and bush. "Hope they don't get our horses," he muttered. Pain drenched in a kind of perspiration over his brain and he lay motionless, eyes shut, gasping for breath. He thought: It's Pedro ... if I could only get him! It's no good, I've got to sit up, think straight. That damn bullet can't be so bad. Can't seem to see clearly. Now ... now, that's better. Cabrones, to chase us, hunt us. God damn them! Ai, chingado! Manuel had begun firing, shooting across the trail, picking at trees and vines. His bullets clicked dry stuff and some of it shattered and the dry shattering sound emphasized the danger. A parrot squawked. A couple of shots spanged near Raul and he rolled on his uninjured side, forced himself to sit up and saw three men rushing through the bush, bent double. "There they go!" he shouted. Manuel fired several times, his old Remington shooting fast ... then silence. Raul could hear Manuel crawling toward him; the horses were moving noisily, tangled among bushes; he recognized Chico's snuffling; Manuel's gun clicked against a rock; leaves scraped close by; his head appeared. "Where did you get hit?" he asked, dragging himself closer. "My shoulder." "How does it feel?" "Can scarcely see ... for the pain." "I saw the men, had a good look. Who the hell does Pedro think he is! Here, let me pull open your shirt, Raul. You're bleeding." "A handkerchief in my back pocket." "I'll need it for the wound." "Wait ... have to move," said Raul, sitting up, so Manuel could pull out the handkerchief. "Got to move more ... this way ... try to shake the pain." "Do you think you'll be able to ride?" "Later ... I'll manage."