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Page 12
Pancracio appeared, holding a young man by the arms;
the newcomer was covered with dust from his felt hat to
his coarse shoes. A fresh bloodstain lay on his trousers
close to the heel.
"Who's this tenderfoot?" Anastasio demanded.
"You know I'm on guard around here. Well, I hears a
noise in the brush, see, and I shouts, 'Who goes there?'
and then this lad answers, 'Carranza! Carranza!' I don't
know anyone by that name, and so I says, 'Carranza,
hell!' and I just pumps a bit of lead into his hoof."
Smiling, Pancracio turned his beardless head around as
if soliciting applause.
Then the stranger spoke:
"Who's your commander?"
Proudly, Anastasio raised his head, went up to him
and looked him in the face. The stranger lowered his tone
considerably.
"Well, I'm a revolutionist, too, you know. The Govern-
ment drafted me and I served as a private, but I man-
aged to desert during the battle the day before yesterday,
and I've been walking about in search of you all."
"So he's a Government soldier, eh?" A murmur of in-
credulity 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. But that's all right: we've
got plenty of time to do anything we damn well please so
long as you're in no hurry, that's all," said Pancracio,
loading his gun.
"What kind of beasts are you?" the prisoner cried.
He could say no more: Anastasio's fist, crashing down
upon his face, sent his head turning on his neck, covered
with blood.
"Shoot the half-breed!"
"Hang him!"
"Burn him alive; he's a lousy Federal."
In great excitement, they yelled and shrieked and were
about to fire at the prisoner.
"Sssh! Shut up! I think Demetrio's talking now," An-
astasio said, striving to quiet them. Indeed, Demetrio,
having ascertained the cause of the turmoil, ordered them
to bring the prisoner before him.
"It's positively infamous, senor; look," Luis Cervantes
said, pointing to the bloodstains on his trousers and to his
bleeding face.
"All right, all right. But who in hell are you? That's
what I want to know," Demetrio said.
"My name is Luis Cervantes, sir. I'm a medical stu-
dent and a journalist. I wrote a piece in favor of the
revolution, you see; as a result, they persecuted me,
caught me, and finally landed me in the barracks."
His ensuing narrative was couched in terms of such
detail and expressed in terms so melodramatic that it
drew guffaws of mirth from Pancracio and Manteca.
"All I've tried to do is to make myself clear on this
point. 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.
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