XI:

       Look here, Tenderfoot, I want to tell you something," Camilla called to Luis Cervantes, as he made his way to the hut to fetch some boiling water for his foot.

       For days the girl had been restless. Her coy ways and her reticence had finally annoyed the man; stopping suddenly, he stood up and eyeing her squarely:

       "All right. What do you want to tell me?"

       Camilla's tongue clove to her mouth, heavy and damp as a rag; she could not utter a word. A blush suffused her cheeks, turning them red as apples; she shrugged her shoulders and bowed her head, pressing her chin against her naked breast. Then without moving, with the fixity of an idiot, she glanced at the wound, and said in a whisper:

       "Look, how nicely it's healing now: it's like a red Castille rose."

       Luis Cervantes frowned and with obvious disgust continued to care for his foot, completely ignoring her as he worked. When he had finished, Camilla had vanished.

       For three days she was nowhere to be found. It was always her mother, Agapita, who answered Cervantes' call, and boiled the water for him and gave him rags. He was careful to avoid questioning her. Three days later, Camilla reappeared, more coy and eager than ever.

       The more distrait and indifferent Luis Cervantes grew, the bolder Camilla. At last, she said: "Listen to me, you nice young fellow, I want to tell you something pleasant. Please go over the words of the revolutionary song 'Adelita' with me, will you? You can guess why, eh? I want to sing it and sing it, over again often and often,  see? Then when you're off and away and when you've forgotten all about Camilla, it'll remind me of you."

       To Luis Cervantes her words were like the noise of a sharp steel knife drawn over the side of a glass bottle.   Blissfully unaware of the effect they had produced, she proceeded, candid as ever:       

       "Well, I want to tell you something. You don't know that your chief is a wicked man, do you? Shall I tell you what he did to me? You know Demetrio won't let a soul but Mamma cook for him and me take him his food. Well, the other day I take some food over to him and what do you think he did to me, the old fool. He grabs hold of my wrist and he presses it tight, tight as can be, and then he starts pinching my legs.

       "'Come on, let me go,' I said. 'Keep still, lay off, you shameless creature. You've got no manners, that's the trouble with you.' So I wrestled with him, and shook myself free, like this, and ran off as fast as I could. What do you think of that?"

       Camilla had never seen Luis Cervantes laugh so heartily.

       "But it is really true, all this you've told me?"

       Utterly at a loss, Camilla could not answer. Then he burst into laughter again and repeated the question. A sense of confusion came upon her. Disturbed, troubled, she said brokenly:

       "Yes, it's the truth. And I wanted to tell you about it. But you don't seem to feel at all angry."

       Once more Camilla glanced adoringly at Luis Cervantes' radiant, clean face; at his glaucous, soft eyes, his cheeks pink and polished as a porcelain doll's; at his tender white skin that showed below the line of his collar and on his shoulders, protruding from under a rough woolen poncho; at his hair, ever so slightly curled.

       "What the devil are you waiting for, fool? If the chief  likes you, what more do you want?"

       Camilla felt something rise within her breast, an empty ache that became a knot when it reached her throat; she closed her eyes fast to hold back the tears that welled up in them. Then, with the back of her hand, she wiped her wet cheeks, and just as she had done three days ago, fled with all the swiftness of a young deer.

XII:

       Demetrio's wound had already healed. They began to discuss various projects to go northward where, according to rumor, the rebels had beaten the Federal troops all along the line.

       A certain incident came to precipitate their action. Seated on a crag of the sierra in the cool of the afternoon breeze, Luis Cervantes gazed away in the distance, dreaming and killing time. Below the narrow rock Pancracio and Manteca, lying like lizards between the jarales along one of the river margins, were playing cards. Anastasio Montanez, looking on indifferently, turned his black hairy face toward Luis Cervantes and, leveling his kindly gaze upon him, asked:

       "Why so sad, you from the city? What are you day-dreaming about? Come on over here and let's have a chat!"

       Luis Cervantes did not move; Anastasio went over to him and sat down beside him like a friend.

       "What you need is the excitement of the city. I wager you shine your shoes every day and wear a necktie. Now, I may look dirty and my clothes may be torn to shreds, but I'm not really what I seem to be. I'm not here because I've got to be and don't you think so. Why, I own twenty oxen. Certainly I do; ask my friend Demetrio. I cleared ten bushels last harvest time. You see, if there's one thing I love, that's riling these Government fellows and making them furious. The last scrape I had--it'll be eight months gone now, ever since I've joined these men--I stuck my knife into some captain. He was just a nobody, a little Government squirt. I pinked him here, see, right under the navel. And that's why I'm here: that and because I wanted to give my mate Demetrio a hand."       

        "Christ! The bloody little darling of my life!" Manteca shouted, waxing enthusiastic over a winning hand. He placed a twenty-cent silver coin on the jack of spades.

       "If you want my opinion, I'm not much on gambling. Do you want to bet? Well, come on then, I'm game. How do you like the sound of this leather snake jingling, eh?"

       Anastasio shook his belt; the silver coins rang as he shook them together.

       Meanwhile, Pancracio dealt the cards, the jack of spades turned up out of the deck and a quarrel ensued.        Altercation, noise, then shouts, and, at last, insults. Pancracio brought his stony face close to Manteca, who looked at him with snake's eyes, convulsive, foaming at the mouth. Another moment and they would have been exchanging blows. Having completely exhausted their stock of direct insults, they now resorted to the most flowery and ornate insulting of each other's ancestors, male and female, paternal or maternal. Yet nothing untoward occurred.

       After their supply of words was exhausted, they gave over gambling and, their arms about each other's shoulders, marched off in search of a drink of alcohol.

       "I don't like to fight with my tongue either, it's not decent. I'm right, too, eh? I tell you no man living has ever breathed a word to me against my mother. I want to be respected, see? That's why you've never seen me fooling with anyone." There was a pause. Then, suddenly, "Look there, Tenderfoot," Anastasio said, changing his tone and standing up with one hand spread over his eyes."What's that dust over there behind the hillock. By God,  what if it's those damned Federals and we sitting here doing nothing. Come on, let's go and warn the rest of the boys."

       The news met with cries of joy.

       "Ah, we're going to meet them!" cried Pancracio jubilantly, first among them to rejoice.

       "Of course, we're going to meet them! We'll strip them clean of everything they brought with them."

       A few moments later, amid cries of joy and a bustle of arms, they began saddling their horses. But the enemy turned out to be a few burros and two Indians, driving them forward.

       "Stop them, anyhow. They must have come from somewhere and they've probably news for us," Demetrio said.

       Indeed, their news proved sensational. The Federal troops had fortified the hills in Zacatecas; this was said to be Huerta's last stronghold, but everybody predicted the fall of the city. Many families had hastily fled southward. Trains were overloaded with people; there was a scarcity of trucks and coaches; hundreds of people, panic-stricken, walked along the highroad with their belongings in a pack slung over their shoulders. General Panfilo Natera was assembling his men at Fresnillo; the Federals already felt it was all up with them.

       "The fall of Zacatecas will be Huerta's requiescat in pace," Luis Cervantes cried with unusual excitement. "We've got to be there before the fight starts so that we can join Natera's army."

       Then, suddenly, he noted the surprise with which Demetrio and his men greeted his suggestion. Crestfallen, he realized they still considered him of no account.

       On the morrow, as the men set off in search of good mounts before taking to the road again, Demetrio called Luis Cervantes:

       "Do you really want to come with us? Of course you're cut from another timber, we all know that; God knows why you should like this sort of life. Do you imagine we're in this game because we like it? Now, I like the excitement all right, but that's not all. Sit down here; that's right. Do you want to know why I'm a rebel? Well, I'll tell you.

       "Before the revolution, I had my land all plowed, see, and just right for sowing and if it hadn't been for a little quarrel with Don Monico, the boss of my town, Moyahua, I'd be there in a jiffy getting the oxen ready for the sowing, see?

       "Here, there, Pancracio, pull down two bottles of beer for me and this tenderfoot. . . . By the Holy Cross . . .  drinking won't hurt me, now, will it?"

XIII:

       I was born in Limon, close by Moyahua, right in the heart of the Juchipila canyon. I had my house and my cows and a patch of land, see: I had everything I wanted. Well, I suppose you know how we farmers make a habit of going over to town every week to hear Mass and the sermon and then to market to buy our onions and tomatoes and in general everything they want us to buy at the ranch. Then you pick up some friends and go to Primitivo Lopez' saloon for a bit of a drink before dinner; well, you sit there drinking and you've got to be sociable, so you drink more than you should and the liquor goes to your head and you laugh and you're damned happy and if you feel like it, you sing and shout and kick up a bit of a row. That's quite all right, anyhow, for we're not doing anyone any harm. But soon they start bothering you and the policeman walks up and down and stops occasionally, with his ear to the door. To put it in a nutshell, the chief of police and his gang are a lot of joykillers who decide they want to put a stop to your fun, see?  But by God! You've got guts, you've got red blood in your veins and you've got a soul, too, see? So you lose your temper, you stand up to them and tell them to go to the Devil.

       "Now if they understand you, everything's all right; they leave you alone and that's all there is to it; but sometimes they try to talk you down and hit you and--well, you know how it is, a fellow's quick-tempered and he'll be damned if he'll stand for someone ordering him around and telling him what's what. So before you know it, you've got your knife out or your gun leveled, and then off you go for a wild run in the sierra, until they've forgotten the corpse, see?

       "All right: that's just about what happened to Monico. The fellow was a greater bluffer than the rest. He couldn't tell a rooster from a hen, not he. Well, I spit on his beard because he wouldn't mind his own business. That's all, there's nothing else to tell.

       "Then, just because I did that, he had the whole Goddamned Federal Government against me. You must have heard something about that story in Mexico City--about the killing of Madero and some other fellow, Felix or Felipe Diaz, or something--I don't know. Well, this man Monico goes in person to Zacatecas to get an army to capture me. They said that I was a Maderista and that I was going to rebel. But a man like me always has friends. Somebody came and warned me of what was coming to me, so when the soldiers reached Limon I was miles and miles away. Trust me! Then my compadre Anastasio who killed somebody came and joined me, and Pancracio and Quail and a lot of friends and acquaintances came after him. Since then we've been sort of collecting, see? You know for yourself, we get along as best we can. . . ."

       For a while, both men sat meditating in silence. Then:

       "Look here, Chief," said Luis Cervantes. "You know that some of Natera's men are at Juchipila, quite near here. I think we should join them before they capture Zacatecas. All we need do is speak to the General."

       "I'm no good at that sort of thing. And I don't like the idea of accepting orders from anybody very much."

       "But you've only a handful of men down here; you'll only be an unimportant chieftain. There's no argument about it, the revolution is bound to win. After it's all over they'll talk to you just as Madero talked to all those who had helped him: 'Thank you very much, my friends, you can go home now. . . .' "

       "Well that's all I want, to be let alone so I can go home."

       "Wait a moment, I haven't finished. Madero said:  'You men have made me President of the Republic. You have run the risk of losing your lives and leaving your wives and children destitute; now I have what I wanted, you can go back to your picks and shovels, you can resume your hand-to-mouth existence, you can go half-naked and hungry just as you did before, while we, your superiors, will go about trying to pile up a few million pesos. . . .'"  Demetrio nodded and, smiling, scratched his head.

       "You said a mouthful, Louie," Venancio the barber put in enthusiastically. "A mouthful as big as a church!"

       "As I was saying," Luis Cervantes resumed, "when the revolution is over, everything is over. Too bad that so many men have been killed, too bad there are so many widows and orphans, too bad there was so much bloodshed.

       "Of course, you are not selfish; you say to yourself: 'All I want to do is go back home.' But I ask you, is it fair to deprive your wife and kids of a fortune which God himself places within reach of your hand? Is it fair to abandon your motherland in this solemn moment when she most needs the self-sacrifice of her sons, when she most needs her humble sons to save her from falling again in the clutches of her eternal oppressors, executioners, and caciques? You must not forget that the thing a man holds most sacred on earth is his motherland."

       Macias smiled, his eyes shining.

       "Will it be all right if we go with Natera?"

       "Not only all right," Venancio said insinuatingly, "but I think it absolutely necessary."

       "Now Chief," Cervantes pursued, "I took a fancy to you the first time I laid eyes on you and I like you more and more every day because I realize what you are worth. Please let me be utterly frank. You do not yet realize your lofty noble function. You are a modest man without ambitions, you do not wish to realize the exceedingly important role you are destined to play in the revolution. It is not true that you took up arms simply because of Senor Monico. You are under arms to protest against the evils of all the caciques who are overrunning the whole nation. We are the elements of a social movement which will not rest until it has enlarged the destinies of our motherland. We are the tools Destiny makes use of to reclaim the sacred rights of the people. We are not fighting to dethrone a miserable murderer, we are fighting against tyranny itself. What moves us is what men call ideals; our action is what men call fighting for a principle. A principle! That's why Villa and Natera and Carranza are fighting; that's why we, every man of us, are fighting."

       "Yes ... yes ... exactly what I've been thinking myself," said Venancio in a climax of enthusiasm.

       "Hey, there, Pancracio," Macias called, "pull down two more beers."

XIV:

       You ought to see how clear that fellow can make things, Compadre," Demetrio said. All morning long he had been pondering as much of Luis Cervantes' speech as he had understood.

       "I heard him too," Anastasio answered. "People who can read and write get things clear, all right; nothing was ever truer. But what I can't make out is how you're going to go and meet Natera with as few men as we have."

       "That's nothing. We're going to do things different now. They tell me that as soon as Crispin Robles enters a town he gets hold of all the horses and guns in the place; then he goes to the jail and lets all the jailbirds out, and, before you know it, he's got plenty of men, all right. You'll see. You know I'm beginning to feel that we haven't done things right so far. It don't seem right somehow that this city guy should be able to tell us what to do."

       "Ain't it wonderful to be able to read and write!"

       They both sighed, sadly. Luis Cervantes came in with several others to find out the day of their departure.

       "We're leaving no later than tomorrow," said Demetrio without hesitation.

       Quail suggested that musicians be summoned from the neighboring hamlet and that a farewell dance be given. His idea met with enthusiasm on all sides.

       "We'll go, then," Pancracio shouted, "but I'm certainly going in good company this time. My sweetheart's coming along with me!"

       Demetrio replied that he too would willingly take along a girl he had set his eye on, but that he hoped none of his men would leave bitter memories behind them as the Federals did.

       "You won't have long to wait.  Everything will be arranged when you return," Luis Cervantes whispered to him.

       "What do you mean?" Demetrio asked.  "I thought that you and Camilla . . ."

       "There's not a word of truth in it, Chief.  She likes you but she's afraid of you, that's all."

       "Really?  Is that really true?"

       "Yes.  But I think you're quite right in not wanting to leave any bitter feelings behind you as you go.  When you come back as a conqueror, everything will be different.  They'll all thank you for it even."

       "By God, you're certainly a shrewd one," Demetrio replied, patting him on the back.

       At sundown, Camilla went to the river to fetch water as usual.  Luis Cervantes, walking down the same trail, met her.  Camilla felt her heart leap to her mouth.  But, without taking the slightest notice of her, Luis Cervantes hastily took one of the turns and disappeared among the rocks.

       At this hour, as usual, the calcinated rocks, the sunburnt branches, and the dry weeds faded into the semi-obscurity of the shadows.  The wind blew softly, the green lances of the young corn leaves rustling in the twilight. Nothing was changed; all nature was as she had found it before, evening upon evening; but in the stones and the dry weeds, amid the fragrance of the air and the light whir of falling leaves, Camilla sensed a new strangeness, a vast desolation in everything about her.

       Rounding a huge eroded rock, suddenly Camilla found herself face to face with Luis, who was seated on a stone, hatless, his legs dangling.

       "Listen, you might come down here to say good-bye."

       Luis Cervantes was obliging enough; he jumped down and joined her.

       "You're proud, ain't you?  Have I been so mean that you don't even want to talk to me?"

       "Why do you say that, Camilla?  You've been extremely kind to me; why, you've been more than a friend, you've taken care of me as if you were my sister.  Now I'm about to leave, I'm very grateful to you; I'll always remember you."

       "Liar!" Camilla said, her face transfigured with joy. "Suppose I hadn't come after you?"

       "I intended to say good-bye to you at the dance this evening."

       "What dance? If there's a dance, I'll not go to it."

       "Why not?"

       "Because I can't stand that horrible man . . . Demetrio!"

       "Don't be silly, child," said Luis. "He's really very fond of you. Don't go and throw away this opportunity. You'll never have one like it again in your life. Don't you know that Demetrio is on the point of becoming a general, you silly girl? He'll be a very wealthy man, with horses galore; and you'll have jewels and clothes and a fine house and a lot of money to spend. Just imagine what a life you would lead with him!"

       Camilla stared up at the blue sky so he should not read the expression in her eyes. A dead leaf shook slowly  loose from the crest of a tree swinging slowly on the wind, fell like a small dead butterfly at her feet. She bent down and took it in her fingers. Then, without looking at him, she murmured:

       "It's horrible to hear you talk like that. . . . I like you . . . no one else. . . . Ah, well, go then, go: I feel ashamed now. Please leave me!"

       She threw away the leaf she had crumpled in her hand and covered her face with a corner of her apron. When she opened her eyes, Luis Cervantes had disappeared.

       She followed the river trail. The river seemed to have been sprinkled with a fine red dust. On its surface drifted now a sky of variegated colors, now the dark crags, half light, half shadow. Myriads of luminous insects twinkled in a hollow. Camilla, standing on the beach of washed, round stones, caught a reflection of herself in the waters; she saw herself in her yellow blouse with the green ribbons, her white skirt, her carefully combed hair, her wide eyebrows and broad forehead, exactly as she had dressed to please Luis. She burst into tears.

       Among the reeds, the frogs chanted the implacable melancholy of the hour. Perched on a dry root, a dove wept also.

XV:

       That evening, there was much merrymaking at the dance, and a great quantity of mezcal was drunk. "I miss Camilla," said Demetrio in a loud voice.  Everybody looked about for Camilla.

       "She's sick, she's got a headache," said Agapita harshly, uneasy as she caught sight of the malicious glances  leveled at her.

       When the dance was over, Demetrio, somewhat unsteady on his feet, thanked all the kind neighbors who had welcomed them and promised that when the revolution had triumphed he would remember them one and all, because "hospital or jail is a true test of friendship."

       "May God's hand lead you all," said an old woman. "God bless you all and keep you well," others added. Utterly drunk, Maria Antonia said: "Come back soon, damn soon!"

       On the morrow, Maria Antonia, who, though she was pockmarked and walleyed, nevertheless enjoyed a notorious reputation--indeed it was confidently proclaimed that no man had failed to go with her behind the river        weeds at some time or other--shouted to Camilla:

       "Hey there, you! What's the matter? What are you doing there skulking in the corner with a shawl tied round your head! You're crying, I wager. Look at her eyes; they look like a witch's. There's no sorrow lasts more than three days!"

       Agapita knitted her eyebrows and muttered indistinctly to herself.

       The old crones felt uneasy and lonesome since Demetrio's men had left. The men, too, in spite of their gossip and insults, lamented their departure since now they would have no one to bring them fresh meat every day. It is pleasant indeed to spend your time eating and drinking, and sleeping all day long in the cool shade of the rocks, while clouds ravel and unravel their fleecy threads on the blue shuttle of the sky.

       "Look at them again. There they go!" Maria Antonia yelled. "Why, they look like toys."

       Demetrio's men, riding their thin nags, could still be descried in the distance against the sapphire translucence of the sky, where the broken rocks and the chaparral melted into a single bluish smooth surface. Across the air a gust of hot wind bore the broken, faltering strains of "La Adelita," the revolutionary song, to the settlement. Camilla, who had come out when Maria Antonia shouted, could no longer control herself; she dived back into her hut, unable to restrain her tears and moaning. Maria Antonia burst into laughter and moved off.

       "They've cast the evil eye on my daughter," Agapita said in perplexity. She pondered a while, then duly reached a decision. From a pole in the hut she took down a piece of strong leather which her husband used to hitch up the yoke. This pole stood between a picture of Christ and one of the Virgin. Agapita promptly twisted the leather and proceeded to administer a sound thrashing to Camilla in order to dispel the evil spirits.

       Riding proudly on his horse, Demetrio felt like a new man. His eyes recovered their peculiar metallic brilliance,  and the blood flowed, red and warm, through his coppery, pure-blooded Aztec cheeks.

       The men threw out their chests as if to breathe the widening horizon, the immensity of the sky, the blue from the mountains and the fresh air, redolent with the various odors of the sierra. They spurred their horses to a gallop as if in that mad race they laid claims of possession to the earth. What man among them now remembered the stern chief of police, the growling policeman, or the conceited cacique? What man remembered his pitiful hut where he slaved away, always under the eyes of the owner or the ruthless and sullen foreman, always forced to rise before dawn, and to take up his shovel, basket, or goad, wearing himself out to earn a mere pitcher of atole and a handful of beans?

       They laughed, they sang, they whistled, drunk with the sunlight, the air of the open spaces, the wine of life.

       Meco, prancing forward on his horse, bared his white glistening teeth, joking and kicking up like a clown.

       "Hey, Pancracio," he asked with utmost seriousness, "my wife writes me I've got another kid. How in hell is that? I ain't seen her since Madero was President."

       "That's nothing," the other replied. "You just left her a lot of eggs to hatch for you!"

       They all laughed uproariously. Only Meco, grave and aloof, sang in a voice horribly shrill:

       "I gave her a penny.  That wasn't enough. I gave her a nickel. The wench wanted more. We bargained. I asked if a dime was enough but she wanted a quarter. By God! That was tough! All wenches are fickle.  And trumpery stuff!"      

       The sun, beating down upon them, dulled their minds and bodies and presently they were silent. All day long they rode through the canyon, up and down the steep, round hills, dirty and bald as a man's head, hill after hill in endless succession. At last, late in the afternoon, they descried several stone church towers in the heart of a bluish ridge, and, beyond, the white road with its curling spirals of dust and its gray telegraph poles.

       They advanced toward the main road; in the distance they spied a figure of an Indian sitting on the embankment. They drew up to him. He proved to be an unfriendly looking old man, clad in rags; he was laboriously attempting to mend his leather sandals with the help of a dull knife. A burro loaded with fresh green grass stood by. Demetrio accosted him.

       "What are you doing, Grandpa?"

       "Gathering alfalfa for my cow."

       "How many Federals are there around here?"

       "Just a few: not more than a dozen, I reckon."

       The old man grew communicative. He told them of many important rumors: Obregon was besieging Guadalajara, Torres was in complete control of the Potosi region, Natera ruled over Fresnillo.

       "All right," said Demetrio, "you can go where you're headed for, see, but you be damn careful not to tell anyone you saw us, because if you do, I'll pump you full of lead. And I could track you down, even if you tried to hide in the pit of hell, see?"

       "What do you say, boys?" Demetrio asked them as soon as the old man had disappeared.

       "To hell with the mochos! We'll kill every blasted one of them!" they cried in unison.

       Then they set to counting their cartridges and the hand grenades the Owl had made out of fragments of iron tubing and metal bed handles.

       "Not much to brag about, but we'll soon trade them for rifles," Anastasio observed.

       Anxiously they pressed forward, spurring the thin flanks of their nags to a gallop. Demetrio's brisk, imperious tones of order brought them abruptly to a halt.

       They dismounted by the side of a hill, protected by thick huizache trees. Without unsaddling their horses, each began to search for stones to serve as pillows.

XVI:

       At midnight Demetrio Macias ordered the march to be resumed. The town was five or six miles away; the best plan was to take the soldiers by surprise, before reveille.

       The sky was cloudy, with here and there a star shining. From time to time a flash of lightning crossed the sky with a red dart, illumining the far horizon.

       Luis Cervantes asked Demetrio whether the success of the attack might not be better served by procuring a guide or leastways by ascertaining the topographic conditions of the town and the precise location of the soldiers' quarters.

       "No," Demetrio answered, accompanying his smile with a disdainful gesture, "we'll simply fall on them when they least expect it; that's all there is to it, see? We've done it before all right, lots of times! Haven't you ever seen the squirrels stick their heads out of their holes when you poured in water? Well, that's how these lousy soldiers are going to feel. Do you see? They'll be frightened out of  their wits the moment they hear our first shot. Then they'll slink out and stand as targets for us."

       "Suppose the old man we met yesterday lied to us. Suppose there are fifty soldiers instead of twenty. Who knows but he's a spy sent out by the Federals!"

       "Ha, Tenderfoot, frightened already, eh?" Anastasio Montanez mocked.

       "Sure! Handling a rifle and messing about with bandages are two different things," Pancracio observed.

       "Well, that's enough talk, I guess," said Meco. "All we have to do is fight a dozen frightened rats."

       "This fight won't convince our mothers that they gave birth to men or whatever the hell you like. . . ." Manteca added.

       When they reached the outskirts of the town, Venancio walked ahead and knocked at the door of a hut.

       "Where's the soldiers' barracks?" he inquired of a man who came out barefoot, a ragged serape covering his body.

       "Right there, just beyond the Plaza," he answered.

       Since nobody knew where the city square was, Venancio made him walk ahead to show the way. Trembling with fear, the poor devil told them they were doing him a terrible wrong.

       "I'm just a poor day laborer, sir; I've got a wife and a lot of kids."

       "What the hell do you think I have, dogs?" Demetrio scowled. "I've got kids too, see?"

       Then he commanded:

       "You men keep quiet. Not a sound out of you! And walk down the middle of the street, single file."

       The rectangular church cupola rose above the small houses.

       "Here, gentlemen; there's the Plaza beyond the church.  Just walk a bit further and there's the barracks."

       He knelt down, then, imploring them to let him go, but Pancracio, without pausing to reply, struck him across the chest with his rifle and ordered him to proceed.

       "How many soldiers are there?" Luis Cervantes asked.

       "I don't want to lie to you, boss, but to tell you the truth, yes, sir, to tell you God's truth, there's a lot of them, a whole lot of 'em."

       Luis Cervantes turned around to stare at Demetrio, who feigned momentary deafness.

        They were soon in the city square.

       A loud volley of rifle shots rang out, deafening them. Demetrio's horse reared, staggered on its hind legs, bent its forelegs, and fell to the ground, kicking. The Owl uttered a piercing cry and fell from his horse which rushed madly to the center of the square.

       Another volley: the guide threw up his arms and fell on his back without a sound.

       With all haste, Anastasio Montanez helped Demetrio up behind him on his horse; the others retreated, seeking shelter along the walls of the houses.

       "Hey, men," said a workman sticking his head out of a large door, "go for 'em through the back of the chapel.  They're all in there. Cut back through this street, then turn to the left; you'll reach an alley. Keep on going ahead until you hit the chapel."

       As he spoke a fresh volley of pistol shots, directed from the neighboring roofs, fell like a rain about them.

       "By God," the man said, "those ain't poisonous spiders; they're only townsmen scared of their own shadow. Come in here until they stop."

        "How many of them are there?" asked Demetrio.

       "There were only twelve of them. But last night they were scared out of their wits so they wired to the town beyond for help. I don't know how many of them there are now. Even if there are a hell of a lot of them,  it doesn't cut any ice! Most of them aren't soldiers, you know, but drafted men; if just one of them starts mutinying, the rest will follow like sheep. My brother was drafted; they've got him there. I'll go along with you and signal to him; all of them will desert and follow you. Then we'll only have the officers to deal with! If you want to give me a gun or something. . . ."

       "No more rifles left, brother. But I guess you can put these to some use," Anastasio Montanez said, passing him two hand grenades.

       The officer in command of the Federals was a young coxcomb of a captain with a waxed mustache and blond hair. As long as he felt uncertain about the strength of the assailants, he had remained extremely quiet and prudent; but now that they had driven the rebels back without allowing them a chance to fire a single shot, he waxed bold and brave. While the soldiers did not dare put out their heads beyond the pillars of the building, his own shadow stood against the pale clear dawn, exhibiting his well-built slender body and his officer's cape bellying in the breeze.

        "Ha, I remember our coup d'etat!"

       His military career had consisted of the single adventure when, together with other students of the Officers' School, he was involved in the treacherous revolt of Feliz Diaz and Huerta against President Madero. Whenever the slightest insubordination arose, he invariably recalled his feat at the Ciudadela.

       "Lieutenant Campos," he ordered emphatically, "take a dozen men and wipe out the bandits hiding there! The curs! They're only brave when it comes to guzzling meat and robbing a hencoop!"

       A workingman appeared at the small door of the spiral staircase, announcing that the assailants were hidden in a corral where they might easily be captured. This message came from the citizens keeping watch on housetops.

       "I'll go myself and get it over with!" the officer declared impetuously.

       But he soon changed his mind. Before he had reached the door, he retraced his steps.

       "Very likely they are waiting for more men and, of course, it would be wrong for me to abandon my post. Lieutenant Campos, go there yourself and capture them dead or alive. We'll shoot them at noon when everybody's coming out of church. Those bandits will see the example I'll set around here. But if you can't capture them, Lieutenant, kill them all. Don't leave a man of them alive, do you understand?"

       In high good humor, he began pacing up and down the room, formulating the official despatch he would send off no later than today.

       To His Honor the Minister for War, General A. Blanquet, Mexico City.

       Sir: I have the honor to inform your Excellency that on the morning of . . . a rebel army, five hundred strong, commanded by . . .  attacked this town, which I am charged to defend. With such speed as the gravity of the situation called for, I fortified my post in the town. The battle lasted two hours. Despite the superiority of the enemy in men and equipment, I was able to defeat and rout them. Their casualties were twenty killed and a far greater number of wounded, judging from the trails of blood they left behind them as they retreated. I am pleased to state there was no casualty on our side. I have the honor to congratulate Your Excellency upon this new triumph for the Federal arms. Viva Presidente Huerta! Viva Mexico!

       "Well," the young captain mused, "I'll be promoted to major." He clasped his hands together, jubilant. At this precise moment, a detonation rang out. His ears buzzed, he--

XVII:

       If we get through the corral, we can make the alley, eh?" Demetrio asked.

       "That's right," the workman answered. "Beyond the corral there's a house, then another corral, then there's a store."

       Demetrio scratched his head, thoughtfully. This time his decision was immediate.

       "Can you get hold of a crowbar or something like that to make a hole through the wall?"

       "Yes, we'll get anything you want, but . . ."

       "But what? Where can we get a crowbar?"

       "Everything is right there. But it all belongs to the boss."

       Without further ado, Demetrio strode into the shed which had been pointed out as the toolhouse.

       It was all a matter of a few minutes. Once in the alley, hugging to the walls, they marched forward in single file until they reached the rear of the church. Now they had but a single fence and the rear wall of the chapel to scale.

       "God's will be done!" Demetrio said to himself. He was the first to clamber over.

       Like monkeys the others followed him, reaching the other side with bleeding, grimy hands. The rest was easy.  The deep worn steps along the stonework made their ascent of the chapel wall swifter. The church vault hid them from the soldiers.

       "Wait a moment, will you?" said the workman. "I'll go and see where my brother is; I'll let you know and then you'll get at the officers."

       But no one paid the slightest attention to him.

       For a second, Demetrio glanced at the soldiers' black coats hanging on the wall, then at his own men, thick on the church tower behind the iron rail. He smiled with satisfaction and turning to his men said:

       "Come on, now, boys!"

       Twenty bombs exploded simultaneously in the midst of the soldiers who, awaking terrified out of their sleep, started up, their eyes wide open. But before they had realized their plight, twenty more bombs burst like thunder upon them leaving a scattering of men killed or maimed.

       "Don't do that yet, for God's sake! Don't do it till I  find my brother," the workman implored in anguish.

       In vain an old sergeant harangued the soldiers, insulting them in the hope of rallying them. For they were rats, caught in a trap, no more, no less. Some of the soldiers, attempting to reach the small door by the staircase, fell to the ground pierced by Demetrio's shots. Others fell at the feet of these twenty-odd specters, with faces and breasts dark as iron, clad in long torn trousers of white cloth which fell to their leather sandals, scattering death and destruction below them. In the belfry, a few men struggled to emerge from the pile of dead who had fallen upon them.

       "It's awful, Chief!" Luis Cervantes cried in alarm. "We've no more bombs left and we left our guns in the corral."

       Smiling, Demetrio drew out a large shining knife. In the twinkling of an eye, steel flashed in every hand. Some knives were large and pointed, others wide as the palm of a hand, others heavy as bayonets.

       "The spy!" Luis Cervantes cried triumphantly. "Didn't I tell you?"

       "Don't kill me, Chief, please don't kill me," the old sergeant implored squirming at the feet of Demetrio, who stood over him, knife in hand. The victim raised his wrinkled Indian face; there was not a single gray hair in his head today. Demetrio recognized the spy who had lied to him the day before. Terrified, Luis Cervantes quickly averted his face. The steel blade went crack, crack, on the old man's ribs. He toppled backward, his arms spread, his eyes ghastly.

       "Don't kill my brother, don't kill him, he's my brother!" the workman shouted in terror to Pancracio who was Pursuing a soldier. But it was too late. With one thrust, Pancracio had cut his neck in half, and two streams of scarlet spurted from the wound.

        "Kill the soldiers, kill them all!"

       Pancracio and Manteca surpassed the others in the savagery of their slaughter, and finished up with the wounded. Montanez, exhausted, let his arm fall; it hung limp to his side. A gentle expression still filled his glance; his eyes shone; he was naive as a child, unmoral as a hyena.

        "Here's one who's not dead yet," Quail shouted.

       Pancracio ran up. The little blond captain with curled mustache turned pale as wax. He stood against the door to the staircase unable to muster enough strength to take another step.

       Pancracio pushed him brutally to the edge of the corridor. A jab with his knee against the captain's thigh--then a sound not unlike a bag of stones falling from the top of the steeple on the porch of the church.

       "My God, you've got no brains!" said Quail. "If I'd known what you were doing, I'd have kept him for myself. That was a fine pair of shoes you lost!"

       Bending over them, the rebels stripped those among the soldiers who were best clad, laughing and joking as they despoiled them. Brushing back his long hair, that had fallen over his sweating forehead and covered his  eyes, Demetrio said:

       "Now let's get those city fellows!"

XVIIIl:

       On the day General Natera began his advance against the town of Zacatecas, Demetrio with a hundred men went to meet him at Fresnillo.

       The leader received him cordially.

       "I know who you are and the sort of men you bring. I heard about the beatings you gave the Federals from Tepic to Durango."

       Natera shook hands with Demetrio effusively while Luis Cervantes said:

       "With men like General Natera and Colonel Demetrio Macias, we'll cover our country with glory."

       Demetrio understood the purpose of those words, after Natera had repeatedly addressed him as "Colonel."

       Wine and beer were served; Demetrio and Natera drank many a toast.  Luis Cervantes proposed: "The triumph of our cause, which is the sublime triumph of justice, because our ideal--to free the noble, long-suffering people of Mexico--is about to be realized and because those men who have watered the earth with their blood and tears will reap the harvest which is rightfully theirs."

       Natera fixed his cruel gaze on the orator, then turned his back on him to talk to Demetrio.  Presently, one of Natera's officers, a young man with a frank open face, drew up to the table and stared insistently at Cervantes.

       "Are you Luis Cervantes?"

       "Yes.  You're Solis, eh?"

       "The moment you entered I thought I recognized you. Well, well, even now I can hardly believe my eyes!"

       "It's true enough!"

       "Well, but . . . look here, let's have a drink, come along." Then:

       "Hm," Solis went on, offering Cervantes a chair, "since when have you turned rebel?"

       "I've been a rebel the last two months!"

       "Oh, I see!  That's why you speak with such faith and enthusiasm about things we all felt when we joined the revolution."

       "Have you lost your faith or enthusiasm?"

       "Look here, man, don't be surprised if I confide in you right off. I am so anxious to find someone intelligent among this crowd, that as soon as I get hold of a man like you I clutch at him as eagerly as I would at a glass of water, after walking mile after mile through a parched desert.  But frankly, I think you should do the explaining first.  I can't understand how a man who was correspondent of a Government newspaper during the Madero regime, and later editorial writer on a Conservative journal, who denounced us as bandits in the most fiery articles, is now fighting on our side."

       "I tell you honestly: I have been converted," Cervantes answered.

       "Are you absolutely convinced?"

       Solis sighed, filled the glasses; they drank.

       "What about you?  Are you tired of the revolution?" asked Cervantes sharply.

       "Tired?  My dear fellow, I'm twenty-five years old and I'm fit as a fiddle!  But am I disappointed? Perhaps!"

       "You must have sound reasons for feeling that way."

       "I hoped to find a meadow at the end of the road. I found a swamp. Facts are bitter; so are men. That bitterness eats your heart out; it is poison, dry rot. Enthusiasm, hope, ideals, happiness--vain dreams, vain dream . . . When that's over, you have a choice. Either you turn bandit, like the rest, or the timeservers will swamp you. . . ."

       Cervantes writhed at his friend's words; his argument was quite out of place . . . painful. . . . To avoid being forced to take issue, he invited Solis to cite the circumstances that had destroyed his illusions.

       "Circumstances? No--it's far less important than that. It's a host of silly, insignificant things that no one notices except yourself . . . a change of expression, eyes shining--lips curled in a sneer--the deep import of a phrase that is lost! Yet take these things together and they compose the mask of our race . . . terrible . . . grotesque . . .a race that awaits redemption!"

       He drained another glass. After a long pause, he continued:

       "You ask me why I am still a rebel? Well, the revolution is like a hurricane: if you're in it, you're not a man. . . you're a leaf, a dead leaf, blown by the wind."

       Demetrio reappeared. Seeing him, Solis relapsed into silence. "Come along," Demetrio said to Cervantes. "Come with me."

       Unctuously, Solis congratulated Demetrio on the feats that had won him fame and the notice of Pancho Villa's northern division.

       Demetrio warmed to his praise. Gratefully, he heard his prowess vaunted, though at times he found it difficult to believe he was the hero of the exploits the other narrated. But Solis' story proved so charming, so convincing, that before long he found himself repeating it as gospel truth.

       "Natera is a genius!" Luis Cervantes said when they had returned to the hotel. "But Captain Solis is a nobody.. . . a timeserver."

       Demetrio Macias was too elated to listen to him.  "I'm a colonel, my lad! And you're my secretary!"

       Demetrio's men made many acquaintances that evening; much liquor flowed to celebrate new friendships. Of course men are not necessarily even tempered, nor is alcohol a good counselor; quarrels naturally ensued.  Yet many differences that occurred were smoothed out in a friendly spirit, outside the saloons, restaurants, or brothels.

       On the morrow, casualties were reported. Always a few dead. An old prostitute was found with a bullet through her stomach; two of Colonel Macias' new men lay in the gutter, slit from ear to ear.

       Anastasio Montanez carried an account of the events to his chief. Demetrio shrugged his shoulders. "Bury them!" he said.

XIX:

       They're coming back!"

       It was with amazement that the inhabitants of Fresnillo learned that the rebel attack on Zacatecas had failed completely.

       "They're coming back!"

       The rebels were a maddened mob, sunburnt, filthy, naked. Their high wide-brimmed straw hats hid their faces. The "high hats" came back as happily as they had marched forth a few days before, pillaging every hamlet along the road, every ranch, even the poorest hut.

       "Who'll buy this thing?" one of them asked. He had carried his spoils long: he was tired. The sheen of the nickel on the typewriter, a new machine, attracted every glance. Five times that morning the Oliver had changed hands. The first sale netted the owner ten pesos; presently it had sold for eight; each time it changed hands, it was two pesos cheaper. To be sure, it was a heavy burden; nobody could carry it for more than a half-hour.

       "I'll give you a quarter for it!" Quail said.

       "Yours!" cried the owner, handing it over quickly, as though he feared Quail might change his mind. Thus for the sum of twenty-five cents, Quail was afforded the pleasure of taking it in his hands and throwing it with all his might against the wall.

       It struck with a crash. This gave the signal to all who carried any cumbersome objects to get rid of them by smashing them against the rocks. Objects of all sorts, crystal, china, faience, porcelain, flew through the air. Heavy, plated mirrors, brass candlesticks, fragile, delicate statues, Chinese vases, any object not readily convertible into cash fell by the wayside in fragments.

       Demetrio did not share the untoward exaltation. After all, they were retreating defeated. He called Montanez and Pancracio aside and said:

       "These fellows have no guts. It's not so hard to take a town. It's like this. First, you open up, this way. . . ." He sketched a vast gesture, spreading his powerful arms. "Then you get close to them, like this. . . ." He brought his arms together, slowly. "Then slam! Bang! Whack! Crash!" He beat his hands against his chest.

       Anastasio and Pancracio, convinced by this simple, lucid explanation answered:

       "That's God's truth! They've no guts! That's the trouble with them!"

       Demetrio's men camped in a corral.

       "Do you remember Camilla?" Demetrio asked with a sigh as he settled on his back on the manure pile where the rest were already stretched out.

       "Camilla? What girl do you mean, Demetrio?"

       "The girl that used to feed me up there at the ranch!"

       Anastasio made a gesture implying: "I don't care a damn about the women ... Camilla or anyone else...."

       "I've not forgotten," Demetrio went on, drawing on his cigarette. "Yes, I was feeling like hell! I'd just finished drinking a glass of water. God, but it was cool. . . . 'Don't you want any more?' she asked me. I was half dead with fever . . . and all the time I saw that glass of water, blue . . . so blue . . . and I heard her little voice, 'Don't you        want any more?' That voice tinkled in my ears like a silver hurdy-gurdy! Well, Pancracio, what about it? Shall we go back to the ranch?"

       "Demetrio, we're friends, aren't we? Well then, listen. You may not believe it, but I've had a lot of experience with women. Women! Christ, they're all right for a while, granted! Though even that's going pretty far. Demetrio, you should see the scars they've given me . . . all over my body, not to speak of my soul! To hell with women. They're the devil, that's what they are! You may have noticed I steer clear of them. You know why. And don't think I don't know what I'm talking about. I've had a hell of a lot of experience and that's no lie!"

       "What do you say, Pancracio? When are we going back to the ranch?" Demetrio insisted, blowing gray clouds of tobacco smoke into the air.

       "Say the day, I'm game. You know I left my woman there too!"

       "Your woman, hell!" Quail said, disgruntled and sleepy.

       "All right, then, our woman! It's a good thing you're kindhearted so we all can enjoy her when you bring her over," Manteca murmured.

       "That's right, Pancracio, bring one-eyed Maria Antonia. We're all getting pretty cold around here," Meco shouted from a distance.

       The crowd broke into peals of laughter. Pancracio and Manteca vied with each other in calling forth oaths and obscenity.

XX:

       Villa is coming!"

       The news spread like lightning. Villa--the magic word! The Great Man, the salient profile, the unconquerable warrior who, even at a distance, exerts the fascination of a reptile, a boa constrictor.

       "Our Mexican Napoleon!" exclaimed Luis Cervantes.

       "Yes! The Aztec Eagle! He buried his beak of steel in the head of Huerta the serpent!" Solis, Natera's chief of staff, remarked somewhat ironically, adding: "At least, That's how I expressed it in a speech I made at Ciudad Juarez!"

       The two sat at the bar of the saloon, drinking beer. The "high hats," wearing mufflers around their necks and thick rough leather shoes on their feet, ate and drank endlessly. Their gnarled hands loomed across table, across bar. All their talk was of Villa and his men. The tales Natera's followers related won gasps of astonishment from Demetrio's men. Villa! Villa's battles! Ciudad Juarez . . . Tierra Blanca . . . Chihuahua . . . Torreon. . . .

       The bare facts, the mere citing of observation and experience meant nothing. But the real story, with its extraordinary contrasts of high exploits and abysmal cruelties was quite different. Villa, indomitable lord of the sierra, the eternal victim of all governments . . . Villa tracked, hunted down like a wild beast . . . Villa the reincarnation of the old legend; Villa as Providence, the bandit, that passes through the world armed with the blazing torch of an ideal: to rob the rich and give to the poor. It was the poor who built up and imposed a legend about him which time itself was to increase and embellish as a shining example from generation to generation.

       "Look here, friend," one of Natera's men told Anastasio, "if General Villa takes a fancy to you, he'll give you a ranch on the spot. But if he doesn't, he'll shoot you down like a dog! God! You ought to see Villa's troops! They're all northerners and dressed like lords! You ought to see their wide-brimmed Texas hats and their brand-new outfits and their four-dollar shoes, imported from the U.S.A."

       As they retailed the wonders of Villa and his men, Natera's men gazed at one another ruefully, aware that their own hats were rotten from sunlight and moisture, that their own shirts and trousers were tattered and barely fit to cover their grimy, lousy bodies.

       "There's no such a thing as hunger up there. They carry boxcars full of oxen, sheep, cows! They've got cars full of clothing, trains full of guns, ammunition, food enough to make a man burst!"

       Then they spoke of Villa's airplanes.

       "Christ, those planes! You know when they're close to you, be damned if you know what the hell they are! They look like small boats, you know, or tiny rafts . . . and then pretty soon they begin to rise, making a hell of a row. Something like an automobile going sixty miles an hour. Then they're like great big birds that don't even seem to move sometimes. But there's a joker! The goddamn things have got some American fellow inside with hand grenades by the thousand. Now you try and figure what that means! The fight is on, see? You know how a farmer feeds corn to his chickens, huh? Well, the American throws his lead bombs at the enemy just like that.

       Pretty soon the whole damn field is nothing but a graveyard . . . dead men all over the dump . . . dead men here . . . dead men there . . . dead men everywhere!"

       Anastasio Montanez questioned the speaker more particularly. It was not long before he realized that all this high praise was hearsay and that not a single man in Natera's army had ever laid eyes on Villa.

       "Well, when you get down to it, I guess it doesn't mean so much! No man's got much more guts than any other man, if you ask me. All you need to be a good fighter is pride, that's all. I'm not a professional soldier even though I'm dressed like hell, but let me tell you. I'm not forced        to do this kind of bloody job, because I own . . ."

       "Because I own over twenty oxen, whether you believe it or not!" Quail said, mocking Anastasio.

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