I really heard a gunshot. I heard it nice and clear.”

“So you’re sayin’ ya heard a gunshot? Let’s see, hand me my Mauser.”

Anastasio Montañés rubbed his eyes, lazily stretched out his arms and legs, and stood up.

They walked out of the hut. The sky was covered with sparkling stars, and a moon was rising like a thin scythe. The confused rustling of frightened women could be heard inside the small houses, as well as the sound of men who had been sleeping outside and were also waking now and grabbing their weapons.

“You idiot! You’ve broken my foot!”

The voice was heard clearly and distinctly nearby.

“Who goes there?”

The sound echoed from boulder to boulder, from hill crest to hill dale, until it was lost in the distance and silence of the night.

“Who goes there?” Anastasio repeated in a louder voice, cocking the bolt of his Mauser.

“I’m with Demetrio Macías!” the answer came from close by.

“It’s Pancracio!” Quail said, relieved. Then, no longer concerned, he rested the butt of his rifle on the ground.

Pancracio was leading a young fellow covered entirely in dirt, from his American felt hat down to his worn-out, clumsy shoes. He had a fresh stain of blood on one of the legs of his trousers, near his foot.

“Who’s this curro?”1Anastasio asked.

“There I am, keeping guard, when I hears a sound in the bushes, so I shout: ‘Who goes there?’ And this guy answers: ’Carranzo.’2So I think, ‘Carranzo, I don’t know no bird with no name like that.’ So I say, here goes your Carranzo, and I filled one of his legs with lead.”

Pancracio smiled and looked around with his beardless face, waiting for his applause.

At that point the unknown man spoke:

“Who is the leader here?”

Anastasio raised his head proudly, facing him.

The young man lowered his voice a bit.

“Well, I too am a revolutionary. The Federales grabbed me in one of their levies, and I joined their files. But in the battle the day before yesterday I was able to desert, and I have come, on foot, looking for your group.”

“Oh, he’s a Federale!” said a number of men in response, looking at him with wonder.

“Oh, he’s one of those conservative mongrels!” Anastasio Montañés said. “Why didn’t you pump his head full of lead instead of his foot?”

“Who knows what he’s up to. Says he wants to speak to Demetrio, that he’s got God knows what to tell ’im. But before he does anythin’ like that, there’s plenty a’ time for us to be doin’ whatever we wanna with ’im,” Pancracio said, raising his rifle and aiming it at the prisoner.

“What kind of animals are you?” the unknown man demanded.

But he was unable to say anything further because Anastasio slapped him across the face with the back of his hand, snapping the prisoner’s now-blood-drenched head backward.

“Kill the damned mongrel!”

“Hang ’im!”

“Burn the Federale alive!”

Shouting and howling and all worked up, they started to ready their rifles.

“Hush, hush. Quiet now! I think Demetrio is talking,” Anastasio said, urging them to calm down.

Demetrio did as a matter of fact want to find out what was going on, so he had the prisoner brought to him.

“It’s a disgrace, dear leader, just look. Look!” Luis Cervantes exclaimed, showing Demetrio the blood on his pants and his swollen mouth and nose.

“Enough, enough. For God’s sakes then, just tell me, who are you?” Demetrio demanded.

“My name is Luis Cervantes. I am a medical student and a journalist. I was pursued, trapped, and made a prisoner— all for having said something in favor of the revolutionaries. ”

The story that he proceeded to tell of his most recent adventure, in his bombastic style, made Pancracio and Lard double over with laughter.

“I have sought to make myself understood, to convince your men here that I am truly a coreligionist.”

“A co-re a . . . what?” Demetrio inquired, perking up his ears.

“A coreligionist, dear leader, which is to say, that I am a believer of the same ideals and that I fight for the same cause as you and your men.”

Demetrio smiled.

“Well, tell me, then: what cause exactly are we fighting for?”

Disconcerted, Luis Cervantes did not know how to answer.

“Look at ’im, look at that expression on his face! Why make ’im jump through so many hurdles? Can’t we go ahead and shoot ’im dead now, Demetrio?” Pancracio asked anxiously.

Demetrio brought his hand up to the tuft of hair covering one of his ears and scratched for a long while as he considered the situation. Then, unable to find a satisfactory solution, he said:

“Get outta here, everyone. My wound’s startin’ to hurt again. Anastasio, blow out that flame. And lock this one up in the corral. And Pancracio and Lard, you watch over ’im. We’ll decide what to do with ’im tomorrow.”

VI

Still unable to discern the specific shapes of the objects around him by the dim light of the starry nights, Luis Cervantes searched about for the best place to rest. Eventually he brought his exhausted bones to a pile of wet manure and laid his long body down under the broad canopy of a huisache tree. More out of sheer fatigue than resignation, he forced himself to close his eyes, determined to sleep until his fierce guards woke him up, or until the morning sun burned his head—whichever came first. But he felt some kind of vague warmth next to him, followed by a coarse and labored breathing, and he began to tremble. He reached his shaking hand out and touched the bristling hairs of a pig.