In the corner, the shelving was broken by a glass gun case: Winchesters and Remingtons stood in a row. Revolvers and pistols, holstered and unholstered, crowded the rack, with boxes of shells neatly stacked behind them. The guns and shells were the only neatly arranged things in the store. Everything else had been put down carelessly, was dusty and tangled with cobwebs. Raul fiddled with the counterfeit coins a forgotten _mayordomo_ had nailed across the rim of his desk: the five-peso silver piece turned rustily on its nail; the ten-peso coin had a big nick out of the side; he remembered the copper two-centavo coin was like one he had had as a boy; quite a bit of counterfeit money had found its way to the hacienda during the nineties. Wind puffed through the open room. Feeling relaxed, he got up, shut the door and walked toward his father's room. His wound had stiffened, as he sat at the desk, and he pumped his arm as he walked, appreciating the fit of his new red leather boots. His jeans and gray shirt, carefully tailored, were also new. Scratches from the palmera marred his cheek and he picked the scab as he paused in his father's open doorway. "Hello," he said. His father grunted. "I'd like to talk to you," said Raul. "I can't very well stop you," said Fernando. "Come in," he added peevishly. "I see you've had breakfast," Raul said. Chavela was removing dishes and silver and placed them on her Tarascan tray. A stupid grin on her face, she worked awkwardly. Amused, Raul watched her, knowing how clever she could be in the kitchen, supervising others. When she had gone he pulled a chair up to the bed. Through the grilled window, the sun spread over the carvings on the ugly wardrobe. Fernando smoked a fresh cigarette and asked: "Did Farias tell you that our rock fences had been deliberately pulled down along the del Valle line? Or did he keep that information to himself?" His voice quavered; propped on his pillows, one arm under the sheet, his hair uncombed, his face unshaven, he filled Raul with pity and disgust. "I've talked with Farias. I plan to visit Santa Cruz. I'll talk with Señor Oc." "You'll find him a trickster." "I've never met him. He's your enemy, not mine." "You imply...." The old man's voice climbed; he wanted the peace of his own folly. "I came to talk to you about this." Raul tapped his shoulder where a bandage bulged under his shirt. He thought it would be easy to say, but the words choked in his throat. "Don't accuse me of attempting to assassinate you!" Fernando screamed. "I'm leaving for Colima in an hour or so. I'll have a talk with the police. I'll have Pedro picked up and jailed," Raul said, forcing himself to keep calm. "Who'll be your overseer?" "Salvador." "Salvador, the oxcart maker! Jesús, use your head!" "I like honest men."