you will follow, please. I know it’s difficult for one of your magnificent qualities, but . . .”
“I, too, will do what I think best at the moment,” said Garson. He fought to conceal his anger. Felt like nothing would be more pleasant than to crash his fist into Luac’s sneering face.
The old man sighed, glanced at Medina, shrugged. “Take food,” he said. “It will be a long day whatever comes.”
Once across the lake, they waited beside the dock while a peon saddled horses. Constraint about the presence of people walking on the trail above them held them in silence. They stared across the lake at the hacienda: a splash of tan and orange against the deep green of the swamp.
Abruptly, Anita Luac picked up a piece of wood from beside the dock—an axe chip about four inches long, three inches wide.
“Choco! Show me!” she shouted. It sounded like the ritual of a child’s game. She hurled the chip into the air above the lake.
Medina’s right hand blurred to his hip, came up with the revolver. There was a single shot. The chip bounced in the air. Another shot. Again the chip bounced. Five times he hit it.
The splintered chip fell to the lake. Something nudged it from beneath, then it was still.
Medina opened his gun, replaced the spent cartridges.
“The horses are ready,” said Anita Luac.
“Now I understand why Raul was so hesitant,” said Garson.
Medina grinned, flicked a finger along his mustache.
They rode out through a narrow trail in jungle growth that thinned as they climbed, opened onto a meadow. Smoky blue haze filled the air, hid the detail of the distant hills.
Anita Luac reined up in the center of the meadow, patted the neck of her brown gelding.
Garson stopped the sorrel mare they had given him, shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. It had been a long time since his last experience on horseback.
“The smoke,” said Anita Luac. “The Indians are burning their milpas . They’ll never learn!”
Medina galloped past them on a big bay, stopped, whirled, returned at a walk.
“ Milpas ?” asked Garson.
“Their cornfields. It’s the way they clear them.”
“This is a good place to talk,” said Medina. “But keep your voice low.”
Garson nodded.
“The idea is this,” said Medina. “We are out on an inspection tour that will take most of the day. At noon we will stop for lunch . . .” he gestured to the bundle tied behind his saddle “ . . .at a point about four miles from the Torleon-Ciudad Brockman highway. After lunch we will ride in that direction. Two men will be mending fences along the highway.”
“This is the Pánfil and Roberto that Luac mentioned?”
“Yes. They are men we can trust. They will be in a light pickup truck.”
“And we take the truck?”
“You and the Señorita .”
“What if we’re followed?”
Medina patted his revolver. “The story is that you two are eloping. You will go to Ciudad Brockman where the colonel of police—who is another friend—will provide you with a car and driver to take you to the airport at Guadalajara.”
Garson looked up at the smoke-dimmed hills, a feeling of premonition in his stomach. “Somehow, I don’t like it.”
Anita Luac’s horse snorted, backed away.
“I don’t either,” she said. “But we’ll give it a try.”
Medina reached into his shirt pocket, brought out the papers from Luac’s notebook. “Here. You’ll want these.”
Garson put the papers inside his own shirt.
Medina touched his reins. The big bay reared, turned, and they were off, racing across the meadow.
At noon they stopped where a narrow stream tumbled from rocks in a tree-marked watercourse. The air was cool with spray from the waterfall.
Medina tethered the horses while Garson and Anita Luac clambered down a clay bank to a sandbar beside the stream. Anita Luac waded across. Garson sat down on a log in the shade of the clay bank.
From the other side of the stream, Anita Luac called back: “Choco! Bring firewood. We
“I, too, will do what I think best at the moment,” said Garson. He fought to conceal his anger. Felt like nothing would be more pleasant than to crash his fist into Luac’s sneering face.
The old man sighed, glanced at Medina, shrugged. “Take food,” he said. “It will be a long day whatever comes.”
Once across the lake, they waited beside the dock while a peon saddled horses. Constraint about the presence of people walking on the trail above them held them in silence. They stared across the lake at the hacienda: a splash of tan and orange against the deep green of the swamp.
Abruptly, Anita Luac picked up a piece of wood from beside the dock—an axe chip about four inches long, three inches wide.
“Choco! Show me!” she shouted. It sounded like the ritual of a child’s game. She hurled the chip into the air above the lake.
Medina’s right hand blurred to his hip, came up with the revolver. There was a single shot. The chip bounced in the air. Another shot. Again the chip bounced. Five times he hit it.
The splintered chip fell to the lake. Something nudged it from beneath, then it was still.
Medina opened his gun, replaced the spent cartridges.
“The horses are ready,” said Anita Luac.
“Now I understand why Raul was so hesitant,” said Garson.
Medina grinned, flicked a finger along his mustache.
They rode out through a narrow trail in jungle growth that thinned as they climbed, opened onto a meadow. Smoky blue haze filled the air, hid the detail of the distant hills.
Anita Luac reined up in the center of the meadow, patted the neck of her brown gelding.
Garson stopped the sorrel mare they had given him, shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. It had been a long time since his last experience on horseback.
“The smoke,” said Anita Luac. “The Indians are burning their milpas . They’ll never learn!”
Medina galloped past them on a big bay, stopped, whirled, returned at a walk.
“ Milpas ?” asked Garson.
“Their cornfields. It’s the way they clear them.”
“This is a good place to talk,” said Medina. “But keep your voice low.”
Garson nodded.
“The idea is this,” said Medina. “We are out on an inspection tour that will take most of the day. At noon we will stop for lunch . . .” he gestured to the bundle tied behind his saddle “ . . .at a point about four miles from the Torleon-Ciudad Brockman highway. After lunch we will ride in that direction. Two men will be mending fences along the highway.”
“This is the Pánfil and Roberto that Luac mentioned?”
“Yes. They are men we can trust. They will be in a light pickup truck.”
“And we take the truck?”
“You and the Señorita .”
“What if we’re followed?”
Medina patted his revolver. “The story is that you two are eloping. You will go to Ciudad Brockman where the colonel of police—who is another friend—will provide you with a car and driver to take you to the airport at Guadalajara.”
Garson looked up at the smoke-dimmed hills, a feeling of premonition in his stomach. “Somehow, I don’t like it.”
Anita Luac’s horse snorted, backed away.
“I don’t either,” she said. “But we’ll give it a try.”
Medina reached into his shirt pocket, brought out the papers from Luac’s notebook. “Here. You’ll want these.”
Garson put the papers inside his own shirt.
Medina touched his reins. The big bay reared, turned, and they were off, racing across the meadow.
At noon they stopped where a narrow stream tumbled from rocks in a tree-marked watercourse. The air was cool with spray from the waterfall.
Medina tethered the horses while Garson and Anita Luac clambered down a clay bank to a sandbar beside the stream. Anita Luac waded across. Garson sat down on a log in the shade of the clay bank.
From the other side of the stream, Anita Luac called back: “Choco! Bring firewood. We
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