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Page 6
"You go to father's house, quick!" Demetrio ordered.
She wanted to hold him in her arms; she entreated, she
wept. But he pushed away from her gently and, in a sullen
voice, said, "I've an idea the whole lot of them are com-
ing."
"Why didn't you kill 'em?"
"Their hour hasn't struck yet."
They went out together; she bore the child in her
arms. At the door, they separated, moving off in different
directions.
The moon peopled the mountain with vague shadows.
As he advanced at every turn of his way Demetrio could
see the poignant, sharp silhouette of a woman pushing
forward painfully, bearing a child in her arms.
When, after many hours of climbing, he gazed back,
huge flames shot up from the depths of the canyon by
the river. It was his house, blazing. . . .
II
Everything was still swathed in shadows as
Demetrio Macias began his descent to the bottom of
the ravine. Between rocks striped with huge eroded
cracks, and a squarely cut wall, with the river flowing
below, a narrow ledge along the steep incline served as a
mountain trail.
"They'll surely find me now and track us down like
dogs," he mused. "It's a good thing they know nothing
about the trails and paths up here. . . . But if they got
someone from Moyahua to guide them . . ." He left the
sinister thought unfinished. "All the men from Limon or
Santa Rosa or the other nearby ranches are on our side:
they wouldn't try to trail us. That cacique who's chased
and run me ragged over these hills, is at Mohayua now;
he'd give his eyeteeth to see me dangling from a telegraph
pole with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, purple
and swollen. . . ."
At dawn, he approached the pit of the canyon. Here,
he lay on the rocks and fell asleep.
The river crept along, murmuring as the waters rose
and fell in small cascades. Birds sang lyrically from their
hiding among the pitaya trees. The monotonous, eternal
drone of insects filled the rocky solitude with mystery.
Demetrio awoke with a start. He waded the river, fol-
lowing its course which ran counter to the canyon; he
climbed the crags laboriously as an ant, gripping root and
rock with his hands, clutching every stone in the trail
with his bare feet.
When he reached the summit, he glanced down to
see the sun steeping the valley in a lake of gold. Near the
canyon, enormous rocks loomed protrudent, like fantastic
Negro skulls. The pitaya trees rose tenuous, tall, like the
tapering, gnarled fingers of a giant; other trees of all sorts
bowed their crests toward the pit of the abyss. Amid
the stark rocks and dry branches, roses bloomed like a
white offering to the sun as smoothly, suavely, it unrav-
eled its golden threads, one by one, from rock to rock.
Demetrio stopped at the summit. Reaching backward,
with his right arm he drew his horn which hung at his
back, held it up to his thick lips, and, swelling his cheeks
out, blew three loud blasts. From across the hill close by,
three sharp whistles answered his signal.
In the distance, from a conical heap of reeds and dry
straws, man after man emerged, one after the other, their
legs and chests naked, lambent and dark as old bronze.
They rushed forward to greet Demetrio, and stopped be-
fore him, askance.
"They've burnt my house," he said.
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