At del Valle the Jesuits had a _mayordomo_ nobody could reason with; someday, when things calmed down a little, he would visit Señor Oc. This Farias trouble had to be thrashed out. The hacienda folk mentioned Pedro, not Oc. Was that out of fear? He knew he wasn't thinking clearly. These border fracases were bound to lead to serious complications. Everyone said the Jesuits mismanaged del Valle through absentee supervision but something had to be done. Jab after jab of horseback pain did away with his thinking. His eyes fogged. Clinging to the pommel, he ducked when Manuel directed, let himself be supported, swayed, straightened. Lucienne's? Where? When? They could miss the hacienda in the growing dark. The rain was turning cold. But, as they neared the ocean, the rain stopped and the sky cleared and shortly after dusk they reached her home. A frenzy of dog barks met them, then they heard the surf and then they heard women wailing in the open, in front of the chapel. Two bodies lay just inside the door, covered with burlap, candles beside them. Built in 1820, Palma Sola had the white spread of seaside haciendas of that period: its porch stalked on salt gnawed posts, its Marseilles tiled roof defied storm and quake, every wall was thick and every window deep set. Grilles were salty green and shutters were paintless. Nestled under palms, Palma Sola looked as though it could last another hundred years. Manuel and a servant helped Raul into the living room, and Lucienne hurried in. "What happened, Raul? Is he badly hurt, Manuel?" "It's his shoulder, Doña Lucienne." "Did Chico throw you? No--there's blood." "Sit down, Don Raul," said Manuel, helping him. "Not bad," said Raul. "Sit here," said Lucienne, pulling up a chair. Raul felt around for the chair. Dimly, he made out Lucienne; then, as strength returned, as he drank water, he saw her, her auburn hair, her look of concern. She touched him and at the same time he received a shock for there, at his feet, sat Mona, Caterina's fuzzy dog, tongue lolling. She barked happily; the bullet pain dug deeper; he tried to rise. "Please sit down, Raul," said Lucienne, restraining him. "Jesús Peza is here. He can help you. Marta, run for Jesús." Marta, a pigtailed girl, Lucienne's maid, dashed out of the living room, with Mona at her heels. Raul fought his dizziness and tugged at his belt. "Drink this," said Lucienne. Someone had brought tequila. Raul smelled it and the strong smell helped him before he could get it to his lips: tequila almendrada: he let the fiery stuff grab him. Why not get drunk? Why not wipe out pain that way? What could Peza do? "Here's Peza," said Manuel, stripping off Raul's wet shirt. "Well, Raul, what happened, man? I see you got drenched." "Hello, Jesús." "Where are you hit?" "In the shoulder," said Manuel.