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All their talk was of Villa and his men. The tales Natera's followers related won gasps of astonishment from Demetrio's men. Villa! Villa's battles! Ciudad Juarez ... Tierra Blanca ... Chihuahua ... Torreon.... The bare facts, the mere citing of observation and experience meant nothing. But the real story, with its extraordinary contrasts of high exploits and abysmal cruelties was quite different.
"After the defeat we deserted from General Villa's troops this side of Celaya." "General Villa defeated? Ha! Ha! That's a good joke." The soldiers laughed. But Demetrio's brow was wrinkled as though a black shadow had passed over his eyes. "There ain't a son of a bitch on earth who can beat General Villa!" said a bronzed veteran with a scar clear across the face.
I dressed myself, rather frightened, I confess, but determined upon pleading complete ignorance of everything, and I proceeded to Demetrio's room; and I was confronted with horror-stricken countenances and bitter reproaches. I found all the guests around him. I protested my innocence, but everyone smiled.
The next day, when supper was over, I left the table and retired to my chamber as if I intended to go to bed, but taking the arm with me I hid myself under Demetrio's bed. A short time after, the Greek comes in, undresses himself, put his light out, and lies down.
"Come on, Tenderfoot; here's a job for you," Pancracio said as he saw Camilla on Demetrio's saddle, her face covered with blood. Luis Cervantes hurried toward her with some cotton; but Camilla, choking down her sobs and wiping her eyes, said hoarsely: "Not from you! If I was dying, I wouldn't accept anything from you ... not even water." In Cuquio Demetrio received a message.
You mark my words; from tomorrow on, there won't be a thing you'll lack." In effect, things began to change that very afternoon. Some of Demetrio's men lay in the quarry, glancing at the sunset that turned the clouds into huge clots of congealed blood and listening to Venancio's amusing stories culled from The Wandering Jew. Some of them, lulled by the narrator's mellifluous voice, began to snore.
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.
"It's no matter of hours; it's three days' hard riding, Demetrio." "You know," Demetrio said softly, "I feel as though I'd like to see my wife again!" Shortly after, War Paint sought out Camilla. "That's one on you, my dear.... Demetrio's going to leave you flat!
Every horse was saddled; the men were waiting only for orders from the Chief. Demetrio went up to War Paint and said under his breath: "You're not coming with us." "What!" she gasped. "You're going to stay here or go wherever you damn well please, but you're not coming along with us." "What? What's that you're saying?" Still she could not catch Demetrio's meaning. Then the truth dawned upon her.
Maria Antonia yelled. "Why, they look like toys." Demetrio's men, riding their thin nags, could still be descried in the distance against the sapphire translucence of the sky, where the broken rocks and the chaparral melted into a single bluish smooth surface. Across the air a gust of hot wind bore the broken, faltering strains of "La Adelita," the revolutionary song, to the settlement.
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