The Underdogs | Page 5

Get the underdogs!" be screamed.
Now his fellows were exchanging rifles, laughing and making wagers on their
marksmanship.
"My leather belt if I miss that head there, on the black horse! "
"Lend me your rifle, Meco."
"Twenty Mauser cartridges and a half yard of sausage if you let me spill that lad riding
the bay mare. All right! Watch me.... There! See him jump! Like a bloody deer."
"Don't run, you half-breeds. Come along with you! Come and meet Father Demetrio!"
Now it was Demetrio's men who screamed insults. Manteca, his smooth face swollen in
exertion, yelled his lungs out. Pancracio roared, the veins and muscles in his neck dilated,

his murderous eyes narrowed to two evil slits.
Demetrio fired shot after shot, constantly warning his men of impending danger, but they
took no heed until they felt the bullets spattering them from one side.
"Goddamn their souls, they've branded me!" Demetrio cried, his teeth flashing.
Then, very swiftly, he slid down a gully and was lost....
IV
Two men were missing, Serapio the candymaker, and Antonio, who played the cymbals
in the Juchipila band. "Maybe they'll join us further on," said Demetrio.
The return journey proved moody. Anastasio Montanez alone preserved his equanimity, a
kindly expression playing in his sleepy eyes and on his bearded face. Pancracio's harsh,
gorillalike profile retained its repulsive immutability.
The soldiers had retreated; Demetrio began the search for the soldiers' horses which had
been hidden in the sierra.
Suddenly Quail, who had been walking ahead, shrieked. He had caught sight of his
companions swinging from the branches of a mesquite. There could be no doubt of their
identity; Serapio and Antonio they certainly were. Anastasio Montanez prayed brokenly.
"Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come..."
"Amen," his men answered in low tones, their heads bowed, their hats upon their
breasts....
Then, hurriedly, they took the Juchipila canyon northward, without halting to rest until
nightfall.
Quail kept walking close to Anastasio unable to banish from his mind the two who were
hanged, their dislocated limp necks, their dangling legs, their arms pendulous, and their
bodies moving slowly in the wind.
On the morrow, Demetrio complained bitterly of his wound; he could no longer ride on
horseback. They were forced to carry him the rest of the way on a makeshift stretcher of
leaves and branches.
"He's bleeding frightfully," said Anastasio Montanez, tearing off one of his shirt-sleeves
and tying it tightly about Demetrio's thigh, a little above the wound.
"That's good," said Venancio. "It'll keep him from bleeding and stop the pain."
Venancio was a barber. In his native town, he pulled teeth and fulfilled the office of
medicine man. He was accorded an unimpeachable authority because he had read The
Wandering Jew and one or two other books. They called him "Doctor"; and since he was

conceited about his knowledge, he employed very few words.
They took turns, carrying the stretcher in relays of four over the bare stony mesa and up
the steep passes.
At high noon, when the reflection of the sun on the calcareous soil burned their shoulders
and made the landscape dimly waver before their eyes, the monotonous, rhythmical moan
of the wounded rose in unison with the ceaseless cry of the locusts. They stopped to rest
at every small hut they found hidden between the steep, jagged rocks.
"Thank God, a kind soul and tortillas full of beans and chili are never lacking," Anastasio
Montanez said with a triumphant belch.
The mountaineers would shake calloused hands with the travelers, saying:
"God's blessing on you! He will find a way to help you all, never fear. We're going
ourselves, starting tomorrow morning. We're dodging the draft, with those damned
Government people who've declared war to the death on us, on all the poor. They come
and steal our pigs, our chickens and com, they bum our homes and carry our women off,
and if they ever get hold of us they'll kill us like mad dogs, and we die right there on the
spot and that's the end of the story!"
At sunset, amid the flames dyeing the sky with vivid, variegated colors, they descried a
group of houses up in the heart of the blue mountains. Demetrio ordered them to carry
him there.
These proved to be a few wretched straw huts, dispersed all over the river slopes,
between rows of young sprouting corn and beans. They lowered the stretcher and
Demetrio, in a weak voice, asked for a glass of water.
Groups of squalid Indians sat in the dark pits of the huts, men with bony chests,
disheveled, matted hair, and ruddy cheeks; behind them, eyes shone up from floors of
fresh reeds.
A child with a large belly and glossy dark skin