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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.
The hell you don't! ... I met you in a circus! I know you can even dance on a tightrope! ... You watch!" Blondie drew his gun out and began to shoot, aiming at the tailor's feet; the tailor gave a little jump at every pull of the trigger. "See! You do know how to dance on the tightrope, don't you?"
The bottle broke into bits, the alcohol poured over the lad's ghastly face. "Now it's a go," cried Blondie, running to the bar to get another bottle, which he placed on the lad's head. He returned to his former position, he whirled about, and shot without aiming. But he hit the waiter's ear instead of the bottle.
"You have to vote for the Provisional President of the Republic, General!" "President, what? Who in the devil, then, is this man Carranza? I'll be damned if I know what it's all about." At last they reached Lagos. Blondie bet that he would make Demetrio laugh that evening.
I am deeply grieved not to be able to tell Blondie how sincerely and heartily I congratulate him for the only noble and beautiful thing he ever did in his whole life: to have shot himself! Dear Venancio, although you may have enough money to purchase a degree, I am afraid you won't find it very easy to become a doctor in this country.
"You don't know this fellow Blondie yet," said War Paint, noticing the persistent glances he was casting at Luis Cervantes' bride. "He's a smart fellow, I can tell you, and he never misses a trick." She gazed at him lecherously, adding: "That's why I don't like to see him close, even on a photograph!" The orchestra struck up a raucous march as though they were playing at a bullfight.
"Do you want to know why? Because it's a long time since I've had a good look at a man's face when a rope tightens around his neck!" The fat prisoner breathed with difficulty as he followed Blondie on foot; his face was sunburnt, his eyes red; his forehead beaded with sweat, his wrists tightly bound together. "Here, Anastasio, lend me your lasso. Mine's not strong enough; this bird will bust it.
Most of the company, however, shouted with glee, including Luis Cervantes' girl. She had spilled all her wine on a handkerchief and looked all about her with blue wondering eyes. "Boys," Blondie suddenly screamed, his shrill, guttural voice dominating the mall, "I'm tired of living; I feel like killing myself right now.
War Paint and Blondie had tied up their horses outside; but the other officers had stormed in brutally, horses and all. Embroidered hats with enormous and concave brims bobbed up and down everywhere. The horses wheeled about, prancing; tossing their restive heads; their fine breed showing in their black eyes, their small ears and dilating nostrils.
"I like you very much, General Macias, and I like the way you do things. So if it's all right, I'd like very much to serve under you!" "What's your rank?" Demetrio asked him. "I'm a captain, General." "All right, you can serve with me now. I'll make you major. How's that?" Blondie was a round little fellow, with waxed mustache.
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