Do you understand? They ride the choicest horses from the stables of the north and the interior, the harnesses on their horses are made of pure silver. And us? Pshaw! We ride sardines that can barely pull a pail out of a chain pump. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, compadre? Those men, the ones on the other side, they get shiny, heavy gold coins. And us? We get lousy paper money made in the factory of that murderer.3What I’m tryin’ to say is . . .”

They all went on like this. There was even a second sergeant who ingenuously told him: “It’s true, I enlisted, but I really made a mess of it when I chose this side. What in times of peace you’d never make in a lifetime of workin’ like a mule, today you can make in just a few months of runnin’ through the Sierra with a rifle on your back. But not with these men, brother, not with these men . . .”

And Luis Cervantes, who already shared with the common soldier this concealed, implacable, and mortal hatred toward the upper classes, the officers, and all superiors, felt that the very last strands of a veil were being lifted from his eyes, as he now saw clearly what the outcome of the struggle had to be.

“And yet here I am today. When I finally arrive to join my coreligionists, instead of welcoming me with open arms, they lock me up in a pigsty . . .”

Morning arrived: the roosters crowed in the shacks, while the chickens stirred about on the branches of the huisache trees in the corral, spread their wings out, ruffled their feathers, and jumped straight down to the ground.

Luis Cervantes observed his guards, lying down in the manure, snoring. In his imagination the physiognomies of the two men from the evening before came back to life. One, Pancracio, was light-haired, beardless, with a freckled face, protruding chin, flat, slanted forehead, ears smeared onto his cranium, and all in all he displayed a bestial appearance. The other, Lard, barely looked human, with sunken, grim eyes, thick, always parted reddish lips, and very straight hair that came down to his neck, over his forehead and ears.

Once again Luis Cervantes began to tremble.

VII

Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand over the curled tufts of hair covering his wet forehead, pushed it aside toward one of his ears, and opened his eyes.

He heard the melodious feminine voice he had already been hearing distinctly in his dreams, and turned toward the door.

It was daytime: the rays of sunlight darted through the hut’s straw roof. The same girl who, the evening before, had offered him a little gourd full of deliciously cold water (his dreams throughout the night), now entered—just as sweet and affectionate—with a pot of milk, its foam spilling over.

“It’s goat’s milk, and it’s more than good. Go on now, try it.”

Grateful, Demetrio smiled, sat up, and took the earthenware bowl. He started taking small sips without moving his eyes from the girl.

Restless, she lowered hers.

“What’s your name?”

“Camila.”

“I’m likin’ that name, and even more your sweet little voice.”

Camila blushed all over. Then, seeing that he tried to reach out and grab her wrist, she picked up the empty bowl and very quickly fled the hut, frightened.

“No, compadre Demetrio,” Anastasio Montañés remarked seriously. “You have to break ’em in first. H’m. If I was to tell you all the marks that women have left on my body! I’ve got a lot of experience with all that.”

“I feel fine, compadre,” Demetrio said, pretending he had not heard him. “I think I got the chills. I sweated a lot and woke up very refreshed. What’s still bothering me is the damned wound. Call Venancio so he can cure me.”

“So what should we do with that curro who I caught last night, then?” Pancracio asked.

“Oh, tha’s right! I’d forgotten all about ’im.”

Demetrio, as always, thought and hesitated much before making a decision.

“Let’s see, Quail, come here. Listen. Find out how to get to a chapel tha’s about three leagues from here.