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Page 35
He drained another glass. After a long pause, he con-
tinued:
"You ask me why I am still a rebel? Well, the revolu-
tion is like a hurricane: if you're in it, you're not a man
. . . you're a leaf, a dead leaf, blown by the wind."
Demetrio reappeared. Seeing him, Solis relapsed into
silence.
"Come along," Demetrio said to Cervantes. "Come
with me."
Unctuously, Solis congratulated Demetrio on the
feats that had won him fame and the notice of Pancho
Villa's northern division.
Demetrio warmed to his praise. Gratefully, he heard his
prowess vaunted, though at times he found it difficult to
believe he was the hero of the exploits the other nar-
rated. But Solis' story proved so charming, so con-
vincing, that before long he found himself repeating it
as gospel truth.
"Natera is a genius!" Luis Cervantes said when they had
returned to the hotel. "But Captain Solis is a nobody
. . . a timeserver."
Demetrio Macias was too elated to listen to him.
"I'm a colonel, my lad! And you're my secretary!"
Demetrio's men made many acquaintances that eve-
ning; much liquor flowed to celebrate new friendships.
Of course men are not necessarily even tempered, nor is
alcohol a good counselor; quarrels naturally ensued.
Yet many differences that occurred were smoothed out in
a friendly spirit, outside the saloons, restaurants, or broth-
els.
On the morrow, casualties were reported. Always a few
dead. An old prostitute was found with a bullet through
her stomach; two of Colonel Macias' new men lay in the
gutter, slit from ear to ear.
Anastasio Montanez carried an account of the events
to his chief. Demetrio shrugged his shoulders.
"Bury them!" he said.
XIX
"They're coming back!"
It was with amazement that the inhabitants of Fresnillo
learned that the rebel attack on Zacatecas had failed com-
pletely.
"They're coming back!"
The rebels were a maddened mob, sunburnt, filthy,
naked. Their high wide-brimmed straw hats hid their
faces. The "high hats" came back as happily as they had
marched forth a few days before, pillaging every hamlet
along the road, every ranch, even the poorest hut.
"Who'll buy this thing?" one of them asked. He had
carried his spoils long: he was tired. The sheen of the
nickel on the typewriter, a new machine, attracted every
glance. Five times that morning the Oliver had changed
hands. The first sale netted the owner ten pesos; pres-
ently it had sold for eight; each time it changed hands, it
was two pesos cheaper. To be sure, it was a heavy bur-
den; nobody could carry it for more than a half-hour.
"I'll give you a quarter for it!" Quail said.
"Yours!" cried the owner, handing it over quickly, as
though he feared Quail might change his mind. Thus for
the sum of twenty-five cents, Quail was afforded the pleas-
ure of taking it in his hands and throwing it with all his
might against the wall.
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