Roberto sat on the veranda at Petaca and sipped a _ron fuerte_, his feet on the railing, a handkerchief in one hand. He felt happy though tired, happy to be showing off his new dark green riding suit and tired because he had already performed his stock of equestrian tricks. It was almost mid-morning and growing hot and humid, a clear, cloudless day. "Federicka rides better every year," he said to Raul, sitting beside him, drinking, eyes on Federicka as she jumped a barrier. Baroness Radziwill executed precise jumps on her claybank, her split skirt flapping gayly. For a stout woman she was a fine rider, and her horse carried her weight well, taking each hurdle rhythmically. Armand Guerrero, her friend, followed on a Cuban horse, sailing over the whitewashed logs, all of them participating in an improvised arena, sodded and graveled for their annual get-together. "Armand's mare is heavy-footed," Raul said. "Maybe a bit too old." Count de Selva sat down beside Raul, breathing through a corner of his mouth, an unlighted cigar between his fingers. Dressed in duck, like Raul, his clothes rather creased, he brushed dust off his knees and groaned because of his asthma. "There used to be quite a showing of us--quite a showing," he said. "I can remember when as many as fifteen of us families turned out.... Say, that Benito does well enough. If he's as good a mayor as he is a horseman, we'll get things done in Colima." Benito Serrato had a lean black that carried him proudly, ribboned tail switching. Benito, wearing black, tilted his derby as he rode, sitting erect, quirt dangling from his wrist. The circle in front of the house had become dusty, but a breeze carried the dust away from the veranda, toward the lagoon. "How many families are here today?" asked the count. "Um, several ... four or five ... I hope others will come," said Raul. Federicka Kolb wore red. Her cousin, Eloise Martini, rode a gray which she had matched with a finely tailored outfit. The pair rode side by side, laughing as their mounts cleared the hurdles gracefully. Roberto jiggled the ice in his glass. "It's getting too muggy to ride--or I'm getting too fat," he said, and patted his paunch. "Nothing like beautiful women on beautiful horses to rest the eyes." Raul had a horse, known locally as a good jumper, and he put the mare over the hurdles, enjoying her leaps, thinking her so much steadier than Chico. Her great yellow mane, tied with white ribbons, flared at every jump. Vicente tagged behind. "How are you coming, boy?" Raul called, as his son curbed his range pony. "Some people have come to see you, Papa. See, Captain Cerro and his horsemen ... a lot of rurales. I guess you'll have to speak to them."