«We could still go away together, Greg,» said Urania suddenly. «It's still a few yards short of being too late.»
McAn reined in the horses and put on the brake, then looked away, out into the darkness. Rivas heard the creak of the bunk in the wagon as Barbara stood up to listen.
«No, Uri,» he said.
After a pause the brake squeaked off, the reins flapped and the wagon got moving again.
A restored telephone booth stood beside the driveway ahead, and when the wagon halted in front of the gate an officious fat man hurried out of it toward them. «I'm sorry,» he was saying in tones of satisfaction, «I wasn't told to expect any donuts tonight. I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave.»
«We're Fracas McAn,» said McAn evenly, «and Gre-gorio Rivas, and Urania Barrows.»
«And a friend,» put in Rivas.
The guard, startled, peered more closely—then, albeit with ill grace, walked back to the gate and unlocked it. «You might have had the thoughtfulness,» he remarked stiffly, «to have brought the young lady home in a less shabby vehicle.»
Rivas laughed, with an edge of hysteria. «Hell, he's right. What were we thinking of? Something with, like, bells and ribbons and a pipe organ . . . .»
The gate was open, and McAn flicked the reins. «Cool off, Greg,» he muttered as they moved forward and the gate was drawn closed behind them.
The guard commenced clanging a bell, and the racket was kept up, raising a sympathetic chorus of bird cries in the surrounding shrubbery, until the driveway leveled out under the wagon's wheels and they were in the paved front yard, where a grander wagon was half loaded with furniture and crates. The front door of the big old house was open and several men were hurrying down the steps and toward the newly arrived wagon.
«Uri!» came Irwin Barrows's well-remembered voice. «Uri! Damn me, if that fool grabbed the wrong bell by mistake—»
«It says donuts, Mister Barrows,» pointed out another voice dubiously.
«Donuts! Damn me! I'll—»
«Urania is here, Mister Barrows,» called Rivas.
The tall, white-haired old man walked slowly forward, after having waved someone else back. «Mister Rivas,» he said. «You've come for your final five thousand fifths.»
McAn glanced at Rivas in surprise.
«No,» said Rivas.
«I see,» said Barrows, a weary harshness in his voice. «You think you'll go away with her, is that it? And you think that waiving the second half of your fee will make me more—»
«No,» Rivas interrupted. «Urania and I have no plans for getting married or going anywhere together. But I overcharged you eleven days ago, in the . . . heat of the moment. Here's your daughter. We're square.»
«Uri!» Barrows called, a new suspicion evidently having occurred to him. «She's hurt, badly hurt, is that it? Or no, a babbling idiot because of having repeatedly taken the sacrament, right? God damn you, you—»
«Maybe he just brought back her corpse, Mister Barrows,» helpfully suggested the other man, whom Rivas recognized now as the bald Joe Montecruz.
«No, dad, I'm okay,» said Uri in a loud but listless voice. She edged behind Rivas and dropped to the ground, then plodded across the paving stones to Montecruz, who took her into his arms with an ostentatious show of emotion.
Barrows slowly walked the rest of the way to the donut wagon. He was frowning thoughtfully as he stared up at Rivas's face, which, under its bandage, was lit in craggy chiaroscuro by the wagon's lantern. «You've suffered, sir,» he said.
«Redemptions are never easy,» said Rivas.
«He . . . killed Norton Jaybush,» McAn told Barrows, awe putting a slight quaver in his voice.
«You did?» asked Barrows, startled.
«More or less.»
Barbara was standing behind Rivas now, and she put her hands on his shoulders. «He cut Jaybush's throat,» she said.
Barrows hesitated; then, «Perhaps neither of us is quite the same person he was two weeks ago,» he said. His uncertain gaze slid away from Rivas to the big old house and the grounds, and Rivas belatedly realized that Barrows and his people were in the process of leaving to take refuge inside the city walls, and that soon this house and these vineyards might very well be sacked by the San Berdoo army. «Thank you for my child,» Barrows said. «Now please
go.»
Rivas lifted his head and looked past Barrows. «I think Mister Montecruz has something to say to me.»
Montecruz looked up, blinking as he changed his focus, then released Urania and walked toward the wagon. His walk was uncertain, as though he were dutifully taking part in a ritual that had been improperly prepared. Finally he stopped and stared impassively at Rivas. «You insulted me,» he said flatly.
Rivas, huddled in his blanket, smiled. «You're right. I did.»
«I . . . must demand satisfaction.»
«And I'll give it,» said Rivas. «I apologize. I was wrong to say what I said. The speech you made, which goaded me into insult, was the truth, which of course is why it stung me so deeply.» Rivas spread his hands. «You were right. I was wrong. I mean that.»
Again McAn was staring incredulously at Rivas.
Montecruz was at a loss. «You're a coward,» he said, loudly but without conviction.
«No, he's not,» said McAn. Night insects sang in the darkness.
«No,» echoed Irwin Barrows tiredly, «he's not.» To Rivas he added, «Please go.»
»Adios ,» said Rivas. «Goodbye, Uri.»
There was no reply. McAn urged the horses forward and around, awkwardly because of the other wagon. Lamps were lit in the house but the curtains were gone, and Rivas looked in at the dining hall as they inched past the front window. All the furniture was gone, and nothing looked familiar.
At last McAn had the old wagon facing downhill, and, leaning on the brake, began to guide it down the sloping driveway.
«See those bushes there, to the right?» Rivas remarked to him quietly. «Before the night's out, have me tell you what I once did behind them.»
Epilogue
at noon the next day, Rivas was sitting on the roof of his apartment, gripping the neck of his new pelican and skating the bow across the strings to produce various chords.
It was sounding better. At first he'd produced only squawks that had raised protesting howls from the dogs in the street below, but now he was getting his maimed hand to hold the bow properly . . . though he still didn't have the heart to try any strumming.
Gripping the instrument with his chin to free his right hand, he reached down, snagged his jug of beer, raised it– and then paused, baffled.
«What shall I take?» asked Barbara drily.
«Uh . . . the pelican.»
She stood up from the shaded wicker chair, reached out and took the instrument by the neck.
«Thanks,» he said. Free now to tip his head back, he took a long sip of the beer, which had stayed fairly cool in the shadow of his chair. He put the jug down and took the pelican back.
He took a deep breath and then sawed out the opening of Peter and the Wolf. Doesn't sound half bad, he thought.
«That's what you whistled, isn't it?» Barbara asked. «That night.»
«Sure is,» said Rivas. He could feel the sun-heated weight of the leaden pendant resting on his chest, and he remembered yesterday's dawn when, once Urania was safely tied up in the wagon's bunk, he'd made Barbara go out and pry the lead balancing weights off the wheel rims of a dozen of the ubiquitous old car shells; when she'd returned with a handful he had helped her heat them and watched critically as she had hammered them into a sheet to wrap the crystal in.
«Uri was quieter after we wrapped the crystal up,» said Barbara now. «Did the lead stop his . . . influence?»
Rivas shrugged. «Maybe. I mainly wanted to block out any radiation that might strengthen him.» He squinted at the sun. «Even warmth is something. I'll have to dunk him in cold water later.»