The Underdogs | Page 7

excitement, they yelled and shrieked and were about to fire at the prisoner.
"Sssh! Shut up! I think Demetrio's talking now," Anastasio said, striving to quiet them.
Indeed, Demetrio, having ascertained the cause of the turmoil, ordered them to bring the
prisoner before him.
"It's positively infamous, senor; look," Luis Cervantes said, pointing to the bloodstains on
his trousers and to his bleeding face.
"All right, all right. But who in hell are you? That's what I want to know," Demetrio said.

"My name is Luis Cervantes, sir. I'm a medical student and a journalist. I wrote a piece in
favor of the revolution, you see; as a result, they persecuted me, caught me, and finally
landed me in the barracks."
His ensuing narrative was couched in terms of such detail and expressed in terms so
melodramatic that it drew guffaws of mirth from Pancracio and Manteca.
"All I've tried to do is to make myself clear on this point. I want you to be convinced that
I am truly one of your coreligionists...."
"What's that? What did you say? Car... what?" Demetrio asked, bringing his ear close to
Cervantes.
"Coreligionist, sir, that is to say, a person who possesses the same religion, who is
inspired by the same ideals, who defends and fights for the same cause you are now
fighting for."
Demetrio smiled:
"What are we fighting for? That's what I'd like to know."
In his disconcertment, Luis Cervantes could find no reply.
"Look at that mug, look at 'im! Why waste any time, Demetrio? Let's shoot him,"
Pancracio urged impatiently.
Demetrio laid a hand on his hair which covered his ears, and stretching himself out for a
long time, seemed to be lost in thought. Having found no solution, he said:
"Get out, all of you; it's aching again. Anastasio put out the candle. Lock him up in the
corral and let Pancracio and Manteca watch him. Tomorrow, we'll see.
VI
Through the shadows of the starry night, Luis Cervantes had not yet managed to detect
the exact shape of the objects about him. Seeking the most suitable restingplace, he laid
his weary bones down on a fresh pile of manure under the blurred mass of a huizache tree.
He lay down, more exhausted than resigned, and closed his eyes, resolutely determined to
sleep until his fierce keepers or the morning sun, burning his ears, awakened him.
Something vaguely like warmth at his side, then a tired hoarse breath, made him shudder.
He opened his eyes and feeling about him with his hands, he sensed the coarse hairs of a
large pig which, resenting the presence of a neighbor, began to grunt.
All Luis' efforts to sleep proved quite useless, not only because the pain of his wound or
the bruises on his flesh smarted, but because he suddenly realized the exact nature of his
failure.
Yes, failure! For he had never learned to appreciate exactly the difference between

fulminating sentences of death upon bandits in the columns of a small country newspaper
and actually setting out in search of them, and tracking them to their lairs, gun in hand.
During his first day's march as volunteer lieutenant, he had begun to suspect the error of
his ways--a brutal sixty miles' journey it was, that left his hips and legs one mass of raw
soreness and soldered all his bones together. A week later, after his first skirmish against
the rebels, he understood every rule of the game. Luis Cervantes would have taken up a
crucifix and solemnly sworn that as soon as the soldiers, gun in hand, stood ready to
shoot, some profoundly eloquent voice had spoken behind them, saying, "Run for your
lives." It was all crystal clear. Even his noble-spirited horse, accustomed to battle, sought
to sweep back on its hind legs and gallop furiously away, to stop only at a safe distance
from the sound of firing. The sun was setting, the mountain became peopled with vague
and restless shadows, darkness scaled the ramparts of the mountain hastily. What could
be more logical then, than to seek refuge behind the rocks and attempt to sleep, granting
mind and body a sorely needed rest?
But the soldier's logic is the logic of absurdity. On the morrow, for example, his colonel
awakened him rudely out of his sleep, cuffing and belaboring him unmercifully, and,
after having bashed in his face, deprived him of his place of vantage. The rest of the
officers, moreover, burst into hilarious mirth and holding their sides with laughter begged
the colonel to pardon the deserter. The colonel, therefore, instead of sentencing him to be
shot, kicked his buttocks roundly for him and assigned him to kitchen police.
This signal insult was destined to bear poisonous fruit. Luis Cervantes determined to play
turncoat;