Stepping forward, Rosaria pressed Will’s side up and down with her fingers and frowned thoughtfully, asking him where it hurt and where it did not, and then, motioning to Eliot to stand, took his hand and kneaded the knuckles with her thumb. When she concluded the examination, she said she had herbs for curing broken bones at her house; if Will and Eliot accompanied her there, she would heal them—with the herbs and the proper rites to someone or something called Babaluaye.

“Eres una médica?” asked Will, incredulous.

“Soy curandera,” she replied firmly.

“Mind letting us in on what this is all about?” asked Eliot. “Who are these people?”

“The kid’s name is Francisco, the six-foot beauty is his sister, Elvira, and the old lady’s name is Rosaria. I think she’s some kind of healer, you know, like a witch doctor. She said that she’s got some sort of potion that’s going to cure my busted ribs and your busted hand.”

Eliot scowled and said, “I ain’t drinking some potion brewed by an old lady who doesn’t even speak English.”

“We’re in Cuba,” Will reminded him. “They speak Spanish in Cuba.” Then to Rosaria: “Dónde está la casa de Usted, señora?”

“Cárdenas,” she answered, and, turning around partway, pointed to the west.

Will told her that Cárdenas was their destination, for they now had no food or water; they hoped to find someone to help them return to their homes. The woman said something so quickly that Will could not quite make it out.

“Habla Usted más despacio, por favor,” he said.

“I said to you that you have found help already. Olodumare, the father of destinies, has guided you to us, us to you. We have food, water, herbs for your injuries. Perhaps we will find someone to help you with your return. You will come with us.”

She made it sound more like a command than an invitation.

“Madrina, con permiso,” said Francisco, stepping in. He looked at Will, then at Eliot, and gestured at the shotgun. “Give that to me.”

“You wish it as payment? We have a little money.…”

Francisco shook his head, giving Will a cool, flat stare. “I don’t want the gun in your possession while we take you.”

Will passed on the offer and the terms to the Braithwaites. Eliot hunched his shoulders and refused to hand over the L. C. Smith.

“You don’t get it,” said Will. “The kid doesn’t trust us yet, and frankly, if I was in his shoes, I wouldn’t either. We look like some pretty rough hombres. Give him the goddamned gun, unless you want to walk the rest of the way.”

Eliot crotched the barrels in his elbow, opened the rusty breech with his good hand, shook out the shells, and passed the weapon to Francisco.