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Updated: May 7, 2025
"All right," said Demetrio, "you can go where you're headed for, see, but you be damn careful not to tell anyone you saw us, because if you do, I'll pump you full of lead. And I could track you down, even if you tried to hide in the pit of hell, see?" "What do you say, boys?" Demetrio asked them as soon as the old man had disappeared. "To hell with the mochos!
One of the women, trembling, walks toward a cupboard and, taking out some glasses and a bottle, serves wine. "What arms have you?" Demetrio demands harshly. "Arms, arms...?" the lady answers, a taste of ashes on her tongue. "What arms do you expect us to have! We are respectable, lonely old ladies!" "Lonely, eh! Where's Senor Monico?" "Oh, he's not here, gentlemen, I assure you!
If I were you, I'd just shoot him and let it go at that," said Pancracio contemptuously. That night Quail returned with the priest's robes; Demetrio ordered the prisoner to be led in. Luis Cervantes had not eaten or slept for two days, there were deep black circles under his eyes; his face was deathly pale, his lips dry and colorless.
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."
By the time Fortunata had at last concluded with a solemn "I pray God and the Blessed Virgin Mary that you are not sparing the life of a single one of those Federals from hell," Demetrio, face to wall, felt greatly relieved by the stomach cure, and was busy thinking of the best route by which to proceed to Durango. Anastasio Montanez was snoring like a trombone.
The orange tints of the sun streaked the sky; the last star flickered out. Demetrio walked slowly to the encampment. He was thinking of his plow, his two black oxen young beasts they were, who had worked in the fields only two years of his two acres of well-fertilized corn.
"You're not peaceful people, you're deserters. Where do you come from?" Demetrio said, eyeing them with keen scrutiny. The prisoners grew confused; they looked at each other hesitatingly, unable to give a prompt answer. "They're Carranzistas," one of the soldiers said. "Carranzistas hell!" one of them said proudly. "I'd rather be a pig." "The truth is we're deserters," another said.
Wine and beer were served; Demetrio and Natera drank many a toast. Luis Cervantes proposed: "The triumph of our cause, which is the sublime triumph of Justice, because our ideal to free the noble, long-suffering people of Mexico is about to be realized and because those men who have watered the earth with their blood and tears will reap the harvest which is rightfully theirs."
A driving road to connect San Demetrio with Acri whither I was now bound was begun, they say, about twenty years ago; one can follow it for a considerable distance beyond the Albanian College. Then, suddenly, it ends.
Proudly her pale blue gown deepened her olive skin and the coppery spots on her face and arms. Riding astride, she had pulled her skirts up to her knees; her stockings showed, filthy and full of runs. She wore a gun at her side, a cartridge belt hung over the pommel of her saddle. Demetrio was also dressed in his best clothes.
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