The Underdogs | Page 6

came close to the stretcher to inspect the
wounded man. An old woman followed, and soon all of them drew about Demetrio in a
circle.
A girl sympathizing with him in his plight brought a jicara of bluish water. With hands
shaking, Demetrio took it up and drank greedily.
"Will you have some more?"
He raised his eyes and glanced at the girl, whose features were common but whose voice
had a note of kindness in it. Wiping his sweating brow with the back of his palm and
turning on one side, he gasped: "May God reward you."
Then his whole body shook, making the leaves of the stretcher rustle. Fever possessed

him; he fainted.
"It's a damp night and that's terrible for the fever," said Remigia, an old wrinkled
barefooted woman, wearing a cloth rag for a blouse.
She invited them to move Demetrio into her hut.
Pancracio, Anastasio Montanez, and Quail lay down beside the stretcher like faithful
dogs, watchful of their master's wishes. The rest scattered about in search of food.
Remigia offered them all she had, chili and tortillas.
"Imagine! I had eggs, chickens, even a goat and her kid, but those damn soldiers wiped
me out clean."
Then, making a trumpet of her hands, she drew near Anastasio and murmured in his ear:
"Imagine, they even carried away Senora Nieves' little girl!"
V
Suddenly awakening, Quail opened his eyes and stood up.
"Montanez, did you hear? A shot, Montanez! Hey, Montanez, get up!"
He shook him vigorously until Montanez ceased snoring and in turn woke up.
"What in the name of... Now you're at it again, damn it. I tell you there aren't ghosts any
more," Anastasio muttered out of a half-sleep. "I heard a shot, Montanez!" "Go back to
sleep, Quail, or I'll bust your nose."
"Hell, Anastasio I tell you it's no nightmare. I've forgotten those fellows they hung,
honest. It's a shot, I tell you. I heard it all right." "A shot, you say? All right, then, hand
me my gun."
Anastasio Montanez rubbed his eyes, stretched out his arms and legs, and stood up lazily.
They left the hut. The sky was solid with stars; the moon rose like a sharp scythe. The
confused rumor of women crying in fright resounded from the various huts; the men who
had been sleeping in the open, also woke up and the rattle of arms echoed over the
mountain. "You cursed fool, you've maimed me for life." A voice rang clearly through
the darkness. "Who goes there?"
The shout echoed from rock to rock, through mound and over hollow, until it spent itself
at the far, silent reaches of the night.
"Who goes there?" Anastasio repeated his challenge louder, pulling back the lock of his
Mauser. "One of Demetrio's men," came the answer.

"It's Pancracio," Quail cried joyfully. Relieved, he rested the butt of his rifle on the
ground.
Pancracio appeared, holding a young man by the arms; the newcomer was covered with
dust from his felt hat to his coarse shoes. A fresh bloodstain lay on his trousers close to
the heel.
"Who's this tenderfoot?" Anastasio demanded.
"You know I'm on guard around here. Well, I hears a noise in the brush, see, and I shouts,
'Who goes there?' and then this lad answers, 'Carranza! Carranza!' I don't know anyone
by that name, and so I says, 'Carranza, hell!' and I just pumps a bit of lead into his hoof."
Smiling, Pancracio turned his beardless head around as if soliciting applause. Then the
stranger spoke: "Who's your commander?"
Proudly, Anastasio raised his head, went up to him and looked him in the face. The
stranger lowered his tone considerably.
"Well, I'm a revolutionist, too, you know. The Government drafted me and I served as a
private, but I managed to desert during the battle the day before yesterday, and I've been
walking about in search of you all."
"So he's a Government soldier, eh?" A murmur of incredulity rose from the men,
interrupting the stranger.
"So that's what you are, eh? One of those damn halfbreeds," said Anastasio Montanez.
"Why the hell didn't you pump your lead in his brain, Pancracio?"
"What's he talking about, anyhow? I can't make head nor tail of it. He says he wants to
see Demetrio and that he's got plenty to say to him. But that's all right: we've got plenty
of time to do anything we damn well please so long as you're in no hurry, that's all," said
Pancracio, loading his gun.
"What kind of beasts are you?" the prisoner cried. He could say no more: Anastasio's fist,
crashing down upon his face, sent his head turning on his neck, covered with blood.
"Shoot the half-breed!" "Hang him!" "Bum him alive; he's a lousy Federal."
In great