The Underdogs | Page 8

indeed, mentally, he had already changed sides. Did not the sufferings of the
underdogs, of the disinherited masses, move him to the core? Henceforth he espoused the
cause of Demos, of the subjugated, the beaten and baffled, who implore justice, and
justice alone. He became intimate with the humblest private. More, even, he shed tears of
compassion over a dead mule which fell, load and all, after a terribly long journey.
From then on, Luis Cervantes' prestige with the soldiers increased. Some actually dared
to make confessions. One among them, conspicuous for his sobriety and silence, told him:
"I'm a carpenter by trade, you know. I had a mother, an old woman nailed to her chair for
ten years by rheumatism. In the middle of the night, they pulled me out of my house;
three damn policemen; I woke up a soldier twenty-five miles away from my hometown.
A month ago our company passed by there again. My mother was already under the sod!...
So there's nothing left for me in this wide world; no one misses me now, you see. But, by
God, I'm damned if I'll use these cartridges they make us carry, against the enemy. If a
miracle happens (I pray for it every night, you know, and I guess our Lady of Guadalupe
can do it all right), then I'll join Villa's men; and I swear by the holy soul of my old
mother, that I'll make every one of these Government people pay, by God I will."
Another soldier, a bright young fellow, but a charlatan, at heart, who drank habitually and
smoked the narcotic marihuana weed, eyeing him with vague, glassy stare, whispered in
his ear, "You know, partner... the men on the other side ... you know, the other side... you
understand... they ride the best horses up north there, and all over, see? And they harness
their mounts with pure hammered silver. But us? Oh hell, we've got to ride plugs, that's
all, and not one of them good enough to stagger round a water well. You see, don't you,

partner? You see what I mean? You know, the men on the other side-they get shiny new
silver coins while we get only lousy paper money printed in that murderer's factory, that's
what we get, yes, that's ours, I tell you!"
The majority of the soldiers spoke in much the same tenor. Even a top sergeant candidly
confessed, "Yes, I enlisted all right. I wanted to. But, by God, I missed the right side by a
long shot. What you can't make in a lifetime, sweating like a mule and breaking your
back in peacetime, damn it all, you can make in a few months just running around the
sierra with a gun on your back, but not with this crowd, dearie, not with this lousy
outfit ...."
Luis Cervantes, who already shared this hidden, implacably mortal hatred of the upper
classes, of his officers, and of his superiors, felt that a veil had been removed from his
eyes; clearly, now, he saw the final outcome of the struggle. And yet what had happened?
The first moment he was able to join his coreligionists, instead of welcoming him with
open arms, they threw him into a pigsty with swine for company.
Day broke. The roosters crowed in the huts. The chickens perched in the huizache began
to stretch their wings, shake their feathers, and fly down to the ground.
Luis Cervantes saw his guards lying on top of a dung heap, snoring. In his imagination,
he reviewed the features of last night's men. One, Pancracio, was pockmarked, blotchy,
unshaven; his chin protruded, his forehead receded obliquely; his ears formed one solid
piece with head and neck--a horrible man. The other, Manteca, was so much human
refuse; his eyes were almost hidden, his look sullen; his wiry straight hair fen over his
ears, forehead and neck; his scrofulous lips hung eternally agape. Once more, Luis
Cervantes felt his flesh quiver.
VII
Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand through his ruffled hair, which hung over his moist
forehead, pushed it back over his ears, and opened his eyes.
Distinctly he heard the woman's melodious voice which he had already sensed in his
dream. He walked toward the door.
It was broad daylight; the rays of sunlight filtered through the thatch of the hut.
The girl who had offered him water the day before, the girl of whom he had dreamed all
night long, now came forward, kindly and eager as ever. This time she carried a pitcher
of milk brimming over with foam.
"It's goat's milk, but fine just the same. Come on now: taste it."
Demetrio smiled gratefully, straightened up, grasped the clay pitcher, and proceeded to
drink the milk in little gulps, without