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Updated: May 7, 2025
But the General did not countermand his order. Some soldiers brought back four fugitives, captive and bound. "WHY do you hide?" Demetrio asked the prisoners. "We're not hiding, Chief, we're hitting the trail." "Where to?" "To our own homes, in God's name, to Durango." "Is this the road to Durango?" "Peaceful people can't travel over the main road nowadays, you know that, Chief."
Keep on going ahead until you hit the chapel." As he spoke a fresh volley of pistol shots, directed from the neighboring roofs, fell like a rain about them. "By God," the man said, "those ain't poisonous spiders; they're only townsmen scared of their own shadow. Come in here until they stop." "How many of them are there?" asked Demetrio. "There were only twelve of them.
The girl accepted readily and boldly thrust her way through the crowd to a chair facing Demetrio. "So you're the famous Demetrio Macias, the hero of Zacatecas?" the girl asked. Demetrio bowed assent, while Blondie, laughing, said: "You're a wise one, War Paint. You want to sport a general!"
I called on him, and the offer of a sequin, together with my threats, compelled him to confess that he had been paid for his work by Signor Demetrio, a Greek, dealer in spices, a good and amiable man of between forty-five and fifty years, on whom I never played any trick, except in the case of a pretty, young servant girl whom he was courting, and whom I had juggled from him.
His glance strayed over the square, the tumbled kiosk, the old adobe houses, over the mountains in the background, and over the sky, burning like a roof afire. He began to sing. He put such feeling into his voice and such expression into the strings that, as he finished, Demetrio turned his head aside to hide his tears.
"I've not forgotten," Demetrio went on, drawing on his cigarette. "Yes, I was feeling like hell! I'd just finished drinking a glass of water. God, but it was cool.... 'Don't you want any more? she asked me.
Undaunted, I went forth and threw myself upon the mercy of a citizen of promising exterior, who listened attentively to my case. Though far too polite to contradict, I could see that nothing in the world would induce him to credit the tale of my walking from San Demetrio that day it was tacitly relegated to the regions of fable.
Seated on the bar, she swung her legs; at every swing, the toes of her shoes touched Demetrio's back. "Yes: I'm Demetrio Macias!" he said, scarcely turning toward her. Indifferently, she continued to swing her legs, displaying her blue stockings with ostentation. "Hey, War Paint, what are you doing here? Step down and have a drink!" said the man called Blondie.
"I'll sell them to you myself." "How much do you want for them?" Pancracio frowned in bewilderment. "Give me a nickel for those with pictures, see. I'll give you the rest for nothing if you buy all those with pictures." The man returned with a large basket to carry away the books.... "Come on, Demetrio, come on, you pig, get up! Look who's here! It's Blondie. You don't know what a fine man he is!"
Their silhouettes wavered indistinctly over the road and the fields that bordered it, rising and falling with the monotonous, rhythmical gait of their horses, then faded away in the nacreous light of the swooning moon that bathed the valley. Dogs barked in the distance. "By noon we'll reach Tepatitlan, Cuquio tomorrow, and then ... on to the sierra!" Demetrio said.
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