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"Was that the guy who killed Madero?" asked Meco. "No," Blondie replied solemnly, "but once when I was a waiter at 'El Monico, up in Chihuahua, he hit me in the face!" "Give Camilla the roan mare," Demetrio ordered Pancracio, who was already saddling the horses. "Camilla can't go!" said War Paint promptly. "Who in hell asked for your opinion?" Demetrio retorted angrily.
Pancracio is about to break the lock of a huge wardrobe when suddenly the doors open and out comes a man with a rifle in his hands. "Senor Don Monico!" they all exclaim in surprise. "Demetrio, please, don't harm me! Please don't harm me! Please don't hurt me! You know, Senor Don Demetrio, I'm your friend!" Demetrio Macias smiles slyly. "Are friends," he asked, "usually welcomed gun in hand?"
"The revolution benefits the poor, the ignorant, all those who have been slaves all their lives, all the unhappy people who do not even suspect they are poor because the rich who stand above them, the rich who rule them, change their sweat and blood and tears into gold..." "Well, what the hell is the gist of all this palaver? I'll be damned if I can stomach a sermon," Pancracio broke in.
A murmur of incredulity rose from the men, interrupting the stranger. "So that's what you are, eh? One of those damn half-breeds," 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.
Since those on whom Pancracio had sat preferred to stand up, Demetrio and Luis Cervantes quickly seize the vacant seats. Suddenly a woman who has stood up holding a child all the way from Irapuato, faints. A civilian takes the child in his arms. The others pretend to have seen nothing. Some women, traveling with the soldiers, occupy two or three seats with baggage, dogs, cats, parrots.
The shrill voice, rising to a shriek or trailing off into a sob, is drowned out by the tumult within the train. "What the hell is the old woman talking about?" Blondie asks, entering in search of a seat. "Something about a suitcase ... and a well-dressed man," Pancracio replies. He has already the laps of two civilians to sit on. Demetrio and the others elbow their way in.
"It's closed airtight," Anastasio Montanez said, pushing the door with all his might. "That's all right. I'll open it," Pancracio answered, lowering his rifle and pointing it at the lock. "No, no," Demetrio said, "knock first." Three blows with the butt of the rifle. Three more. No answer. Pancracio disobeys orders. He fires, smashing the lock. The door opens.
Pancracio brought his stony face close to Manteca, who looked at him with snake's eyes, convulsive, foaming at the mouth. Another moment and they would have been exchanging blows. Having completely exhausted their stock of direct insults, they now resorted to the most flowery and ornate insulting of each other's ancestors, male and female, paternal or maternal. Yet nothing untoward occurred.
The steel blade went crack, crack, on the old man's ribs. He toppled backward, his arms spread, his eyes ghastly. "Don't kill my brother, don't kill him, he's my brother!" the workman shouted in terror to Pancracio who was pursuing a soldier. But it was too late. With one thrust, Pancracio had cut his neck in half, and two streams of scarlet spurted from the wound.
"She's only got one fault," Pancracio observed, stretched out on the ground, staring at the blue sky, "she goes mad over any man she sees." They laughed loudly; but Venancio with utmost gravity pointed to the chapel door. The stranger entered timidly and confided his troubles to Demetrio. The soldiers had cleaned him out; they had not left a single grain of corn. "Why did you let them?"
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