. . Down you go, you blockhead!”

“I’m gonna give that one who’s ridin’ along the ridge of the trail there a nice bath. You watch an’ tell me if he doesn’t fall right in the river, that no-good conservative pig down there. How ’bout that? D’ya see ’im fall right in?”

“Come on, Anastasio, don’t be cruel! Let me use your rifle. Come on, let me have just one shot!”

Lard, Quail, and the others who did not have firearms asked to use them, begging to be able to take at least one shot, as if asking for some supreme favor.

“Show yourselves, if you’re men enough!”

“Come out, mongrels. You lousy dogs.”

The shouts could be heard from one side of the mountain to the other as clearly as if they were coming from across a street.

All of a sudden Quail emerged from his hiding place with his pants off, and waved his trousers to tease the Federales, pretending he was fighting a bull. At that point shots began raining on Demetrio’s men.

“Uh-oh! I think they launched a hornet’s nest over my head,” Anastasio Montañés said, already crouching down and hiding between the stones, not daring to look up.

“Quail, you son of a . . . !” Demetrio roared. “Everyone, now, over to where I said before!”

They dragged themselves along and took up a new position.

The Federales began to shout with joy, celebrating their perceived victory. But just as soon as they had ceased firing, a new hailstorm of bullets baffled them again.

“There’s more of ’em here now!” the soldiers clamored.

Overwhelmed and panicked, many turned their horses around and retreated at once, while others abandoned their horses and climbed off, seeking refuge among the boulders. The leaders fired over the heads of the fugitives in an attempt to restore order.

“Get them dogs down below. Get them dogs down below, ” Demetrio yelled, aiming his thirty-thirty down toward the crystalline stream of the river.

A Federale fell into those very waters. And without fail, with each shot Macías took another man fell, one after the next, into the abyss. But he was the only one shooting down at the Federales near the river, and for each one that he killed, ten or twenty climbed unharmed up the other slope.

“Get them dogs down below. Get them dogs down below, ” he kept shouting, enraged.

Now sharing their weapons, the comrades were placing bets as they aimed at and hit their targets.

“My leather belt if I don’t hit the one on the spotted gray horse in the head. Lend me your rifle, Indian.”

“Twenty rounds for your Mauser and half a vara2of chorizo if you let me shoot the one ridin’ that black mare with a white mark on its forehead. Ready . . . now! Didya see how high he jumped? Like a deer!”

“Don’t run off, you conservative mongrels! Come meet your Papi Demetrio Macías.”

Now Macías’s men were the ones yelling out the insults. As Pancracio shouted, his smooth, otherwise immutable-as-stone face became completely distorted. And as Lard roared, the muscles on his neck tightened and the lines on his face stretched out, his eyes murderously grim.

Demetrio continued shooting and warning his men of their grave danger, but they ignored his desperate cries until they heard the bullets whizzing right over their heads.

“I’m hit, I’m hit!” Demetrio yelled, gnashing his teeth together. “Sons of a . . . !” he exclaimed as he slid down between the boulders of the ravine.

IV

Two men were missing: Serapio the candy maker and Antonio, who played the cymbals in the Juchipila1band.

“We’ll just have to see if they can catch up with us farther along,” Demetrio said.

They were disheartened. Only Anastasio Montañés maintained that sweet expression in his sleepy eyes and bearded face, while Pancracio maintained the repulsive immutability in his hard profile and his protruding jaws.

The Federales had retreated.