He stood beside her and they watched a boy spin a wooden top in the sunlight by the serpent fountain. Someone was patting tortillas in the kitchen. The smell of stewing beef crossed the patio.

"I'm going to the corral and stables. I know the animals haven't been getting enough grain," he said.

"What about Pedro?" she asked. "Have you thought of him?"

"I'll dismiss him," Raul said.

"I wonder whether you can do that?"

"What do you mean?"

"He works for your father."

"Pedro's been a killer long enough. I'll get him out of here!"

"Remember, change things slowly," she warned, huskily.

"I'll do the right things," he protested. "Pedro will be the first man to go. I can't work with him here. I see no reason for delaying his dismissal. With all there is to do, I want no complications."

"Pedro has friends. Talk with Gabriel. Maybe he'll be helpful. Your father will know of your decision by tonight, because someone will tell him. Manuel and Salvador will talk, and the news will travel fast." Angelina's voice had taken on a harsh quality. She stared at the sky, dreading responsibilities. "There are so many of us here at the hacienda," she said.

The boy went on spinning his top by the fountain.

From the corrals came the noise of a horse being shod: the crack of hammer against nail sounded as if it had all the time in the world behind it.

Raul decided to talk with Gabriel. Perhaps Gabriel, who had the hacienda problems at heart, could judge things reasonably.

Angelina had gone back to her dressing table and was scenting her hair. A peacock screamed in the garden and from somewhere along the lagoon another answered, putting in amorous cackles, ironical and derisive cries.

When Raul went out, she leaned far back in her chair and stretched and yawned. It had been nice in the garden, nicer still playing the organ for Caterina in the chapel, the chapel cool, Caterina singing, humming, tapping the organ keys ... que chula ... her face serious, why so serious, as if she were old? She would be able to play pretty well soon. She'll play for me and I'll sit and gaze through the ex-eye window ... cielito voices.... When St. Catherine played, the roses fell about her ... Philadelphia organ ... in gold letters on the front ... a long way to Philadelphia, a long way to happiness sometimes.

Tears came but she squeezed them back with her knuckles.

Tears ... why tears? We buried our love long ago. Go to Guadalajara, see Carlos and Rico, see Estelle....

3

Gabriel Storni's small room was in a one-story stone building across the court from the main house. There had been a school there, next door to Gabriel's room, until Don Fernando had discontinued it after he and the teacher had quarreled. As Raul walked across the forecourt, pigeons lit on the roof, then fluttered off nervously and swarmed through the air above the chapel spire. Raul heard the wings, but did not see them as he walked along. Horsemen clopped over cobbles, yet he did not turn his head. Rapping on Storni's door he waited, fingers nicking at the sun ridged wood, wood that was more slab than door. Rusty hinges hung the slab and they squealed as Gabriel opened the door.

"Come in, come in," he said affably.

The robe was Franciscan, the face Italian. Gabriel, at fifty-seven, had lustrous brown eyes, a bald head, a compassionate mouth, thick neck, large ears, a reddish wen under one eye. His front teeth had been capped with gold. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. He walked with a limp. But his defects were forgotten when he smiled.

The smile welcomed Raul.

"So nice to see you."

Momentarily the dark room, after brilliant sun, bothered Raul and he bumped into one of the familiar leather chairs. He only half saw the Spanish desk with papers in every pigeonhole, its reed-bottom chair, the shelves of books, and the plain wall cross carved from a scrap of high altitude cedar. Raul touched Gabriel's silver and bone rosary, where it lay on a corner of the desk.

"I'd like to talk with you."

"Sit down. Let me take these papers off the chair."

They faced each other on leather chairs, the door slightly open; again horsemen crossed the court, the hoof beats making the cobbles sound like empty clay bowls.

"One of these days you'll have your stained-glass windows," said Raul.

"Ah," said Gabriel, amused at such an unprompted declaration. "Right now, I think we ought to have a school teacher. We must reopen our school."

"I'm going to see to it," said Raul.

"What made your father change his mind?" asked Gabriel eagerly.

"I've decided to make these changes, now."

Gabriel began to laugh softly, one hand on his knee. His glasses shook and seemed about to fall.

"My dear boy, what's happened? Hadn't you better explain?"

"I've decided to take over Petaca. I should have done it long ago."

Gabriel blinked at Raul as if seeing him through smudged lenses. He trusted Raul, but he cleared his throat and knotted together the edge of his robe.

"We're in for trouble," Gabriel said, drawing his feet underneath his chair and bending forward thoughtfully. "This will really upset the hacienda."

"I don't want trouble; that's why I came to you."

Gabriel sighed. He was willing to assume responsibility, but he could not see where he could help. He had looked forward to the young man's administration of the estate at the death of his father. Removing his glasses, he pinched his nose, and then put the glasses on again.

"There's Pedro Chávez," he said. "You'll have to deal with him."

"Angelina reminded me," Raul said.

"Did you have to be reminded?" asked Gabriel. "Who else knows your decision besides Angelina?"

"Salvador and Manuel."

"Well, in a short time everyone will know."

"Father doesn't know. Shall I tell him today?"

"We'll tell him later. I see no reason to go to him now."

"I think I should tell him today. He should hear it from me.

"What precipitated your decision? I thought you would wait until..." He did not bother to finish the sentence; he was trying to consider problems dispassionately.

"It's the shortage of corn. Father has refused to supply grain. Many are ill, but you know the situation better than I do. I won't wait any longer. Farias was sent to check the corn and fences along the del Valle line. I don't want any shootings and I don't want any trouble."

Gabriel chuckled. "You don't want trouble," he said. "Now you'll have your hands full."

"Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Come—what about Pedro Chávez?"

"I'll order him to leave the hacienda." Raul slapped the side of his boot with the palm of his hand. "I've had more than enough of Pedro."

"I'm with you," cried Gabriel. "Let's get him out of here as soon as possible."

Raul grabbed the priest's arm, and squeezed it. Gabriel's eyes glittered, and he stood up and said: "I remember the talks we've had in this room. I'll help you see that our people are treated right at Petaca. The Americans fought for their liberty.... Their war brought freedom! God will bless your decision, Raul. We'll work together."

"I'll talk to my father," said Raul, rising.

"Perhaps we should wait till Dr. Velasco comes," said Gabriel.

"I'd rather not."

"The shock may be too much for Don Fernando. I'd wait." Gabriel hesitated.

"You're wrong. Father will fight. He won't give in to me, in spite of his stroke. Let's talk to him before Velasco comes. Come with me."

"I suppose we may as well," sighed Gabriel.

Together they crossed the cobbles, a mangy yellow dog trailing them, sniffing the priest's robes. Entering by the veranda, they went directly into Don Fernando's bedroom. He was asleep. Gabriel bent over him, made the sign of the cross, and counted his pulse, the old man's skin cold to his fingers.

"It's steady," he