Passion In The Dust
by Jose Gilberto Denogean


PROLOGUE 

The revolutions and counter-revolutions that swept over Mexico following the 
downfall of Don Porfirio Diaz in 1911 did more than topple a dictatorship, 
oppressive and harsh for the masses, with the wealth of Mexico going to a 
favored few. 

For decades the Mexican peasant suffered indignities at the hands of the 
haceridados and autocratic landowners. His land was stolen and his women 
violated. He had to stand by, silent and without recourse, while the young 
women of his family were used casually for a moment of pleasure by those who 
ruled his destiny. 

At every turn his manhood, the very roots of his masculinity, was denied 
him. He was worse than impoverished, for he was made to be less than a man. 

The bitterness of decades exploded with primitive violence when the 
revolutions came. Rape and pillage have always been a routine part of any 
war, an accepted reward for the conquerors of the moment. But the Mexican 
peon, at long last given the means to fight back against his oppressors, had 
a deeper and more personal motivation. He had no need to rape to satisfy his 
animal instincts, for his sexual needs were satisfied by the soldaderas the 
women camp followers-who served the forces of Pancho Villa and Zapata. 

For him rape was not unleashed sexual passion, but revenge -- revenge for 
the violation of his own womenfolk that he had been forced to witness 
silently in the past, revenge for the castration of his male dignity, 
revenge for the impotency of his previous existence. 

The sex sadism that ran rampant during that bloody period did not stem from 
the perverted instincts of a more sophisticated people. Men acted like 
animals because they had long been treated like animals. 

To strip bare the captured women of the overlords to ravish and rape was not 
alone a brute pleasure. 

The act was a symbol-a symbol of regained manhood and human dignity. 

 CHAPTER ONE 

Pancho Contreras tipped the bottle of tequila carefully, enough to moisten 
the piece of dirty cotton in his hand. 

His face was grim and it flinched with pain as he rubbed the alcoholic 
beverage from about the middle of his forehead, down his right cheek, to 
about half an inch below his lower lip. 

It was a hideous cut the Vargas boy had given him. 

He should have killed the boy! His face had been ugly even without the cut. 
But now! Now his face was truly a nightmare. 

He forced a smile. His revenge had been better than just simply killing him. 
To reassure himself he looked at the woman again. 

She was naked. Her legs were flat on the mattress but spread out wide so 
each leg came to the side of the bed. Each of her ankles was secured with a 
rope that went under the bed in a tight knot, the rope continuing the length 
of the bed, coming up again at the front of the bed and there forming a 
tight hold on the woman's extended arms. 

Biting his inner, lower lip, he reproached himself. The boy had escaped 
during the night. He should have been more careful. A boy like him could 
mean trouble. 

The woman let out a moan, shaking her head. 

"Ah, Bonita," he said, bringing the bottle up to his distorted lips and 
swallowing a long, hard drink. "Beautiful, you're awake again. That's good." 

The woman saw him approach her again and she closed her eyes tightly. 

He knelt right in front of her between her legs. Leisurely he placed both 
his hands under her buttocks securing a tight grasp. 

Slowly he brought her forward against himself and at the same time himself 
moving forward against her. 

He started a slow, unrelenting movement, his hands rotating under her 
buttocks easily and smoothly. 

He felt the woman's muscles down there. Involuntary muscles, contracting and 
expanding. Contracting and expanding. And he moved faster and faster and 
faster. 

Enjoying his immense satisfaction he moved back and rested the upper part of 
his body on top of the woman, his head lying softly between her breasts. 

Petting the woman's hips, he said, "You know I am not so terrible. I am only 
a soldier, a poor soldier who has to follow orders." 

The woman said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling of her small hut. 

"I wouldn't have been sent here," he continued apologetically. "It was your 
husband's fault, you know. He should have been an obedient peasant. 
Nobody-likes disobedient peasants, least of all the government." 

The woman's head suddenly sprang up, like a coiled snake, and spat in his 
face. "Monstruo!", she screamed. "You ugly, ugly monster ! " 

Enraged he jumped up and slapped her hard in the face. 

Monstruo! Ever since he could remember, he had been called a monster. 

"Estupida," he hissed, running his hand over his face. "My troops will rip 
you apart!" 

Quickly he got into his tan uniform, the uniform of the Mexican soldier. 

He opened the door and for a moment stared at the dead man's face. A 
pitchfork was deeply embedded across his forehead. 

He stepped over the dead man's chest and called out at the top of his lungs, 
motioning with his hands. "Muchachos!" 

The twenty men under his command reacted immediately, and came running 
towards the hut. 

"She's all yours," said the Captain, pointing to the open door. 

With the slow, easy movements of a contented man, he strolled towards the 
campfire. He smiled when he heard the woman's screams. 

He picked up a tin cup of steaming coffee, left by one of his men, and drank 
it down leisurely. The screams had stopped and only the lusty laughter of 
his men remained. 

An uncanny feeling came over him and moving slowly towards the hut he 
pretended an indifference which he did not feel. 

Someone, some person or beast, was observing his every movement. And he had 
been a soldier too long. His life was in danger. His senses never betrayed 
him. 

"Bueno!" he barked, his animal eyes going over every tree and bush. "Basta. 
That's enough. Put the bitch out of her ecstasy, and vamanos!" 

He heard the woman groan faintly but urgently. And as his men came out of 
the hut, one by one, their faces flushed and their eyes sparkling like 
stars, he knew the woman was dead. 

They saddled their horses in silence, each man cherishing his memories. 
Capitan Contreras, ex-priest, soldier, dedicated animal, mounted his black 
stallion and frowned. It was time to return to the garrison, it was time to 
report to their idiot Colonel. 

Colonel Sanchez was a fat, bald, pompous gentleman who pretended 
considerable powers of concentration though by inclination he was neither an 
intellectual nor a soldier. He rather loved the easy, soft life and liked to 
think himself an unfortunate man caught in unfortunate times. Being a 
Colonel these days wasn't exactly his cup of tea. But life could always 
offer worse situations. The life of a Colonel wasn't as good as the life of 
a General but it was certainly easier than the life of a Captain. And being 
a Captain was much better than being a common private. Even a common private 
was a hundred times better off than a civilian was in the burning oven of 
the times. 

No, he was determined to remain in the army with the rank of Colonel as long 
as possible. But how? He didn't have any friends left in Mexico City. His 
boyhood friend and comrade-at-arms, Victoriano Huerta, had been forced to 
resign from the presidency back in July. And now, at the beginning of the 
new year, his poor friend was living somewhere in Jamaica. 

Colonel Sanchez looked at the several military-directives lying on his desk. 
And the realization that Obregon and Carranza were now running the whole 
show, militarily and politically, made him swear. "Poor friend, my ass!" he 
whispered savagely. "I pleaded with the damn marijuano. I begged him not to 
fool with the gringos." 

But no, not Huerta, not that power-crazy marijuano. Why should he act with 
prudence, he had said. Had he not beaten the Maya and Yaqui Indians in 
combat? Hadn't Don Porfirio Diaz congratulated him personally scores of 
times for his personal bravery? Hadn't he out-maneuvered Madero, the mouse, 
out of the presidency itself? 

Why then should he, Victoriano Huerta, bow down to the wishes of President 
Wilson? Who did that gringo think he was ordering him, Huerta, to hold 
general elections and not to include himself as a candidate. It was 
ridiculous. 

The Veracruz incident flashed through the Colonel's mind. What a disaster 
that had been. That day in April had been the beginning of the end. Huerta 
had been worried and angry because the armies of the Constitutionalists, 
headed by Carranza, Obregon, Villa, and Zapata, were fast approaching Mexico 
City from all directions. Huerta's army, the federal army, needed weapons 
and it needed them badly. And like an answer to a prayer, a German submarine 
loaded with weapons arrived in Veracruz. But the American Navy, appearing 
from nowhere, was suddenly there. And the Americans were threatening to blow 
the German submarine to hell, if so much as one rifle was unloaded. 

While this confrontation was going on, several American sailors came ashore 
to obtain oil supplies. When Huerta was given this communication, he was 
outraged. He ordered that the fairy-looking bastards be arrested. By God, he 
was going to humiliate the blonde son-of-a-bitches from the north. 

Admiral Henry Mayo demanded the immediate release of his sailors. He also 
deemed this whole affair an insult and demanded an apology and a twenty-one 
gun salute to the American flag. 

Huerta farted and told him to go to hell. 

Colonel Sanchez smiled as he remembered that fart. That damn fart, he 
thought, changed my entire future. 

Huerta had beaten the Maya and Yaqui Indians. But savage as those Indians 
were, they didn't have naval and artillery power. 

Veracruz was bombarded by American warships and after considerable bloodshed 
the town was taken by an American landing party. 

This was too much for Mexican pride. Huerta immediately lost what little 
support he had had in Mexico City. And the armies of the Constitutionalists 
were getting nearer and nearer. It reached the point where Huerta was 
smelling his enemies everywhere, and when the day came he wasn't even 
enjoying his marijuana cigarettes anymore, he decided to go into exile. He 
had invited Colonel Sanchez to go with him. "We have been together since we 
graduated from Chapultepec," Huerta reminded him. 

"Si, cierto," the Colonel had replied, "but I am growing old, I am going on 
sixty, too old to be playing games." 

"I am going on sixty, too," Huerta answered, inhaling marijuana smoke. "But 
this marijuana keeps me going." 

The Colonel had remembered his new eighteen-year-old bride, and he knew what 
kept him going. "No, mi general," he told Huerta. "I had better stay here 
and keep you informed about the political situation." Besides, he had been a 
professional soldier all his life. Now that he was approaching retirement 
age, it would be imprudent to join a man going into exile. 

"My enemies may kill you or destroy you," Huerta had pointed out. "After 
all, you have been closely connected with me." 

"Si," Colonel Sanchez had agreed, "officially I was connected to you in a 
military function and not assigned to perform political tasks. Did I not 
serve Don Porfirio Diaz for thirty-five years, and then did I not also serve 
Madero for a year and a half?" 

"My friend, you are naive and stupid," Huerta had laughed. "They will not 
kill you right out but they will assign you to some post where you are sure 
to be killed." 

The Colonel felt a cold chill run up and down his spine. He looked at the 
wall map and then at the several directives on top of his desk, and he knew 
this was the place where death awaited. 

The political situation was running true to form. It was clear as mud. And 
as usual, everybody was seeking a military solution. 

One month after Huerta went into exile Carranza entered Mexico City. The 
people cheered him; he had done something truly magnificent. Carranza had 
actually united all the different and ambitious and rebellious generals from 
across the land to smash Huerta into submission. 

The people went home to dream and to wait. The verdict was not long in 
coming. The revolution was not over. Villa and Zapata split the coalition 
Carranza had so patiently formed. 

Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata called together a convention of generals to 
meet at Aguascalientes, and during this convention they proclaimed Eulatio 
Gutierrez as president. 

Carranza retired to Veracruz and made it his temporary capital and 
headquarters, while Obregon agreed to stay on as commander of the federal 
forces and defend Mexico City. 

Meanwhile, Villa and Zapata were in the process of enforcing their 
resolutions. Zapata and his peasant army was fast-approaching Mexico City, 
coming from the southeast in a northwesternly flood. 

The impact of what was coming made Colonel Sanchez sweat big drops of 
stinking salt. His garrison was right in the path of the angry, killing 
flood, and what were Obregon's directives? He was to dispatch all available 
troops to the garrison bordering the states of Puebla and Morelos and to 
defend his own garrison to the last man! 

He had already dispatched some two thousand troops, leaving him with some 
thirty troops to defend the garrison. But no, absolutely not, he was not 
willing to defend it to the last man. He would have to think more like his 
friend Huerta, if he was going to find a solution to this predicament. Yes, 
that Huerta was a real weasel. Why, if he had been placed between two 
enraged bulls, he would have... 

"Mi Coronel," the Corporal of the guard interrupted. "Captain Contreras 
wishes to report." 

Contreras followed the Corporal and stood at attention. He clicked his heels 
Prussian style and faced the Colonel's contempt without flinching a muscle. 
The Colonel made no effort to twitch his nose, but it was twitching 
violently. Every time this ugly Captain came before him, his sense of 
esthetics became chaotic. He was so repulsed by the Captain's harelip that, 
at first, he failed to notice the hideous cut. But even on the Captain's 
gorilla-like face the cut was clear and prominent. 

"Did you have trouble?" the Colonel finally asked. 

"No, sir," Contreras lied softly and clearly. "The Vargas family are in no 
position to give further trouble." 

"Good, muy bien hecho," the Colonel allowed himself to say, but without any 
enthusiasm. He wrote down a notation to remind himself he must let Don 
Rivera know that his rebellious peasant had been straightened out. 

"Do you wish to hear the details?" Contreras asked hopefully. Nothing would 
give him greater pleasure now than to see the Colonel squirm. 

"No," the Colonel almost screamed. He controlled himself. "No," he said, 
"that will be all, Cantain." 

Captain Contreras clicked his heels again, made a turn-about face, and 
walked out. He was followed by the Corporal. 

Colonel Sanchez suddenly felt mentally and emotionally exhausted, and he 
knew it was time for his daily siesta. He moved his enormous bulk into the 
back room where he and his young bride, Marina, lived. Marina was already 
lying on their bed, her very prominent and beautiful behind sticking out in 
the air. The Colonel smiled and took his boots off. 

He stretched out next to her and placed his hand on her buttocks. Her soft, 
bulging, flesh felt nice. Very nice, but she didn't respond, and soon he was 
thinking that if only he thought more like Huerta, he would find a solution 
to his problems. 

He remembered how Huerta had once turned his darkest defeat into his most 
brilliant victory. Madero had assumed the office of president in October, 
1911. But he soon proved unable to fulfill the many different desires which 
were boiling to be satisfied. Within three months the regime was plagued 
with uprisings. The most serious rebellion, however, was being led by 
General Pascual Orozco and Pancho Villa. They had the whole state of 
Chihuahua in turmoil. 

The military establishment chose Huerta to suppress the uprising. But after 
six months of a very costly and indecisive campaign, Huerta was recalled to 
the Capitol and temporarily suspended from duty. 

Not long after, perhaps a day or two after Huerta had arrived in the 
Capitol, Colonel Sanchez saw his friend in a very rare mood. Huerta was 
feeling sorry for himself. "I wasn't even bending over," he had raved at his 
friend Sanchez, "and I have been fucked, my friend, I was fucked but good!" 
Huerta was convinced his military career was finished. 

Colonel Sanchez was at the time commander of the Tacubaya garrison and he 
knew from first-hand experience that most of the officers there were 
extremely dissatisfied with the Madero regime. He mentioned this to Huerta 
once or twice. Huerta just listened, but Sanchez thought he could feel the 
Huerta mind grinding. Months passed and nothing was mentioned again. Huerta 
seemed to be enjoying his forced vacation. 

Then in the beginning of February Colonel Sanchez was on leave in Mexico 
City, and he stopped to visit his friend Huerta. At the end of that meeting, 
Huerta asked the Colonel if it would be all right if he, Huerta, went to the 
Tacubaya garrison, that he had some friends there he wanted to visit. 
Colonel Sanchez produced a visitor's card, signed it, and gave it to Huerta. 
"But don't start any rebellions," he had told Huerta jokingly. 

Sanchez could never prove it, even to himself, but a rebellion was just what 
Huerta started. 

A few days after their first visit, Huerta came to the Hotel Regis where 
Sanchez was impatiently waiting for his young bride-to-be. Marina had 
already landed at the Veracruz harbor and she was on her way to Mexico City. 

While Huerta smoked his marijuana cigarettes and Sanchez trembled with 
anticipation their conversation gradually revolved around the Madero regime. 
"Listen, my friend," Huerta had said in a moment of exhilaration. "Nobody 
loves that little shrimp. The army despises him. The rich are worried about 
him. The 

Church could do without him. And the poor grow to hate him more and more 
every day. 

"He's still the President," Sanchez had replied. It made him nervous to talk 
politics. 

Huerta roared with crazy laughter for some ten minutes. His face became 
bright red for lack of oxygen. "But not for long." Huerta had said it almost 
like a promise before taking his leave. 

Two days later, while Sanchez was enjoying his brand new wife in the big 
double bed, the entire Tacubaya garrison marched forth and headed to the 
jailhouse at Tlatelolco to release Bernardo Reyes and Felix Diaz. 

General Bernardo Reyes was in jail for inciting a rebellion in Nuevo Leon. 
And General Felix Diaz, nephew of the recently exiled old dictator, had 
unsuccessfully carried out a rebellion in Veracruz. 

Under the leadership of these two men, the troops entered Mexico City and 
approached the National Palace. 

General Villar, commander of the government palace, refused to surrender the 
building. Then all hell broke loose. 

Artillery fire was exchanged by both sides and soldiers and civilians were 
slaughtered wholesale. 

While this inferno was going on in the streets, Madero called for Huerta. 
Huerta would save him. Hadn't Huerta told him a thousand times he was loyal 
to him, to call on him any time he was desperate for an ally? 

Huerta was immediately there, before Madero, and he accepted command of the 
federal troops. He must have smiled, that old marijuano. Everything was 
going his way. 

Within the next few days, Huerta smashed the rebellion, and was ready for 
the next step. He ordered the Palace Guard to surround Madero and Pino 
Suarez, the vice-president, and then instructed the guards to beat the hell 
out of them. This was done, and by February 18, Huerta had forced the 
resignation of both men. 

When Sanchez saw Huerta again, the old marijuano had maneuvered himself into 
the post of provisional president. Huerta had invited him to the National 
Palace to "see the mouse squirming." 

Sanchez managed to take a peek at the two former executives. They were being 
held in a prison behind the palace. The Colonel was astonished to discover 
that neither man showed any bruises. "But I thought you had them tortured," 
he asked Huerta. 

Huerta laughed in that astonished manner which only he knew so well. "If you 
were to take their pants off," he informed' Sanchez, "you would find their 
balls have been roasted over a fire of tizones." 

Sanchez asked what was to become of them now. Huerta, pretending sincerity, 
sounded silly. "Why," he said, " I am going to let them go." 

"Do you think that is wise?" Sanchez said stupidly. 

Huerta roared with laughter again. "But, of course, mi Coronet," he said, "I 
am even going to provide for their transportation from here to Veracruz. 
From there, they are on their own. 

It's a big ocean and they can go anywhere they want." 

That same night Colonel Sanchez was witness to the assassination of the two 
former executives. The two men were being transferred from prison to the 
train which was to take them to Veracruz and exile when, suddenly, the 
guards who were presumably there for their protection turned on them and 
mowed them down. 

What a man, that Huerta, Colonel Sanchez was thinking now. What a 
ninspiration! By God, he would try to think more like Huerta from now on. 
Somehow he would weasel out of his predicament. He would remain a soldier 
and find a way not to die. 

He felt much better now, even though he had not napped and he squeezed his 
wife's buttocks. She screamed "Ouch," and slapped his hand away. 

He laughed and started to put his boots back on. Well, he resigned himself, 
at his age he shouldn't really expect to be doing it all the time. 

He got back to his desk, and a few minutes later he ran across the notation 
he had made earlier. Report to Don Rivera. He felt a ride in the open air 
might do him good. Clarify his mind as to what he was going to do to stay 
alive. And besides, it was his duty to report to Don Rivera that his 
troublesome peasant had been corrected. He ordered the Corporal of the guard 
to saddle his horse. 

Had Colonel Sanchez known that at this very moment Don Rivera was foaming at 
the mouth like a rabid dog, he would have probably smashed the door to his 
living quarters and insisted his wife perform her duties. 

* * * 

Don Rivera was a small man, not more than five feet, four inches tall. But 
he was a giant in arrogance and well engrained in the ways of power. In all 
Mexico there were some nine hundred men just like Don Rivera. They, along 
with the Church, owned most of the land and they were masters of everything 
on it, living and non-living and everything in-between. For thirty-five 
years, before the regime of Don Porfirio Diaz was overthrown by Madero, 
fifteen million Mexicans paid homage, willingly or unwillingly, to men such 
as Don Rivera. 

The revolution, which meant different things to different people, had begun 
to change Don Rivera's status, at least in theory, for in practice Don 
Rivera and his peers were still very much in control of their lands. But 
like animals they sensed what the revolution was trying to accomplish. 
Fifteen million Mexicans were groping blindly; some were doing it with 
weapons, others were doing it with words, while still others were just 
taking advantage of the chaotic situation. But no matter how they were doing 
it. The important thing was that they were all doing the same thing. Fifteen 
million angry Mexicans were running away from their unbearable discontent. 
And sooner or later these fifteen million hating Mexicans would destroy the 
source of their consuming hell. 

This very afternoon Don Rivera had been confronted by one all-hating 
peasant. And when Colonel Sanchez rode into the hacienda, Don Ramirez was 
still trembling with rage. 

The Colonel wanted to get his duty done with, and was hoping he and Don 
Rivera would then settle down and have a sociable chat. Sanchez clicked his 
heels and with great pomposity reported, "Don Rivera, the Vargas family will 
give you no further trouble!" 

The small man jumped from his chair and charged the Colonel. "You imbecile," 
he screamed, slapping Sanchez in the face back and forth, "you incompetent 
idiot!" 

The Colonel was taken back. "I don't-I don't understand," he stammered. 

"You don't understand!" the little man raged, his face red, fists flying in 
the air. "The Vargas boy," he said, trying hard to understand what he was 
saying. "He came into my own house, into my very room. And he tried to-" Don 
Rivera couldn't finish. He was suddenly embarrassed, and he turned away from 
Colonel Sanchez. 

"What-what did he try?" the Colonel finally asked, terrified to really know 
the answer. 

Don Rivera said it in a whimpering whisper. "He tried-he tried to-to 
castrate me." 

While Colonel Sanchez was gasping for air, a man on horseback approached the 
hacienda at full speed. It was the local priest, Padre Perez. He dismounted 
and ran in a stagger towards the two men. His face was black and blue and 
blood was running down his nose. "Don Rivera," he cried, "Don Rivera, look, 
look what one of your peasants has done to me!" 

"Which peasant?" Don Rivera demanded. 

"The Vargas boy," Padre Perez replied, shaking from head to foot. 

Don Rivera looked lividly at the Colonel and then at the priest. "You're 
damn lucky," he fumed, walking away from the men. "He might have castrated 
you!" 

Suddenly a shot rang out, and Don Rivera fell. He was dead. Simultaneously, 
both the Colonel and the priest ran and hid behind a tree. They both heard, 
and then saw a man riding away on horseback. 

The Colonel looked at the priest and the Padre looked at the Colonel. 
"Well," Padre Perez finally found the courage to say, "you're the soldier. 
Aren't you going to chase him?" 

"Yes," Colonel Sanchez smiled faintly, "yes, of course." He walked slowly 
towards his horse and after what seemed an eternity mounted the stallion. 

With no great urgency he followed tracks for some two hours, until it was 
dark. Well, I have done my duty, he thought. And he turned back, feeling a 
deep sense of relief. The Vargas boy wouldn't be giving anyone any trouble 
around here, he decided. According to the tracks the boy was heading 
straight east, probably to join Zapata's army. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

The early morning was unmercifully uncomfortable. The humidity was choking, 
suffocating. Formidable black clouds covered the Mexican sky. Between heaven 
and earth the sound of war, the roar of cannons, the unrelentless beat of 
drums, penetrated the hot, windless air. 

It was a moment of tension, one moment before death. 

Down there, on the trembling earth, a man on a white stallion stood before 
his troops. 

Emiliano Zapata, leader of the people, brandished his rifle high into the 
air. From his dry, weary lips came the battle cry. "Por tierra y libertad!" 

From the left rushed a thousand men to outflank the enemy's right wing. Men 
with rifles, some with knives. Men with machetes, some with stones. Angry 
men, all filled with hate. 

"Viva La Revolution! Muerte a los Pelones!" 

The man on the white stallion moved forward and behind him another thousand 
men flooded into the enemy's entrenchment. 

The sound of thunder, the distorted sound of pain; no other sound was there 
to be heard. 

Wet rain, hot tears, cold steel, intolerable burning sensations; nothing 
else could be felt. 

Brown mud and red blood, scared faces and dead faces; nothing else was there 
to see. 

And the smell of death was brought in with each lungful of air. And it 
didn't make any difference because hate, above all, was there. Each man had 
his own hate and it was bigger that he and it was all that really mattered. 

To hell with life. Kill! Kill! And kill some more! Smash the enemy! Tear him 
to pieces! 

He has raped our women, stolen our lands and crops, reduced us to pigs. No 
more! God, not ever again! 

The place is here, the time is now. Feel his throat. Press on the Adam's 
apple. Harder! Oh, much harder! See how the pig chokes. See how his greedy 
eyes plead for mercy. Harder! Harder! Ahhh... 

But don't despair. There's another one. Hit him! Hit him again! And again 
and again! See how his filthy brain is splattered over the ground. Pay, you 
dirty bastards, pay! 

There's one already wounded. Shove your rifle into his mouth. Shove! Pull 
the trigger! Dirty, filthy leeches! 

"Viva La Revolution! Muerte a los Pelones!" 

The battle was like a tide, like a moment of passion. It reached a peak and 
then it subsided abruptly leaving the survivors completely exhausted. Here, 
there and everywhere men fell to the ground-some to cry, others to laugh, 
some to rest. 

Pablo Vargas, aged seventeen, did not cry. His hate was too monstrous. This 
had been his first battle and he had killed three men. His blood was still 
boiling and his muscles were tense. 

Urgently and with purpose he walked throughout the battlefield, observing, 
studying, searching the dead bodies of the enemy. He was looking for one 
particular body, dead or alive. 

The man with the long ugly scar on his right cheek who had a harelip. This 
was the man Pablo had to find and kill a thousand times. To kill this man 
but once would never be enough. 

Disappointed, he fell under a tree and closed his eyes and wept. 

Las soldaderas, the camp-followers, were now throughout the battlefield 
looking for their men. With them they brought water, food, and their bodies. 
And they gave their men what comfort they could. 

The man on the white stallion and two of his Capitanes rode throughout the 
camp, evaluating the losses of their peasant army. The leathery face of El 
Caudillo was hard and sober. His people wanted land and liberty. The price 
was revolution and death and tears. 

They rode by Pablo and saw him weeping. And they understood. Tears were the 
only thing the endless centuries had given generously to the descendants of 
the ancient Aztecs. 

The tears stopped as suddenly as they had come and when Pablo opened his 
eyes he saw a young woman digging a grave with a knife' and her bare hands. 

A mild rain was falling now and a weak wind was blowing. Her uncombed hair 
was over her face her senses were concentrated on the ground. Pablo helped 
her with the grave and with the body. And when it was all done she looked at 
Pablo for the first time. 

"You have a woman?" she asked, studying his face carefully. 

He blushed and shook his head. He had never kissed a woman, much less 
anything else. 

Her brown eyes were half-dead, half-alive, and she forced a smile. 

"I am yours now," she said simply, taking his shy hand. 

They walked away from the rain, under a tree and threw a blanket around 
themselves. She took some beef jerky from a pouch hanging from her shoulder 
and offered him some. 

"I am Patricia Diaz," she said. "And that was my man." 

She stared at the grave for a long time. "And you?" 

"Pablo Vargas," he said, feeling warm and comfortable with this woman, this 
stranger. 

"How old are you?" he asked, and then felt foolish for having asked. 

"Twenty," she said, chewing hungrily on the jerky. "You?! " 

Embarrassed and feeling very stupid he felt himself blushing. "What's the 
difference," he mumbled, "I am a man." 

She looked at him and smiled warmly, revealing an even set of white teeth. 
"Yes, you are a man," she agreed. 

They ate the rest of the jerky in silence and by then the rain had stopped. 
She threw the blanket to one side and took some dry papers from her pouch 
and started a fire. "Be back in a few minutes," she said. 

She came back with a mule loaded with provisions and pots and pans. She 
placed the coffee pot over the fire and she motioned to Pablo to come and 
sit with her. 

Feeling warm and drowsy he could almost forget the revolution, but not 
quite. The ugly face of the man with the scar and the harelip was always in 
his mind. 

"How long have you been una soldadera?" he asked, holding her hand and 
feeling its warmth and smoothness. 

"Eight months." She decided against telling him she had outlived three men. 

When the coffee was boiling hot she poured some into two tin cups and then 
she searched the mule until she found a bottle of mescal and poured some of 
it into the coffee. 

It was delicious. Before long Pablo had drunk three cups of coffee and 
mescal and felt dizzy enough to tell Patricia she was beautiful. 

Sitting there, next to her, he could hardly ignore the fact that her dress 
had moved up her legs and bronze, soft thighs seemed to be inviting him. 

She smiled. "Tonight," she whispered. 

He blushed. He had been looking out of the corner of his eyes and didn't 
think she had noticed it. 

"How long have you been with us?" she asked, struggling with herself not to 
laugh at his innocent shyness. "I haven't seen you before." 

"Two weeks," he answered, looking into the fire. For a moment he saw the 
ugly face with the hideous scar and monstrous harelip. And the face was 
laughing, mocking him. 

Por Dios! God, how he wished that monster was in the fire burning! 

She squeezed his hand and lay back on the ground. "Better sleep while you 
can," she suggested. 

He made himself comfortable and she snuggled herself close to him. 
"Tonight," she promised again. 

She was asleep almost immediately. But Pablo remained awake for a long time. 
His whole being was geared to hating one man. 

The ugly man who had raped his mother. The ugly beast with the ugly scar and 
ugly harelip. 

He thought of the many tortures he would apply on the monster and finally he 
slept. 

The day wore on lazily and very late in the afternoon one of the capitanes 
had the drummer boy beat the drums. 

The martial beat penetrated Pablo's sleep and when his senses reacted to the 
drums he hated to answer its summons. Patricia was resting her head on his 
shoulder and her left arm lay on his chest. With her left leg she had an 
iron grip on the lower part of his body. 

He could feel her every curve straining against him. 

He managed to get up without waking her and headed towards the center of the 
camp. 

The Captain was pulling at his heavy black mustache as he talked. "Today," 
he said. "We captured forty-three pelones. We have tried them and sentenced 
them to death. We need five volunteers to form a firing squad." 

Immediately Pablo stepped forward and was soon followed by four other men. 

El Capitan marched the five men about a mile north of the camp where the 
forty-three prisoners had been herded together like cattle. The whole camp 
followed. The spectacle of killing Pelones was not one to be missed. 

All the prisoners wore the tan-colored uniform of the federal government and 
the hair on each man was very closely cut, which is why they were called 
Pelones. 

The Pelones were to be shot five at a time, except the last group to be 
shot. 

A sergeant marched the first group directly below a tree. He offered to bind 
their eyes. They all refused. 

"Atencion!" ordered the Captain, standing erect both out of hate and 
respect. 

"Apunten!" 

Pablo aimed his rifle directly at the man's face. How he hated the bastards! 

"Fuego!" 

Pablo pressed the trigger and smiled when he saw the blood shoot out like 
water from a fountain. 

Thirty-five men were dead in less than ten minutes time. Pablo had shot 
seven men in the face. How he wished the harelipped Pelon had been one of 
them! His turn would soon come. Some day, somewhere. 

When the eighth group was marched out below the tree an old peasant from the 
crowd came running, screaming, pointing an accusing finger at one of the 
Pelones about to be shot. 

"Malvado!" cursed the old man. "Villain, now you are going to pay!" 

The young Pelon was amused and as the old man came near him, he spat on him. 

"Mi Capitan," choked the old man with anger. "Do not shoot this man. Let me 
kill him." 

"What is your case against this Pelon, old man?" asked the Captain. 

"Three years ago," shouted the old man, visibly shaken. "I went to see this 
Pelon's father, Don Ramon. Don Ramon was my patron, my landlord, and he had 
taken all the maiz I had harvested that year. My family was starving. I went 
to plead with Don Ramon to let me have part of what was rightfully mine. But 
his son, this Pelon here, kicked me out of his house even before I could 
talk with his father. My youngest daughter died that year. She died because 
she was starved." 

"Very well," said the Captain. "He's yours. We'll help you kill him in 
whatever way you think just." 

When the rest of the Pelones had been shot, the Captain asked the old man. 
"Well, have you decided how he's to be killed?" 

"Si, mi Capitan," replied the old man, hate glittering in his eyes. "I will 
need ten pounds of salt, a knife and eight strong hands." 

The salt was brought to him and he asked that it be spread out on the ground 
in a straight line measuring half a meter wide. This was done. He then asked 
that a sharp knife be placed over a hot flame for at least twenty minutes. 
And so it was done. 

The old man then asked each of the four men at his disposal to hold the 
Pelon down. He then proceeded by taking the Pelon's boots off. And then his 
socks. The Pelon was sweating and his eyes wide with fear. 

"The knife," demanded the old man, hardly containing the joy in his voice. 

Meticulously and with great skill the old man went to work on the flesh of 
the soles and heels of the Pelon's bare feet. 

The Pelon screamed bloody, panicky sounds which were no longer human. 

When the flesh on each foot had been completely peeled off, the old man 
asked the four men to force the Pelon to walk over the salt. 

The Pelon cried and wept and pleaded for mercy and the old man was king. 

The sun was well on its way under the horizon. And the inhuman screams of 
the Pelon blended with the twilight. 

Soon it was dark and the old man had been cleansed of his diabolical hate 
and asked that the Pelon be shot. 

Pablo came forward and pointed his rifle down at the Pelon's face that was a 
distorted mask of pain. 

Pablo waited. He waited until the Pelon opened his eyes and saw clearly what 
was pointed at him. And then Pablo shot him through the nostrils. 

He envied the old man. But he swore by the Devil that his revenge would be 
no less diabolical. 

Patricia had been waiting patiently under the tree. She had made beans, 
tortillas and more coffee. 

They ate slowly and in silence. Now and then they looked at each other and 
smiled. The night would be long and exciting. 

Guitar music pervaded the night air and they sat next to each other and 
listened and felt the warmth of each other's body. 

"Come," she said, offering him her hand. 

"I know a place where we will not be disturbed." 

He stood up and, followed her, wondering, how it would feel to hold a 
woman's naked body. 

He made an effort to forget the monster. The monster who had raped his 
mother. The monster who had made him watch. 

* * * 

The monster. 

"Leave me alone," the woman was screaming deep from within her lungs. 
"Monstruo, don't you understand! I can't stand the touch of you!" 

The woman was struggling with all her strength against the tight grasp of 
the ugly man's hands. He had one arm around her waist and the other one 
around her bulging breasts. 

"My money is as good as anybody else's," he pleaded. 

Pancho turned her around in the circle of his gorilla-like arms and 
attempted to kiss her. But the woman brought her right knee up to his groin. 

Releasing his hold on the woman he doubled up in pain. Some of the men in 
the cantina laughed. The others who knew him did not dare. 

"Even for money, you're too ugly," screamed the frightened woman, moving 
away from him and running up the stairs. 

The pain moved slowly from Pancho's groin to his stomach and up his barrel 
chest. Manfully he contained the urge to scream. like everything else in 
this world, the pain would pass. 

Groping around, his back still bent, he found an empty chair. With bitter 
resentment in his heart, he looked angrily at those who were laughing. 

Bastards! All of them, bastards! What did they know? Was it his fault he was 
born ugly? Had he created that terrible harelip that distorted his whole 
face? 

Running his hand over the fresh scar which formed half a circle around his 
face, he ordered a bottle of tequila. 

Bitterly he thought of the boy who had cut his face. He should have killed 
him for making him even uglier. 

Enviously he glanced across the cantina, to the couple who were making love 
in the dark corner of the room. 

The man's chair was tilted against the corner, his back leaning against the 
wall and his legs resting on the table. The woman was on top him, her crotch 
and thighs firmly entrenched below his waist. 

She was riding him like a man on a bouncing horse. 

Pancho swallowed a long, hard drink of tequila. And he wondered. He became 
fascinated by his idea as he had done so many other times. What was it like? 
What was it really like? 

It must be wonderful to make love to a woman who was really willing. 

He didn't know. Never but never had a woman willingly made love to him. 
Neither for love nor for money. 

He had raped them all. Any woman who knew the touch of his hand had been 
forced into submission. 

But it was part of his job. All the same, he was sick of it. Often he had 
dreamed of a woman who would love him, harelip and ugliness and all. 

Slowly he shook his head. Even his own mother, his very own mother, had been 
repulsed by his ugliness. 

He hated the bitches! They only loved the beautiful, the attractive things 
in life. And it wasn't fair. God, it just wasn't fair! 

Well, to hell with them! He'll keep on raping the bitches. Even that was 
better than no way at all. 

Colonel Sanchez had not called on him lately. It bothered him. It had been 
more than two weeks since his last assignment. And he needed a woman badly. 

He glanced across the room again and thought of the Vargas woman. She had 
been nice, really nice. 

Her stupid husband had argued with his landlord. An idiotic argument, 
really. Colonel Sanchez had told him the nature of the argument but he had 
forgotten what it was. 

The landlord, Don Rivera, had complained to the authorities and Colonel 
Sanchez had called on him as he usually did in such cases. 

"Make an example of this disobedient peasant," ordered the Colonel. "These 
people must constantly be shown their place or else they will soon be at our 
throats." 

And by God, it was all right with him! These missions were his salvation. 

He always killed the accused victim. And then he raped his woman, by now his 
widow. After that sometimes he killed the widow, sometimes not. 

It all depended on how they reacted to him, his face, his ugliness. 

A fist fight broke out between two privates who but a few minutes before had 
been playing a game of cards with each other. 

Captain Contreras noted with special delight that one of the privates had 
laughed at him when the prostitute had kicked him in the groin. 

The bartender was about to vault over the bar and put a halt to the 
fighting. He was responsible for the whole establishment, and the two men 
would surely destroy government property. 

But Contreras swiftly stood up and was in the middle of the room, waiting 
patiently, brandishing the bottle of tequila. 

He swung the bottle down, hard, smashing it on top of the private's head. 
The private who hadn't known better, the private who had dared to laugh, 
fell on the dirt floor, unconscious and bleeding. 

Contreras smiled. He did not feel sorry for the bleeding pig. Any man who 
laughed at the misfortune of others deserved to be treated like a swine. 

"Throw the bleeding pig in the tank," he ordered, indicating the man on the 
floor. 

A corporal, a friend of the man, tenderly lifted his companion and carried 
him out of the bar. 

Not quite satisfied, Contreras called after the corporal. "And when he wakes 
up he is to be given twenty lashes!" 

More restless than ever, Contreras ordered another bottle of tequila. 

He was undecided. God, he needed a woman! Tonight he was lonely. Tonight his 
whole being yearned for affection, for a tender touch. 

But he was afraid. God, he was afraid. If he tried again, again he would be 
rejected. All his miserable life he had been rejected! 

If only somewhere there was a woman who would love him, if only there was, 
he would give anything for that woman. Anything! 

Afraid, but determined, he stood up and he knew he would try again and 
again, and again. All his life he would search for someone to accept him. 

He was about to approach another prostitute who was already giving him an 
expression of misgiving, when a corporal entered the cantina and with a 
loud, sharp voice asked for Capitan Contreras. 

"Coronel Sanchez requests the immediate presence of Capitan Contreras!" 

Relieved and breathing easily now, he followed the Corporal through the big, 
open rectangular space inside the fort. 

At last! At long last! Coronel Sanchez had another mission for him! 

It would have to do. Until he found that woman, that elusive creature of his 
dreams, that woman who would love him, until that day, he would go on raping 
and ravaging. 

* * * 

Ravaged! All day Colonel Sanchez had been in a trance. The entire Amada 
garrison had been destroyed by Zapata's army. like a woman it had been 
ravaged. And now, there was nothing between Zapata's army and his own 
garrison. 

"Madre mia," he had prayed all day long. "What am I to do?" 

The military directive from Obregon was clear and to the point. "If Zapata's 
army smashes through the Amada garrison, you are to hold your own to the 
last man." 

He could resign from the army and forever be disgraced and with no pension. 
He could follow his orders and forever be dead. Or- 

Yes, by God, he would act according to the Huerta mind. He would not follow 
orders and would come out a hero! 

And now that Capitan Contreras was here, he would implement his plan. 

The important thing was to impress upon people the idea you always knew what 
you were doing. 

Deliberately ignoring Captain Contreras, who was standing at attention, cold 
and erect like a stone, he pretended great interest in the wall map directly 
behind his desk. 

The other point to keep in mind was to keep your subordinates as 
uncomfortable as possible. Let them sweat it out, lest they feel fraternal 
and equal and the rest of all that crap that was tearing the country apart. 

At great length, he finally spoke, as if to himself, but addressing Captain 
Contreras and conveying a great deal of concentration. 

"Captain Contreras," he said, indicating the map, "these are the states of 
Morelos, in the center, Mexico to the left, and Puebla to the right. And 
here is our garrison, five miles east of the city of Cuernavaca. 

"I received grievous news this morning," he continued impersonally. "This 
morning Zapata smashed our garrison, midpoint between Puebla and Morelos." 

He expressed grave concern now and his voice became warm and personal. 
"Captain! Between Zapata's forces and our garrison there stands nothing in 
his way. 

"Therefore," he said decisively, as if he had full control of the situation. 
"Therefore, I have decided to attack him before he can move against us." He 
paused, then for the first time looked directly at Contreras. "Captain, you 
are to take out the entire division, this very night, this very hour, and 
find, engage, and destroy the enemy!" 

"And where will you be?" Contreras found the courage to ask. 

"Why, I shall remain here," Sanchez snapped. What was Mexico coming to? Even 
the common dogs were catching the democratic disease, daring to question the 
intentions of their superiors. 

He intended to be as far away from the battlefield as possible, but it was 
none of the Captain's business. 

But the main thing to remember was to offer a reward, the type which 
corrupts, lest the underlings begin to feel morally superior. 

"Captain," he said, radiating a warm smile, "When your mission is completed 
I do not at all care what becomes of the soldaderas." 

Attack Zapata! With thirty men, and this idiot Colonel calls it a division! 
The Colonel must think me a fool, thought Captain Contreras. Certainly, he 
needed a woman tonight. But did the fool Colonel think he needed one that 
bad? 

"Find, engage, and destroy the enemy," the fool Colonel had said. 

"And after that is done," he mumbled to himself as he walked back to his 
quarters, "We'll all be dead." 

"Did you say something, sir?" asked the Corporal standing at attention 
beside the entrance. 

"Huh, oh yes," he replied. "Ask Sergeant Lopez to report to me at my 
headquarters immediately." 

"Yes, sir," saluted the Corporal, clicking his heels together, taking off at 
a double step. 

There were less than thirty men in the whole garrison, the rest had been 
marched to Mexico City. And the fool Colonel had ordered him to attack 
Zapata's army with thirty men, half of whom were drunk! 

No sir! He needed a woman and somehow he was going to get one tonight. But 
if he followed the fool Colonel's orders he would never see another woman! 

No sir! That would never do. He needed a plan and he needed one fast. 

All in all, there were thirty-four people in the garrison. Twenty-eight were 
soldiers, one blacksmith, one bartender, three prostitutes, and the 
Colonel's wife. 

The Colonel's wife! 

The Colonel and his wife would be leaving at any moment. He was sure of it! 
And they would probably be leaving alone as the Colonel wouldn't want any 
witnesses to embarrass him. 

He was, after all, running away from the field of battle. 

All sorts of sordid visions flashed across the Captain's mind. Oh wouldn't 
it be a beautiful revenge! To rape the Colonel's wife, that pretentious and 
fastidious bitch! 

It would be right. It would be just. After all, hadn't the Colonel sentenced 
him to a senseless and almost certain death ? 

He would have to kill the Colonel, though. That would be an absolute must. 
But it would be no problem. The Colonel was old, fat, and flabby. 

His wife, though, ah, she was young and beautiful! Probably young enough to 
be the Colonel's granddaughter. But she was no lady, that bitch. Other 
officers had always been welcome at the Colonel's quarters. But not he, not 
Captain Contreras, his harelip wasn't socially acceptable. 

A plan, he thought. Must formulate a plan. First things first. Would he get 
away with it? Why not? 

No reason against it-none at all. All the men sent out to fight Zapata would 
be slaughtered, that was for certain. 

If the Colonel's disappearance was ever investigated it would be a 
reasonable assumption to believe that the Colonel had died a glorious death 
beside his soldiers. 

What about the Colonel's wife? Hmm, that would be a problem. Or would it? If 
the troops sent out to attack Zapata were destroyed, as they no doubt would 
be, there would be nothing to stop the Zapata forces from capturing this 
garrison, and they would certainly do that too. 

Perfect! If anyone ever bothered to question her disappearance it could 
easily be explained. She was kidnapped by the rebel forces. 

Now the most difficult part. How would he explain himself, the only 
survivor? 

The hideous scar on his face! Simple! Fantastically simple! Besides the 
Vargas boy the only other people who knew about his scar were in this 
garrison. 

If ever questioned, and he would be, he would explain that during hand to 
hand combat he was bayoneted across the face and left for dead when he lost 
consciousness. When he came to, he would explain, all his companions were 
dead and his only concern from thereon was to escape from behind the enemy 
lines. Perfect! 

The only problem which remained was how he was going to get out of leading 
the damn troops to their death. 

Sergeant Lopez knocked and asked for permission to come in. 

"Come in, Sergeant," he hollered. "Come in!" 

The Sergeant came in and stood at attention, firmly fixing his eyes on 
Captain Contreras. 

"Sergeant," Captain Contreras said decisively, without hesitation. "We have 
reports on a small rebel force, not more than fifteen men, operating 
northeast of here. You are to take every man in the garrison and find this 
force and destroy it. Leave at once, Sergeant, at once!" 

"Si, mi Capitan," answered the Sergeant, clicking his heels, without 
questioning his orders. 

A good soldier, thought Captain Contreras. 

Too bad. The good ones always die. Or did they die because they were stupid? 

* * * 

Colonel Sanchez certainly didn't think of himself as being stupid. If he was 
going to be a hero, then everybody should know it. So before his troops rode 
out, he sent General Obregon the following communication: 

"Following the highest dictates of our noble profession, I have decided it 
would be cowardly to wait for the enemy to attack. I have therefore decided 
to attack Zapata's army. Farewell and Viva Mexico." 

And now, his every movement being observed, the unsuspecting Colonel Sanchez 
threw away the last batch of documents into the fireplace. Of course, later 
on he would have to explain why he, the commander of the noble troops who 
had given their all, had not been killed. But there would be ample time 
ahead to think about that little problem and to come up with a satisfactory 
answer. 

He should have been pleased with himself. It hadn't been easy but he had 
followed Obregon's orders to the letter. Almost. But something was bothering 
him. 

Scratching his enormous behind, his mouth opened wide in an uncontrollable 
yawn. 

Not that he really gave a damn about any one of his soldiers, their lives, 
their miserable well-being. But, after all, he had come from a good 
Christian, Spanish family. It was always in bad taste to send men to their 
certain death. 

But no, he wasn't to blame. It was the Revolution and he could understand 
that. 

Unfortunate, very unfortunate. But wealth was after all much more important, 
much more important than a few miserable lives. He could understand that. 

"Hurry, dear," he called to his wife, who was in the adjoining room packing 
a few of their personal things. "We should be leaving as soon as possible." 

Serving himself a double shot of imported scotch, he promised himself a hot 
bath when this ordeal came to a happy conclusion. 

Yes, he could certainly understand. The Revolution would soon come to an 
end. It could have come to an end for quite some time now. The secret was 
there, he thought. Some people were waiting for the right moment, that 
moment when a few people would make vast fortunes, before bringing the 
actual fighting to a satisfactory conclusion. 

His guess was that the Americans to the North, as well as the French and the 
English, would soon recognize the Carranza regime. Once that happened, of 
course, these parties would aid Carranza. In order to protect their several 
investments these countries would give the Carranza regime materials, 
weapons, loans, gifts, and what not. There was certainly going to be a great 
deal of money unaccounted for. 

He, himself, would not benefit from any of these goings-on, but he was 
certainly not going to contribute his life to the dubious business, either. 

He was too old to be inspired by all this crap of dying for democracy, duty, 
or any other bullshit which happened to come along. 

He was, after all, doing what anybody with any sense was doing, and many 
were; he was looking out for number one. 

His orders were to defend this garrison. Well, he was doing just that, and 
more. He was defending this garrison aggressively. He had not waited for the 
enemy to strike first. He had gone after the enemy. Leadership! That's what 
it was. It would look good on his record. 

"I'm ready, dear," said his wife, coming into the room to join him. "Where 
are we going?" She kissed him on the forehead. 

This is what he wanted. To live his remaining years in peace and quiet and 
to screw his young wife every time he possibly could. 

"Away from here," he replied, enjoying her youth, her fresh beauty. "To 
Acapulco, perhaps. Soon it will be dawn," he went on, kissing her hand. 
"It's best if we go now." 

Dreading the long trip ahead of them, he slowly got himself into his tan 
coat. 

"I'll be back in a few minutes." he said. "The horses have to be saddled. I 
am so sorry, all the discomfort you will have to bear. But it can't be 
helped." 

He thought he saw a shadow, something moving. Impossible! Must be his 
imagination. Outside of the prostitutes, everyone else had left an hour 
before. 

Yes. They would go to Acapulco. His brother had an hacienda near the sea. 

It would be the perfect place to rest and think and wait. 

He found a horse and a donkey. Well, it would have to do, until they reached 
the first village or town. Then they would travel in something more 
comfortable. 

A scream! His wife? Yes! His wife was screaming! Running as hard as his 
short legs would carry him, which was not very fast, he reached his 
quarters. His wife was crying. 

"I thought I saw someone looking in," she sobbed, indicating the small 
window. 

"Everything's ready," he said, placing his fat arm around her small 
shoulders. "Come on. We'll have a great deal of fun at my brother's 
hacienda." 

* * * 

The Colonel's wife had been right. Captain Contreras was lurking in the 
shadows outside, looking in. 

He had been watching their every move, the tiniest details of their very 
existence. 

He had been right, of course. The fat Colonel had intended to pull out all 
the time while ordering his own men to certain death. 

Damn, this bastard Colonel! He had the patience of an old lady. For over an 
hour now he had been burning papers from his file, scratching his fat ass, 
sipping liquor from a delicate-looking glass, and yawning. 

All that yawning was even making him sleepy. He wished the Colonel would get 
off his fat ass and start moving. The sun would be coming up soon and the 
farther away they were from this garrison by then, the better. 

Through the small window he could barely see the Colonel's wife in the inner 
room, walking back and forth. Her image was blurry but just thinking about 
what he was going to do to the big-breasted bitch was making him horny. 

Should he kill the bastard Colonel before or after? Thoughtfully he ran his 
hand over the semi-circular scar, his hand trembling a little. 

More than ever now, he wished he had never allowed the Vargas boy to escape. 
The fewer enemies one had, the more comfortable life could be. 

It was still beyond him, how the boy had managed to throw himself at him, 
the way he had been tied to that chair. But while he had been screwing the 
woman, the boy had landed on top of him chair and all. 

He should have killed him, right there and then; instead, he had thrown the 
boy bodily through the door. 

No. It would be best to kill the Colonel right off. It would be more fun, 
anyway. Without any noisy spectators the creamy-looking bitch might even 
respond passionately. It had happened before with other women. These women, 
they hated him for his ugliness, for what he was doing to them; and yet, 
during the act itself they responded! 

At last! The Colonel was getting into his coat. But to hell with him. Look 
at that ass on his beautiful bitch! 

Oh God, he was going to kiss that ass, bite it, run his tongue over it! 

Run! Run to the corner of the building! The Colonel came out, hesitating a 
moment and proceeded in the direction of the stables. 

Careful now. Don't let the fast bastard see you now. Slowly now, very, very 
slowly. Let's see what the bitch is doing now that she is alone. 

She was in the other room, a little bit beyond the door separating the two 
rooms. She was taking her dress and slip off and putting on a pair of pants. 

Oh, God! Will you look at that! Should he do it now? Should he? 

Careful, you anxious idiot! Now you've done it. She saw you! Stupid! Stupid! 
Stupid! 

Hide! Run and hide, quickly! Maybe, she'll think she just imagined she saw 
someone. 

Better stay hidden. Any time now, they'll be coming out. Any time now, he 
was going to be squeezing that gorgeous ass, sucking those unbelievable 
tits, enjoying her cries and moans. Anv time now! 

Hurry it up, you fat bald bastard! The penis can wait only so long. And this 
penis is already roaring to go! 

A mile or two away from the garrison would do. There wasn't a house or hut 
for at least five miles around the garrison. And there were plenty of trees 
and underbrush and gullies a-round here. Any place would do. 

Ahh, careful now. Here they come. Say your prayers, Colonel. Say your 
prayers because where you're going you won't need that fat piece of ass any 
more. 

Yes. He would kill the Colonel quickly, as soon as possible. Only one point 
he insisted upon. The Colonel must know he intended to rape his wife. Then 
he would kill him. 

The Colonel helped his wife mount the donkey, walked both his horse and the 
burro to the gate. 

He would give the Colonel a ten minute head-start. And within twenty to 
thirty minutes from now he would be on top of the bitch, screwing her good. 
He could promise her that much. It would be the best screwing she ever got! 

Slowly, quietly, the Colonel moved the huge wooden gate open. The two 
animals walked through the small opening, and the big gate closed behind 
them. 

Before following the Colonel, there was something he had a sudden urge to 
do, to kill the no good whore who earlier in the evening had humiliated him. 

No. It was best not to obey this urge. What if the two other whores woke up? 
They would make one hell of a racket. 

No. Some other time he would get even with that no good whore, if the Zapata 
troops didn't tear her insides out first. 

Better concentrate on the Colonel. Should he approach him directly, with 
some excuse, or would it be better to hide somewhere along the way and jump 
him? 

Yes. It would be more fun to approach him directly. What excuse ? 

"We met Zapata troops two hours distance from the garrison," he would tell 
the Colonel. "With the exception of myself, every man was wiped out. And 
they are coming, Colonel, in great force. I suggest we hide immediately, or 
else they will see us, as the sun is already coming up. We can escape later, 
tonight. Anywhere will do, Colonel, anywhere, preferably a gulley." 

Perfect! Perfect approach. And there in the gulley he would pull a gun on 
him. Beautiful plan! 

The ugly Captain ran across the open square of the garrison, climbed the 
steps to one of the guard towers and gazed in every direction. 

There was very little light as yet but he immediately spotted the two 
shadows moving in a south-westernly direction, nearly leaving the open space 
behind them and approaching the forest. 

He ran down the stairs, three steps at a time and mounted his black stallion 
which he had tied to one of the steps under the caseway. He rode up to the 
gate and quickly opened it. 

"Coronel!" he screamed, riding his stallion as if it were part of his body. 
"Coronel! Don't shoot, Coronel! It's me. Captain Contreras!" 

The sound of hoofs hitting dirt and rock slowly crept its way into the 
Colonel's brain. 

Numbly, almost stupidly, he looked at his wife. Poor woman, she was 
frightened, her eyes enlarged with fear. 

Drawing out his hip revolver, he pointed towards the forest about fifty feet 
away. "Hide behind those trees," he whispered, kicking the donkey's rear 
with his left foot. 

The rebels! Had they destroyed Captain Contreras already? Were they here, so 
soon! 

Only one man though. Who could it be? It made no difference. Shoot him down 
and ask questions later! 

Quickly he placed the revolver back in its holster and pulled out a rifle 
hanging from the right side of the saddle. 

Slowly he aimed the weapon at the rapidly approaching man-beast. The trigger 
felt cold and hard and his left eye twitched a little. 

"Don't shoot!" he heard a familiar voice resounding in his eardrums. "Don't 
shoot, Coro-nel! It's me, Captain Contreras." 

Captain Contreras! Now what in God's name was he doing here, riding like 
Satan himself, scaring him and his wife half to death? And where were the 
rest of the men! 

"Run for your life!" he heard, and a chill ran up and down his spine. "The 
rebels are coming! Run for your life! The rebels are coming!" 

Oh, God! What would they do to him, to his wife! Run! Yes, you bloody fool! 
Run for your life! 

Momentarily stunned, his heart frozen with fear. With fumbling hands, he 
placed the rifle back in its holster. 

"Run!" echoed the frenzied voice. "Run! Run! Run!" 

With amazing agility the Colonel lifted both legs and brought them down, 
hard, on the animal's sides. And on top of the mad, wild, bouncing animal he 
hung on for dear life. 

The Captain's stallion was now running side to side with the Colonel's 
animal. His face was a mask of drunken excitement. 

"Hide as soon as possible!" screamed the Captain at the top of his lungs. 
"It's the only chance we have!" 

Yes! Yes, of course! They must hide! Anywhere! Inside the forest there were 
a million different places where they could hide. 

Bless his soul, the ugly Captain. Ugly but efficient. How could he ever 
thank him. Had he not warned them, they could easily have walked into the 
path of an enemy patrol. Thank God, he came along. 

The Colonel's wife, badly frightened and gasping for air, was waiting a few 
feet inside the entrance to the forest. 

"We must hide all day," Captain Contreras said, riding his horse deeper into 
the forest. The Colonel and his wife followed sheepishly. 

"We never had a chance, Coronel," the Captain called back, riding on. "We 
hadn't gone four miles when we were ambushed by an overwhelming force. So 
far as I know," he continued, pretending to be deeply moved, "None of the 
other men escaped. 

"I was lucky," he explained. "I was about a hundred feet behind the rest of 
the troops, when the attack came. We had just crossed a stream," he said 
with great apology, "and my horse. Thank God, but my horse was still 
thirsty!" 

The sun was now beginning its eternal route, its rays visible like giant 
spears forming an enormous crown. 

"The sooner we find a place, the better," Captain Contreras lamented. "That 
damn sun could very well cost us our lives." 

"I know an excellent place which will conceal us," suggested the Colonel's 
wife, a little more color in her face now that her terrible fright had 
passed, "There's a cave about half a mile from here. I found it one day when 
we came on a picnic." 

"Yes, by all means lead us to it," ordered the Colonel. "But hurry, dear! 
Hurry!" 

"Yes, by all means lead us to it," repeated the ugly Captain, his monstrous 
face melting in an amused grin. 

They followed her to the bottom of a small hill, which was surrounded by 
great trees, almost concealed by them. "It's on the other side," she said, 
frowning when she looked at Captain Contreras. "I'm afraid the animals won't 
be able to get through all that." She pointed out the heavy underbrush and 
very rocky terrain. 

"Well, this looks like a good place," sighed the Colonel. "Captain, take 
care of the animals ! " 

"Come on, dear," he said, dismounting his enormous weight and then helping 
his wife off the dumb-looking burro. "Let's see what this cave of yours is 
like." 

With great difficulty the Colonel and his wife made their way through the 
underbrush, slowly making their way over the sharp rocks, around the side of 
the gray green colored hill. 

"There it is," called his wife, pointing to the bottom of the hill, where it 
appeared as though part of the hill had been eaten away by some giant 
rodent. 

They made their way down, the jagged rocks trying to cut through the soles 
of their footwear. When they reached the side of the inward dent the Colonel 
slipped and slid on his behind over a considerable distance of small sharp 
rocks. 

"Ay!" he screamed in agony. "Ay! Ay! Ay!" Reaching the bottom of what now 
appeared to be a small dead-end valley, he jumped to his feet and started to 
hop back and forth, both hands rubbing his bleeding behind. 

His wife made her way down considerably easier than he and was trying to 
calm him down when a harsh voice sounded over them. 

"All right!" menaced the Captain, a rifle in his hands standing tall over 
them. "The god damn clowning is over!" 

What? Had he heard correctly! The Colonel turned purple with rage. How dare 
the ugly bastard talk to him in that tone and manner! Was he crazy as well 
as ugly? 

The Captain made his way down the slope, easily, solidly. "All right!" His 
voice was cold and cruel. "You don't have much time to live, you fat 
bastard. Before I make love to your big-assed bitch here, I want you to see 
her naked one last time. Take her clothes off!" 

"You're crazy!" The Colonel's voice trembled with rage. "I'll have you hung 
by your tongue!" 

Contreras replied with a blast from the rifle. The bullet dug into the 
ground inches from the Colonel's foot. 

"Take her clothes off!" Contreras ordered again. 

like hell he would! Who the hell did he think he was talking to! 

"He'll kill us!" his wife broke down crying. "Do as he says." 

"Do as he says!" The Colonel was shocked. "Are you crazy, too!" 

"I don't want to die!" she cried hysterically. "I don't want to die!" 

Die! To die here, in the middle of nowhere! No! He didn't want to die 
either. 

But this was his wife; his young, beautiful wife. Undress her? No! Never! 
This woman was his. It was his ass, his breasts, everything his. 

"Anything else," he pleaded. "Anything you want. But not this. You want 
money? Land? Name what you want!" 

"I want your big-assed bitch! Now take her clothes off!" 

The Colonel looked at his wife. She was crying like a child. Was there 
nothing he could do? Something? Anything! 

He looked at the man in front of him. Cold, brutal, determined eyes. 

"No," he said defeated, crying. "I can't. I can't do what you ask." 

He tried hard, harder than he had ever tried anything, to draw his revolver 
at his side. 

Contreras pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the Colonel's neck. He 
swayed upright for a moment, then toppled over. 

"I didn't think the bastard cared about anything." Contreras smiled 
triumphantly. "Off with your clothes!" 

Shocked out of her senses, she obeyed automatically. Sobbing, shaking, her 
eyes shut tight, she removed her coat, climbed out of her pants, and took 
off her blouse. 

He put the rifle down and stripped off his uniform and underwear. 

"Everything," he said, not so harshly now. But she just stood there, 
sobbing, her eyes shut, a magnificent body of a woman. 

He walked up to her and placed his gorilla-like hands on her small waist. 
Slowly his hands moved outward, down her curvaceous hips, inward down her 
beautiful legs, her panties rolling down with the weight of his hands. 

He stood up and walked around her, his eyes filled with lust, his mind 
appreciating every inch of her. He stopped behind her, his penis poking her 
pear-shaped rear. Leisurely he unhooked the brassiere, and allowed it to 
fall down by her panties. 

He placed both hands around her breasts and squeezed them for a while. 

He moved backward, his mind now insane with the feel of the young woman's 
flesh and lifted her gently into his arms, slowly resting her trembling body 
on the ground. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

When the thirty-five year old General Obregon received the communication 
sent him by Colonel Sanchez, he felt completely awed. And then he was 
nauseated, especially so because he never intended to hold on to Mexico 
City. 

Obregon was a former businessman from Los Alamos, Sonora. And being a 
businessman he always performed under two plans. Always, he held an 
alternative plan in view. Thus he was always prepared to meet any 
eventuality. 

His short-term objective was to hold Mexico City until the right moment. At 
this point, his two plans would blend and he would apply his forces to 
realize the long-term objective: the destruction of the Villa and Zapata 
armies. 

In effect, he wanted to hold Mexico City long enough to serve as the bait 
that would bring Villa's army flowing down south from the north while 
Zapata's army rushed north from the south. It was a risky business, but 
under no circumstances did he intend to lose the harbors of Tampico and 
Veracruz. Once he abandoned Mexico City and President Carranza had provided 
them with more arms, he would have his forces from Tampico move into Leon 
and Celaya. Thus he would control Central Mexico. 

At the same time, he would move his forces from Veracruz back to Mexico 
City. And thus he would crush the rebel armies. 

In the meantime, however, he was trying to do everything possible to save 
Zapata from his own destruction. He sympathized with Zapata on one 
significant point. 

Back in 1910 when he decided to join the Madero movement against the 
dictatorship of Don Porfirio Diaz, one of the main factors entering into his 
decision had been the dreadful and wretched condition of the common peasant. 

To be sure, he was a businessman and he believed in the profit system. But 
what Don Porfirio Diaz and his Cientificos, Diaz' economic advisers, had 
done to the Mexican Indian was very bad business. The Cientificos were great 
patrons of material development but regarded the Mexican Indian as being 
less than civilized. So they were convinced that Mexico's only hope of 
progress lay in the importation of foreign capital. Accordingly their 
policies promoted crass materialism, which made the rich richer and the poor 
poorer. 

And, by God, it was bad business. He had crossed the border into the United 
States many times and with his own eyes he had seen that a huge middle class 
with money made for great national prosperity. But as it was, Mexico was 
actually a very poor country. There were fifteen million Mexicans who 
couldn't even be considered a market of one because not one of them had a 
centavo to spend. To be really ridiculous but nevertheless true, all of 
Mexico could be considered as a market of about one thousand people, since 
only about one thousand people, Mexicans and foreigners, controlled all the 
wealth they were the only ones with money to spend. 

So he sympathized with Zapata and his followers. The government should 
decree a law which would return to many Indians their communal lands. Back 
in the 1890's Don Porfirio Diaz had confiscated all communal lands held by 
Indian villages. And the government should also assume the obligation of 
breaking up the great landed estates to provide plots for all those people 
who were now peones. 

The trouble was that Zapata and his followers wanted their lands and their 
liberty now-not tomorrow, nor an hour from the present, but now. And the 
point was that even if the government was willing to do right, it would take 
it decades of argument and compromise. 

No, he did not want to destroy Zapata if he could help it. He hoped Zapata 
would pay heed to a communication he had earlier dispatched to him. But for 
now, he would proceed with his campaign. He ordered the main body of his 
troops to retreat to Veracruz and Tampico, leaving only enough troops in 
Mexico to offer a fierce and convincing resistance. And he sent Carranza a 
communique advising him of his retreat. He hoped Carranza would not give him 
any difficulty on this intention. As far as he was concerned Mexico City had 
no significance, except political. But then, Carranza was very much a 
politician. 

Zapata was, however, no politician and at this moment he was a very tired 
soldier. 

Compelled by an intrinsic restlessness, too weary to sleep, over-awed by his 
responsibilities: Zapata, chosen leader of his people, gazed upward at the 
dark, impersonal, sky of his beloved Mexico. 

"God," he whispered emotionally. "How long? How long will this senseless 
slaughter go on?" 

Once he had believed. The one way of making people share the land and wealth 
of Mexico: the one way of forcing people to care: the one and only way to 
hurt them, and to hurt them badly. This he had believed. 

And God knew, and well He must know, the common people had been exploited 
far too long, God's own church helping the landlords to enslave the people. 

Zapata didn't know anymore. It had lasted too long and nothing had been 
accomplished. He had waged the Revolution for nearly four years and it had 
achieved but one thing. 

That was the corruption of nearly all the revolutionary leaders. The people 
wanted land and liberty, and by every right, land and liberty should be 
theirs. And while the people still starved for their rights, what had the 
revolutionary leaders done? With the possible exception of Pancho Villa, the 
other leaders were after their own selfish ends. 

After the betrayal of Madero, there had come Huerta, whose only interest had 
been the sheer joy of power. And now Carranza had named himself President. 
It would not do, for Carranza. was not at all interested in the poor and 
downtrodden of Mexico. 

No. He did not know anymore. The Revolution had become bigger than life, too 
vital, too complex for any one person to control. But he was determined to 
fight all the way up to Mexico co City and there destroy the forces of 
Obregon. 

To protect his rear he would leave behind a force of five hundred men, and 
dispatch them westward to destroy the garrison near Cuernavaca. At the break 
of dawn, he and the remainder of his troops would move northwest towards 
Mexico City. 

"But dear God," he mumbled. "For what? Were I to destroy both Carranza and 
Obregon, what then?" 

Suddenly he burst out in hysterical laughter, shaking his head, and was even 
embarrassed before himself. Had he really been that foolish once? Had he 
really thought once the Diaz dictatorship was crushed that everything good 
would follow? Had he really felt that? 

Yes! In the name of a thousand devils, yes! Had he but known! Had he but 
guessed that every man, that every leader and follower, were but after his 
own goal, his own desires! Had he known, he would never have helped unleash 
this monster, this disease that was corrupting his Mexico! 

No. He did not know where it would all end. But this he knew. The monster 
was unleashed. It was there. And he was mounted on it, and he dared not get 
off it. 

He closed his tired eyes and tried to sleep. But he kept thinking of Madero, 
the little man who convinced the people that land and liberty would be 
theirs. Of all the betrayers he had been the worse. He had seemed so God 
damn sincere! What had the lying son-of-a-no-good whore told him. "Emiliano, 
you start a rebellion in the south and land and liberty will be ours." So he 
had believed the little bastard and while 

Pascual Orozco and Pancho Villa raised hell all over Chihuahua he carried 
out his rebellion for Morelos. 

What had the little man told him after he was elected president. "Yes, 
Emiliano, yes, I know I have not carried out my promise. But you don't know, 
you just don't know what I am facing here. The conservative element keeps 
blocking me at every turn, the State Department of the United States insists 
every minute of the day that I must not jeopardize American property. Even 
my own father and brother keep threatening me that I must not destroy what 
took Don Porfirio Diaz thirty-five years to build." 

Well-what the hell did he care. Either Madero was his own man or he wasn't. 
"Yes," the little man had said nervously, "I will keep my promise, but I 
must have more time." 

More time! No! No! No! "Not one second more," he had screamed at Madero. 

And he had thought that Madero understood the people: their hunger, their 
humiliation, their chains. But the son-of-a-bitch had understood nothing. 

So he started another rebellion, this time against Madero. But before his 
movement had gone very far, Huerta disposed of Madero. 

Then Carranza had gotten in touch with him. "We must coordinate our 
rebellion," he had said, "take my word for it, Emiliano, Huerta represents 
the conservative element and he will carry on in the tradition of Don 
Porfirio Diaz." 

Nothing more needed to be said. The fight against Huerta had been as all 
struggles are, hard and bitter. But when Huerta had been defeated and 
Carranza had been named provisional president, Pancho Villa had asked, "Now, 
mi Presidente, what about land and liberty." 

"Yes, of course," had been the answer, "Land and liberty will follow an 
orderly process of laws and regulations." 

"And how long will this take?" Zapata had demanded. 

"Five, ten years," Carranza had answered, "maybe even longer." 

* * * 

Zapata opened his eyes and stood up. He felt much, very much older than his 
thirty-two years. He felt as ancient as the rocks; but like a woman who is 
nine months pregnant, he felt he had a job to do. And he ordered the 
mobilization of his troops. It was dawn and for many it was time to get up, 
only to go and die. 

The rebel column had been on its kill or die march for some twenty minutes 
when a lone rider was spotted. 

"There, over there," said the Captain riding next to Zapata. "Do you see 
him!" 

Zapata spotted the tan uniformed man bearing a white flag, his horse running 
fast and hard. 

"Should I shoot him?" asked the short, heavy-bearded Captain. 

"No!" snapped Zapata. "Let's see what he wants." 

"I think I should shoot him." insisted the little Captain, remembering the 
many times the white flag had been dishonored. 

Zapata turned to the Captain, his eyes burning and furious. "No! He's 
bearing the white flag!" 

The Captain spat twice, two times hitting the same stone, but obeyed. "Si, 
mi General!" 

The man bearing the white flag came to a sudden stop some thirty feet away 
and then proceeded at a slow trot. "General Zapata?" he asked, his voice 
trembling slightly. "I have a message from General Obregon." 

Zapata received a bright red, very impressive-looking envelope. Breaking the 
seal he unfolded a sheet of very delicate paper. 

"Read it to me," he ordered, handing the perfumed piece of paper to the 
heavy bearded Captain. 

"I can't read," replied the little Captain, wrinkling his nose nervously. 

"Ignorante," smiled Zapata. "You!" he said to the messenger. "You read it!" 

The messenger took the letter and while his fingers played nervously with 
it, he read it in a steady voice. 

"General Zapata. You cannot win. Return to the mountains, return to your 
home. And advise your people to do the same. 

"You cannot win. You cannot win for you are no longer fighting for the 
people. 

"No. You cannot win because you are now fighting against the people. 

"Go home before you and your followers are declared criminals. 

"The power to decide the destiny of this land is now in the hands of the 
Convention of National Delegates. It is they who represent all the peoples 
of this land; and it is they who will now argue and negotiate among 
themselves as to how best implement the ideas of the Revolution. 

"Good friend, you have already done more than enough. To the people you are 
the spirit of the Revolution. It was you who stood proud and strong at a 
time when it was supremely dangerous to do so. 

"But don't spoil it now. Don't try to force your singular ideas, no matter 
how noble they may be, upon a whole nation. Let this nation decide for 
itself, and according to its own best interests. 

"The Convention of National Delegates have refused to recognize the claims 
of Gutierrez to be president. This refusal does not mean that they have also 
refused to recognize the claims of many people to own their own piece of 
land. It does mean that they have decided that other matters have priority 
in the overall interests of Mexico itself." 

The heavy bearded Captain interrupted furiously, spitting in the messenger's 
face. "Other priorities," he almost gagged. "Thousands upon thousands of men 
died because they wanted a miserable piece of land and to be free of the 
Dons! And this miserable burro claims there are other priorities! Por Dios, 
I am going to cut your tongue out!" 

"No!" screamed Zapata. "Let him finish." 

He was sweating under the morning sun and he finished in a nervous voice. 

"And you will understand, therefore, that you are no longer fighting against 
Carranza the individual or Obregon the individual nor their personal 
aspirations but fighting in fact against a Convention of National Delegates 
representing the peoples of Mexico and therefore their combined interests. 

"You have fought long and well. The Revolution has spawned many excellent 
ideas which in time will become realities. If you sincerely desire to 
shorten the required time, put you weapons down that we may concentrate our 
full energy to the real problems of Mexico. Sincerely your, General 
Obregon." 

"Now, can I cut his tongue out?" asked the still enraged little Captain. 

"Yes!" answered Zapata. "Cut his lying tongue out! But don't kill him!" 

Did Carranza and Obregon think him so ignorant! A Convention of National 
Delegates! It was probably composed of alcoholics they picked up in the 
streets and alleys of Mexico City! 

Priorities! Priorities to land and liberty! What the devil were they talking 
about! That's what the Revolution had been all about! That's what it was all 
about! 

"What do I do with it?" asked the little Captain, the bloody tongue in his 
left hand. 

"Place it in the red envelope," replied Zapata, "and give it to the 
messenger when he comes to." 

When the messenger regained consciousness he was placed on top of his horse. 
And with the red envelope tied to his mouth, he heard Zapata fuming behind 
him. "Tell Obregon and Carranza that the same thing awaits them!" 

But Carranza was a man who did not need to be told what awaited him. He was 
a man of imagination, if somewhat pessimistic. 

Tired and disgusted, Carranza, el Senor Presidente, received the message 
sent to him by General Obregon. 

He took a long, deep breath. He loved the smell of the sea, here in 
Veracruz. Still, he missed his home in Coahuila. Sometimes he wished he had 
never left his rancho, despising his present involvement in the politics of 
this troubled land. 

He hated the present chaos; the senseless, hopeless misunderstanding 
existing among former friends; the complete disagreements as to what the 
nation's goals should be. He hated this chaos with passionate conviction. 

Certainly there should be labor and social legislation and the abolishment 
of peonage. Many people had sacrificed their lives for that, too. 

And Mexico should certainly have more controls pertaining to the 
exploitation of its natural resources. Mexico, after all, did belong to the 
Mexican people and the benefits of its wealth should go to them, and not to 
the Americans or the English or the French. 

But what Zapata and Villa and others did not wish to understand was that all 
these changes required great spans of time. No, to them it was an easy 
matter; a proclamation was all they offered and to them the problem was 
solved. Fools! Ignorant fools is what they were! 

And what did they do when their proclamations were not accepted ? More war! 
More revolution! More destruction! 

No! A nation seeking international respect could not afford to behave in 
such a foolish and irresponsible manner. 

Changes must come but they must come about through a system of law and 
order. True, such changes require a great deal of time, but they are more 
stable and secure, too. 

He read part of the message and smiled. It was a step in the right 
direction. Perhaps, there was still hope. 

A convention of delegates representing the various Mexican states had 
refused to recognize the claims of Eulatio Gutierrez to be President of 
Mexico. 

Yes, perhaps Mexico was beginning to regain its sanity. Someday, perhaps 
soon, Mexico would stand free and proud among the world's communities. 

He yawned; very, very tired. It had been a long, long time since he, and 
Madero, and Zapata, and Villa, and Obregon, and many others had overthrown 
the thirty-five year dictatorship of Don Porfirio Diaz. 

"The Mexico of Don Porfirio Diaz already has the respect of the world" 
Carranza heard a far away voice inside his brain. "Why do you dislike his 
regime so much ? " The voice had belonged to his father, a wealthy landowner 
from Coahuila. "If anything he has made us richer. And look what he has done 
for the nation. You may not remember because you were very young then. But 
before Diaz was elected president every other man was a bandit and nobody 
was safe. But he has given us internal order now for more than three 
decades. And under his regime, rail lines have been extended, harbors have 
been built, communication lines have been built, water systems have been 
improved, drainage and canal projects have been completed, and thousands of 
public buildings have been constructed, and now petroleum is being 
exploited!" 

"Yes," Carranza would argue with his father, "but look how he has done it. 
By borrowing foreign capital, that's how." 

"Ay, mi hijo, mi hijo," his father would say in a condescending manner, "My 
son, don't be stupid. On a national level it is not a dishonor to borrow 
money. On the contrary, foreign investors only lend their money to nations 
whom they consider honorable and willing and able to pay back." 

"Maybe so, maybe so," Carranza would answer his father, "but you must admit 
that the man has become an absolute dictator." 

"So what," the old man had said, smiling suspiciously, "unless you want to 
become President." 

"No, no," he had objected faintly, "I just want to be Governor of Coahuila 
but I don't think Diaz will approve my election this time." 

"Why not?" his father had asked. "He has approved your election as a 
Congressman in Mexico City. Why won't he approve of you now?" 

"Well," he hesitated and decided not to answer. The old man had an awful 
temper and a bad heart. But the truth was that everyone knew that the 
presidential elections of 1910 had been rigged, and when Madero challenged 
the balloting he had backed Madero's challenge in Congress! 

No, Don Porfirio Diaz had not approved his becoming Governor. And instead of 
waiting and possibly facing further persecution, he joined the Madero 
movement. 

After Madero became president he assumed the office of Governor of Coahuila. 
But when Madero was so cowardly assassinated by Huerta, he knew the 
conservative elements behind Huerta would soon attempt to destroy him. It 
had been either he or them. And so he had destroyed Huerta. But now that he 
was President, Zapata and Villa were trying to break his back. 

Yes, he had always dreamed of being President and now that he was, he must 
try and do the right things. But God, oh God, it was difficult enough to 
know what was right, with everyone pulling at him from a different 
direction. But this civil war had him emotionally exhausted. 

Well, first things first, he thought to himself and finished reading the 
message sent to him by General Obregon. He was shocked, then he felt furious 
and again he went into shock. 

Of all times for this to happen, why now? When total victory had been so 
near, why didn't Obregon put up a better defense for Mexico City? 

Carranza was beside himself; his eyes were wild, almost in a trance. 

His fingers played with a pen and out of desperation broke it in half. What 
did Obregon expect in reply? Hadn't he known how important it had been to 
hold Mexico City, especially now! 

He looked at the messenger standing before him and shook his head. No. He 
still couldn't believe it. He read the message again. 

"Have retreated from Mexico City. Will see you soon and will explain in 
person." 

"But we must hold Mexico City." he pleaded, his begging wild eyes fixed on 
the messenger. "We must!" 

"Mi senor Presidente," replied the messenger nervously. "It's too late. We 
have already retreated ! " 

"Yes, of course," whispered Carranza, taking hold of himself. 

Something must be done and fast. Mexico City must be regained, and the 
sooner the better. 

He glanced at the papers scattered on top of the desk. From everywhere! From 
America, from South America; good, solid news! But what good would they do 
now? Certainly no good to him, or Obregon, nor to Mexico. 

Tears flowed down his cheeks and he slammed the desk with the palm of his 
right hand. According to all the information laying on his desk, and God, 
now how he wished it were false, a number of the South American countries 
together with the American government would soon agree to recognize that 
Mexican government which showed the greatest success in maintaining law and 
order. And God Almighty, this was of supreme importance: whoever controlled 
the capital city would be recognized as the established government. 

"What does General Obregon need to regain control of the Capital?" whispered 
Carranza, his voice an anguished cry. 

"Weapons, mi Presidente," the messenger answered. He, of course did not know 
what his General was planning to do. "Weapons of all kinds and sizes! We 
need more men of course. But if we could get more weapons, we would have no 
problem in recruiting more men." 

"Weapons," said Carranza. "Weapons, yes, of course." That had always been 
the main problem. 

Weapons! That was the tricky solution to the whole problem. Whoever was 
recognized as the established government would enjoy the sympathy of the 
various governments to the south and more important the Americans to the 
north. And sympathy translated into reality meant weapons; weapons to crush 
rebellions, to protect foreign property, to enforce law and order, to create 
good will among the foreign communities of the world. 

And that was the only way to proceed in a world which was like a den of 
hungry wolves; by creating good will and not antagonism. 

"Mi Presidente," the messenger interrupted the silence, concerned about the 
President's visible paleness. "Is everything all right? I mean do you feel 
well?" 

Carranza shuddered. Terror! Horror! Disaster ! In a moment's vision he saw 
all of Mexico burned to the ground! 

If Zapata, Villa, and their bunch took the reins of control what would they 
do ? God, what wouldn't they do! 

Well-meaning men, yes! But ignorant, God they were utterly, hopelessly 
ignorant! They knew nothing, nothing, but nothing of world politics! 

They would take control and wait but for enough time to accumulate all the 
weapons being offered by foreigners. They would crush the opposition. 

And then, dear God, then they would bring instant destruction to Mexico! 

Yes! He saw it all too clearly. They would divide all of Mexico among the 
peasants and then proceed by confiscating all foreign property! 

And what would the foreigners then do ? God, oh God! In a month's time, 
foreign troops would have trampled Mexico to death! 

"Mi Presidente," insisted the messenger. "Are you feeling ill?" 

"Huh?" Carranza was perspiring heavily even though the room atmosphere was 
cool and fresh. "No," he said. "I'm all right. 

"Tell General Obregon to hold on," he ordered, lips trembling, muscles 
visibly twitching. "Retreat no further! I will immediately get in touch with 
influential people in America, France, and England. Then we will see." 

"Will that be all, mi Presidente?" 

"Yes," said Carranza. "I am afraid so." 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Many hours before Emiliano Zapata was to order the mobilization of his 
troops, a very unique and bizarre experience was being shared by two quite 
different people. One, the boy Vargas was drowning in his own hate. The 
other one, the woman Patricia, was desperately searching for herself in an 
act of love. 

Humming a soft melody, she tenderly ran her hand through his coarse, black 
hair. 

Pablo was having a nightmare, cold chills running up and down his spine, his 
body trembling. 

"Have to kill him!" he mumbled over and over. "Have to kill him." 

Next to her naked body Patricia could feel his long, slender body shaking. 
She pressed her body closer to him, to give him comfort, to give him warmth. 

She could feel the warmth of his maleness, of his potency. And she failed to 
understand what had happened. 

Studying his smooth face and clean-cut features, she decided she really 
liked him. 

But this one really hated! She knew what hate did to people. She herself had 
lived through it. But this one! This boy was really consumed by it! 

Maybe that was the reason why he had failed to make love to her. Somehow she 
felt responsible. But what had she done wrong? 

He had followed her down the hill, to the bottom of a small ravine. They had 
talked a while. She knew this was going to be his first experience, and she 
was determined to make it a very special occasion for him. 

When she had sensed that he was fully relaxed, she had unbuttoned his shirt 
and pants, taking pains not to over-excite him. It was hard on a man, to 
control himself. And she wanted him to enjoy her fully, to appreciate her 
completely. 

Wishing to soothe him she had whispered softly and calmly, suggesting other 
things, other scenes: slowly she had helped him undress. 

Pablo had wanted to help her undress but she had declined. "There will be 
other times," she had whispered gently. 

But he had persisted and with fumbling hands helped her undress, 
accidentally rubbing his genitals against her warm, soft flesh. .Her fear 
came true. He had ejected prematurely. 

She had smiled, concealing her disappointment, but still determined. "You 
are young." she had whispered, loving the sheepish expression on his face. 
"You are young. You are strong. And it's a long night." 

They had been sitting on top of a big, gray boulder. And while she whispered 
sweet, dear words beside his ear, occasionally biting it, she skillfully and 
lovingly manipulated his genitals. 

When she had felt he was capable again, she had made her way down the 
boulder and stretched out flat on the cool, rough ground. 

He had followed her and stood above her, looking at her complete nakedness 
for the first time. That's when it happened. 

He had stood there, numb, like a man paralyzed. And then he had started to 
scream, kneeling next to her, his hands covering his eyes. 

"No! Please, oh please, leave her alone!" he screamed over and over. "Dear 
God! Please help her. Don't let him do this!" 

Since then he had been hysterical, in some sort of trance, like a man 
possessed. 

Tears slowly formed inside her brown eyes and with no great urgency rolled 
down her high cheek-boned face. 

In many respects he reminded her of her brother. The last time she saw her 
brother alive he, too, had been in a trance. Before he was hanged by the 
people he, too, had been hysterical. Hysterical, not with fear, but with 
remorse. 

But it had happened so long ago, that night, that terrible night. She could 
still see her father, dead on the floor with a hatchet deeply buried in his 
forehead. 

Sheer terror in her heart, Patricia quickly moved her horror-stricken eyes 
from the bloody pulp of a face on the floor to her mother and brother. 

Immediately she knew what had happened. Her father had come home, drunk as 
usual. 

"God, I didn't mean to kill him," uttered Juan, her brother, badly 
frightened, his whole body trembling. 

"I didn't mean to kill him," he said over and over, an expression of utter 
disbelief on his tormented face. 

Her mother was bleeding through her nose and mouth and ears. Her face was 
blank and she kept mumbling to herself, looking at the dead body. 

"He was beating me again," she whispered to herself. "He was beating me 
again when your brother came in." 

By now half of the people of the village were out there, around the hut. A 
woman came in to investigate what all the screaming had been about. She saw 
the body with the diabolical ax stuck in his face and she let out a 
murderous scream. 

More people came in until no more could fit in the small hut, and when they 
realized what had happened they began a horrible chant. 

"He killed his father," they accused in one voice as if they were one man. 
"He killed his own father, his own flesh and blood!" 

And in a murdering rage the crowd forced the frightened, crying boy outside 
and they shoved and pushed him until he was trapped against a tree. 

They brought a strong rope and a sturdy-looking stallion and nobody paid any 
attention to the crying mother. 

"He's a good boy," the unheeded mother screamed. "He has always been a good 
boy. He was only trying to protect me." 

But the crowd of peasant farmers and angry women would have none of it. And 
they proceeded by forcing the boy up onto the black stallion, first having 
secured a tight knot around his neck. 

Patricia felt paralyzed, unbelieving, a spectator to a horrible drama. 

She saw her mother run forward, towards the black stallion; at the same 
time, a peasant whipped the rump of the horse. 

And then it was dead quiet, as if nothing had happened. They all stood 
there, fascinated, their eyes wide open. 

Her brother was swinging, back and forth, like a huge pendulum. His neck had 
snapped and his mouth was open and his tongue was hanging out, like a red 
tie. 

Her mother had been crushed to the ground by the running stallion. Her chest 
had caved in and a great deal of blood was gushing out her mouth and nose. 

She felt her body being lifted by her legs and she was running from that 
horrid scene, running from those murderous, hateful people. 

And she ran until she could run no more, until her legs gave out under her 
and her lungs were hurting for air. She fell to the ground and mercifully 
slept. 

She woke when the sun was high in the sky. Hungry and thirsty and not 
knowing where she was, except that she was under the Morelos sky, not caring 
where she was heading; she continued her journey. 

Very late in the afternoon she approached a great procession of men and 
women. Upon talking with some of them, she found out this procession of 
people was Emiliano Zapata's army, on its way to Mexico City. 

Because she was hungry and thirsty, because she had no other place to go, 
she joined the rebel forces of a country at war with itself. 

The Zapata army expected its women followers to provide aid and comfort to 
its soldiers. It was kindly suggested to her that she choose a man of her 
liking. 

And on the second day she chose Mario Rodriguez, a fine, kind man who was 
killed during the assault of Mexico City. 

She then chose to become Gustavo Morales' woman. He was a drunk, disorderly 
man. Basically a good man, his life was distorted by bitterness and hate. 

Gustavo maltreated her often, at times even hurting her physically and for 
no apparent reason. 

But she remained loyal to him and even felt love for him. He reminded her a 
great deal of her father. 

She had understood her father. True. He had often beaten his family. But her 
father had been a desperate man, a man who hated his way of life and who 
could find no way out of it. All his life he had been a peon, a peon who had 
always worked the land of Don Ramirez, a peon who would always work the land 
of Don Ramirez. 

He had never appreciated the revolution. "They are too powerful," he had 
always said. "We are too poor; we cannot win." 

And so like Gustavo her father had released his bitterness on those nearest 
him. But she understood Gustavo and gladly took care of his needs. 

But then Gustavo was shot personally by General Zapata for deliberately 
disobeying a military order. Zapata had strict orders against the plundering 
and looting of their fellow peasants. 

Near the city of Toluca a peasant woman complained to Zapata that her cow 
had been stolen, that her hungry children missed the warm milk. 

Zapata, El Caudillo, leader of the common people, was outraged and ordered 
the guilty party to be found. 

Several people had seen Gustavo take the cow and he was brought before 
Zapata. El Caudillo asked that the cow be returned to its owner. 

Gustavo replied the cow could not be returned, that it had been killed. 

Zapata wanted to know if he had been hungry or had he given the meat to 
someone who had been hungry. 

Gustavo replied in the negative and was shot dead on the spot. 

Gustavo's brother, Manuel, then asked Patricia if she would be his woman. 
She agreed. Manuel was a good and brave man, who often had interfered when 
his brother had been in a hitting mood. 

Manuel wanted to marry her and she, of course, was flattered by his 
proposal. He was a kind man, not a difficult man to love forever. So at the 
first opportunity they rode to a nearby village and asked the parish priest 
to marry them. 

The priest was delighted, of course, provided they confessed their sins 
first. 

He was shocked. As a man he could understand. But as a priest it was his 
duty not to marry people of such loose morals, certainly he would never 
bestow such a noble sacrament on a woman who was no better than a common 
prostitute. And the circumstances made absolutely no difference at all. They 
could understand his difficult position, he was sure. Marriage was a gift of 
God, a gift meant to be earned by goodness. They could understand, couldn't 
they? 

Not understanding at all, they rode away, unmarried, but determined to live 
together in any case. 

They were good to each other, caring for each other, becoming deeply 
involved with one another. 

But it could not last forever. They had always known that. They had never 
talked about it. But death was like air, it was always there. 

She had buried him this morning. And while she was digging the grave, she 
had cried, knowing after he was buried he would be no more. 

And yet here she still was, feeling weary, rather tired, but still breathing 
among the living. And, God forgive her, she was full of feeling and wanted 
nothing more than to keep on living. 

She pressed her body still closer to the boy, loving his warmth, bathing in 
his vitality. 

Pablo stirred and mumbled. "The priest. Damn the priest, too!" 

The priest the boy was damning to all the dimensions of hell was, of course, 
none other than the good Father Perez. And at this very minute the good 
father was in Mexico City facing a very angry Bishop Gutierrez. 

Bishop Gutierrez was quite dissatisfied and in the last twenty minutes he 
had repeated his admonitions several times. 

"No, Father Perez," he said to the priest standing humbly before him. "The 
Church disapproves strongly, very strongly, your behavior in this case. 

"Surely you must understand," he continued, completely demolishing the 
visibly trembling priest. "Times are changing. And we, all of us in the 
Church, must change." 

"But your Excellency," complained the poor priest, who refused to accept the 
responsibility for the death of the peasant Vargas, and much less, for the 
rape and death of the peasant's wife. "But your Excellency, all I did was to 
cooperate with Don Rivera." 

"Yes, yes!" replied the Bishop. "It was once quite acceptable to cooperate 
with the landlords. But this you must understand. This is a luxury the 
Church can no longer afford. 

"Don't you understand?" he went on angrily. "If we keep on cooperating with 
the landlords, the people themselves will throw us out of Mexico. Even now, 
the government wants to confiscate all the lands owned by the Church." 

The parish priest was quite scared but determined to defend himself. "But 
your Excellency," he objected. 

Losing what little patience he had, the Bishop decided to be blunt. "Look!" 
he said, smashing his fist against his desk. "Once it was within the 
interests of the Church to support the peonage system. But now it is not. 
Surely you can understand that, Father Perez!" 

Father Perez resented this whole business. He had been suddenly recalled 
from his parish of fifteen years. No sooner had he arrived in Mexico City 
and he was blamed for the tragedy of the Vargas family. 

What had he done? God, what had he done! 

He had just followed normal procedure. And for that he was being treated 
like a criminal now. 

The Vargas peasant had been an atheist. Hadn't he refused to allow his son 
to attend Sunday school, where the boy would have learned the doctrine of 
God? 

What had he done? Hadn't he reported the incident, as required by procedure, 
to the peasant's landlord. He failed to see how all this was connected with 
the death and rape which followed. How was he to blame for all this? 

"But your Excellency," he insisted again. 

The limits of the Bishop's patience were long overdrawn, and his face turned 
purple with rage. "Look! We are giving you another parish in the state of 
Sonora, and all we want you to remember is this. Your job is to preach the 
word of God and nothing else. 

"Now, go with God," said the enraged Bishop, extending his right hand 
towards the priest. 

"So be it," whispered Father Perez, kissing the Bishop's ring. 

When the good priest had left, Bishop Gutierrez got on his knees and prayed. 
It was clear that in the years to come the Church would pay dearly for its 
long and immoral collaboration with the Diaz regime. He prayed that the 
Church be forgiven for its part in this unholy wedding, but somewhere along 
his prayer he also justified the Church for its part in this most 
unspeakable of unions. 

It had been a matter of sheer survival, had it not? Before the regime of Don 
Porfirio Diaz, during the days of La Reforma, the liberals under the 
presidency of Juan Alvarez had literally oppressed the Church through 
legislation. These laws abrogated the binding power of monastic vows in the 
civil courts, decreed the expropriation of all the Church lands, and forbade 
the clergy to be recompensed for their spiritual ministrations. 

Now, all these laws remained in the statute books; and from this point of 
view, the Church regarded the situation as being far from satisfactory. But 
the government of Don Porfirio never made an effort to enforce these laws, 
and this live-and-let-live policy was such an improvement over conditions of 
an earlier period that the Church became a strong supporter of the Diaz 
regime. 

It would probably never be clear whether God could forgive the Church for 
its unholy trespasses; and in the years to come, the Mexican government 
would have to compromise with its attitude against the Church just like it 
would have to compromise with everything else. 

But the boy Vargas; no, not he, he would nevei; compromise. He hated Padre 
Perez and as far as he was concerned, Padre Perez was the Church. 

And all this hate plus a myriad of confusing emotions had come to him. 

It had come. It had come like the sea, engulfing him, drowning him, robbing 
him of his sense, leaving him in a fever of terror... 

They had worked the land, he and his father, his beautiful father. All day 
under the hot, bright sun. All day with their backs bent, their calloused 
hands touching a loved land, a mistress, a woman who had never been theirs; 
bathed in the salty sweat of their brown bodies, they caressed the land. 

"Pablo," the older man would say. "This religion business is a tool of the 
rich man. Don't ever believe any of it. If you ever do, the rich man will 
have stolen your manliness." 

"Believe if you must." His weathered face would become very serious then. 
"Believe in something bigger than yourself, if you must, but let the rich 
man and his religion go to hell." 

They would walk back to their small hut, their bodies aching, their bodies 
overheated by the now dying sun. From far away Pablo could see his mother 
waving at them. 

Rice, beans and tortillas. This was their supper. And it would be served, 
hot and ready to be eaten. 

His mother would say, "Let us thank God for this food He has given us this 
day." 

"Humph!" his father would grunt. "You should thank me for growing it." 

But then, his father, his beautiful father, would repeat the prayer anyway. 

"We thank you dear God," his mother would whisper, her hands reverently 
clasped together. "For this food You have generously given us on this day." 

His father would repeat word for word and then add some of his own. "And if 
You would only get rid of all the Don Riveras," his voice would rise and he 
would wink at Pablo. "We would all be eating much better. Amen." 

While his mother complained, they would eat hungrily, starved from being in 
the fields all day long. 

"How do you expect the boy to have any respect," she would say angrily., 
"Even Don Rivera ordered you to send Pablo to church, to learn the ways of 
God." 

"I already work his land and harvest the crops and am slave to nearly all 
his wishes," his father replied bitterly. "But I won't have my son learning 
all that lying crap Father Perez wants to teach him." 

"Mario!" She was shocked. "They will punish you. God will punish you!" 

How right she had been. That same evening the troops came riding out of the 
night. The soldiers, the ugly man, arrogant animals, had stormed into their 
small world. 

Pablo could see the strained face of his father lit against the full moon. 
"What do you want?" his father screamed, boldly facing the intruders at the 
gateway of his world. "We have no money! We have nothing you want!" 

"You impudent peasant," replied the ugly man with the harelip. "We want 
you!" 

Two of the soldiers grabbed his father and secured each of his arms tightly 
while the ugly man dismounted his black stallion and slowly untied a whip 
secured to his saddle. 

Calmly he took aim and Pablo heard the whip crack twice. Two direct hits 
aimed at each one of his father's eyes. 

"That's for being a disobedient peon." grinned the ugly man, rolling his 
whip, strolling easily towards his horse. 

Painfully enraged, Pablo's father struggled himself loose and blindly 
charged in the direction of the ugly man's voice, knocking him off balance. 

One of the soldiers, who but seconds before had been one of the men holding 
his father, grabbed a pitchfork that was leaning against the hut and charged 
at the blind man. 

The two middle prongs plunged deeply into his father's forehead. Bones 
cracked and Pablo heard an awful scream, that moved him like nothing ever 
had. 

Pablo came running out of the hut, his muscles and senses concentrated on 
the ugly man, and sprang at him. Landing on top of the man's shoulders, the 
other soldiers found it humorous. And while they laughed, the ugly man tried 
to dump Pablo off his shoulders. 

"Leave him alone," Pablo's mother came out of the hut weeping. "He's only a 
boy. Leave him alone, please." 

They all grew quiet and even the ugly man stopped bucking. And while their 
attention was held by the weeping woman ; Pablo leaned over towards the 
black stallion and drew out a knife that had been tied to the saddle and he 
brought the knife down, hard over the ugly man's face. 

Immediately two of the soldiers forced the boy off the wounded man's back 
and held him down on the ground. 

The ugly man looked at Pablo, his eyes a cloud of fury. Pablo spat in his 
face. 

"No!" said the ugly man. "I will not kill you, not just yet," He glanced at 
Pablo's mother and grinned. 

"Take the woman into the hut," he shouted. "And him, too." 

Two of the men stripped his mother, tearing her clothes off, touching her 
here, squeezing her there, and all the time making obscene jokes. 

They tied her to the bed while they secured him to a wooden chair that faced 
the right side of the bed. His mother had shut her eyes tightly and would 
not look at him. 

They wouldn't dare, he kept thinking. Not his mother! They wouldn't do that 
to his mother! 

"All right," screamed the ugly man. "Out, all of you, get out!" His eyes 
were gleaming with lust. 

Pablo looked at the man, climbing out of his uniform, his face still 
bleeding. He looked at his mother, naked, tied down, helpless. 

His mother. It was his mother, lying there, flat on her back, her legs 
spread wide open. 

"No," he pleaded. "Please, oh, please, leave her alone." 

"Shut up!" ordered the ugly man, now completely naked. "You might learn 
something." He climbed into bed, between her legs, and 

"Dear God! Please help her!" Pablo screamed over and over. "Don't let him do 
this!" 

It had come. This vision had come like the sea, engulfing his senses, 
robbing him of his potency. 

His mother. It was his mother, lying there, flat on her back, her legs 
spread out wide open. 

"Damn the priest!" he mumbled. "Damn the priest, too!" 

"Please," the woman Patricia pleaded from the depths of her soul, "Don't 
torture yourself any more, please." 

How kind she was! How gentle! This woman, this stranger! 

The palm and each of the fingers of her hand felt warm and delicate. How 
wonderful the caress of this woman's hand! 

Yes. Beautiful and meaningful it was, her hand tenderly touching his chest 
and stomach in an ever endless circle. 

Don't be ashamed, her hand pleaded. Don't feel embarrassed. You have your 
reasons and I have mine. But they make no difference at all. You see this is 
our private world, ours alone to do as we will. Oh, please, please help me 
and will with me. Oh, don't you see! Only kindness is important, only love 
is supreme. Will with me, oh, please, will with me this one reason, and only 
then will we live. Yes, only then, for one brief moment, the will to live 
will become a lovely one. 

How gentle, this woman! How beautiful this stranger! 

"Are you all right now?" she asked tenderly, rubbing her lips on his chest. 

"I think so." Pablo lied, thinking of his mother, afraid of what he felt. 

This woman, who was this woman at his side? For an instant she had become 
his mother. A woman waiting, her legs wide open. His mother. Waiting for 
whom ? Her son ? Oh, God! No! No! His mother waiting for him to come into 
her! 

"No!" he whimpered. "It's not true. I feel terrible." 

"I know," she whispered, understanding his guilt, sensing his awful 
distress. 

The moon was concealed by some dark, huge cloud. And in the utter darkness 
they could see nothing, not even each other. They could only feel their 
naked bodies. 

"Do me a favor?" she asked, hoping her sudden inspiration would work. 

"Sure," he answered, feeling miserable, unsure of himself. 

"Repeat my name, over and over and over," she pleaded, hoping he would do as 
she asked. 

"And think of a big, white cloud," she added. "A huge cloud floating in the 
air. Think of that, and nothing else." 

"Patricia," he began, "Patricia, Patricia..." and in his mind, he formed a 
huge, white cloud-floating, floating, floating... 

"Nice," she encouraged him. "That's really nice." And with her lips she 
caressed his chest, slowly down his stomach, lingering down his genitals. 
And upward again. 

"Yes, yes," she repeated after him. "It's me, Patricia. And I want you! I 
want you!" 

Patricia! Patricia! How gentle, this woman! How beautiful this stranger! 

Slowly she lifted herself on him and gently, ever so gently eased herself 
down his genitals, engulfing his swollen organ. 

"No, no!" she moaned. "Not yet. Don't move. Make it last." 

Patricia! Patricia! How soft, how warm it was down there! A warm sponge; a 
world of feathers and cotton; a living, growing, squeezing organism. 

Hugging him, pressing hard against him, she nibbled on his ear. "Please," 
she begged. "Suck my breasts! Suck me!" 

Raising his back, straining every muscle, every nerve tense in him; he 
placed an urgent responsive, erect nipple between his teeth; his tongue 
playing with it, tantalizing it, sucking on it. 

She became bigger than life, this woman, this stranger! Moaning and biting, 
squeezing and pulling and pushing, her buttocks rotating, the sound of her 
breathing overpowering. 

"Come!" she moaned, her nails savagely cutting into his back. "Come with me! 
Now! Ohh, now! Now! Ohh...! " 

He was pounding in her! His organ went wild, out of control; it was 
straining, pounding, yearning to go in deeper and deeper and... 

Wonderful! Wonderful, this woman! Wonderful this stranger! 

Lovely! The will to kindness, the will to love, the will to live; for a 
moment, they had become one! A lovely wondrous thing! 

Exhausted, she fell to his side. And together they slept, unaware of the 
military summons. 

The drums were beating, the will to war was raising its ugly head, the land 
was still thirsty for more blood. 

But together they slept. The boy and the woman. The gentle woman and the boy 
filled with hate. 

The drums were beating. Darkness still covered the land, its western horizon 
not yet welcoming the warm rays of the sun. 

"Wake up Pablo," he heard a soft kind of voice from far away. "Wake up!" 

Already! But it seems like I just fell asleep, he thought. And already it's 
time to go to the fields! Papa! Papa, why weren't you born rich! 

"Pablo," the feminine voice insisted. "Wake up, Pablo! They are gone. We 
have been left behind." 

Gone? Who's gone? Papa! Has he gone? Without me ? 

No! Mama, tell him to wait. Make him wait. Mama! He needs me. It's hard work 
in the fields. Hard work! Hard work! It'll kill him, Mama! Mama make him 
wait! 

"Mama!" he woke with the words in his mouth. "What happened?" he asked with 
the words in his mouth. "What happened?" he asked startled. "Where am I?" 

The burning sun was well on its course towards midpoint in the slightly 
clouded sky. 

"You were having a nightmare," Patricia said kindly, petting his hair. 

He sat up and rested his head against his knees. "Yes," he whispered. "I 
remember." 

She was rubbing his back, her bronze colored body shining under the sun. 

"Only," he explained. "It wasn't a nightmare. I was home again. And it was 
morning," he continued, turning his head to look at Patricia. "Like any 
other morning." 

He smiled. "Papa used to tell me I should have been born a rich man's son." 

He shook his head. "I never could get up early in the morning." 

He felt his body relax as Patricia rubbed the back of his neck. 

"They are gone," she said after a while. She stood up and dressed. Pablo 
looked at her shyly, embarrassed because he was blushing. 

"They can't have gone too far," she said smiling, teasing him with her eyes. 
"It shouldn't be very hard to catch up with them." 

She was lovely, the slight breeze blowing tenderly through her long, black 
hair. 

My woman, he thought. No! She's too much. It must be a dream, a mistake, an 
illusion. 

Had she really said, "I am your woman now." A sense of awe came over him. 

Yes! She was his woman, his warmth, his comfort! How lovely and kind she 
was! 

"Thank you," he said, blushing, looking into her eyes. Her eyes sparkled 
with life and her face was gentle. 

She leaned over to him and softly kissed his forehead. "You look lost." She 
laughed, her hair tickling his bare shoulders. "Do I make you feel 
uncomfortable?" 

"Oh, no!" he replied truthfully. "It's just that I've never known a woman 
before." 

He couldn't stop his face from blushing. "I mean," he added nervously, "not 
the way I knew you last night." 

"Is that why you were thanking me?" she asked, her tender face shining 
devilishly. 

"I don't know," he answered, remembering last night. 

"No," he said a few seconds later. "You were very gentle with me. Thank 
you." 

"Aha," she said laughing. "I remind you of your mother." 

"Shut up!" he screamed impulsively, not blushing now, but his face very 
angry, very tense. 

"What?" she asked, surprised, drawing back from him. 

Stupid! What's wrong with me, he thought. She doesn't know! She was teasing, 
nothing else. 

"I am sorry," he said, his face melting as suddenly as it had become 
furious. "But you see," he started to explain. "My mother was..." 

"No," she interrupted. "Please don't explain. Some things are better left 
unsaid." 

"You really think so?" he asked, terribly sorry he had hurt her feelings. 

"I know so," she replied, petting his hand. "Now come on. Get dressed while 
I go look for my burro. 

"You must be starving," she called back, climbing out of the ravine, and 
making her way up the hill. "After all, you're still a growing boy! Just 
still a growing boy!" 

"Go on!" he called back, laughing. 

Wonderful! She was really wonderful! And he felt fantastically wonderful! 

Land and woman! Woman and land! They are both one and the same, his father 
had often said. Both are the sources of life: both are the source of growth: 
and both affect man in the same way. He must love them both to make them 
produce. Love is what makes a man a farmer of both, a husband to each one of 
them. 

"I want to be a farmer," he sang as he dressed. "Yes, I do. I want to be a 
husband, that the fruit may grow." 

But why farm the land? Why husband the woman? Why become a slave to each 
one? 

"Ahh, muchacho," his father would reply. "Because the joy of living is in 
them. The land satisfies your hunger and the woman satisfies your lust and 
her fruit satisfies your wish for immortality." 

"I want a woman," he kept on singing, thoughts flashing through his mind. "I 
need the land." 

But what about God? Yes, what about God, Papa? What does He satisfy? 

"God," the old man would reply. "Why, God satisfies the rich man. The rich 
man needs to become richer. And so they must make the poor become poorer. 
But without God the rich man wouldn't have a chance." 

What about the vultures, Papa? When your land is threatened: when your woman 
is in danger; when the vultures attack, Papa, what does a man do? 

"Kill!" the old man had answered. "You must kill, boy! You must kill!" 

"And so it shall be done," he kept on singing, suddenly interrupted by a 
sharp, deep crackling sound. A rifle shot! Immediately followed by a scream. 
A woman's scream! 

With a great outburst of energy, Pablo jumped up and landed on his feet, 
already running up the ravine and up the hill. 

He reached the top and far below he saw a group of uniformed soldiers, about 
thirty of them, riding away in the opposite direction away from him. 

Patricia! They shot Patricia, he thought! Bastards ! dirty bastards! Dirty, 
filthy bastards! They killed Patricia! 

He ran, stumbled, fell and rolled down the hill: and getting up, he ran some 
more, about forty yards away from the hill. 

The burro! They shot her donkey. The animal was bleeding profusely from its 
head. 

Patricia! Where was Patricia? 

* * * 

Up ahead Sergeant Lopez was enraged. He held the woman Patricia in front of 
him, tightly, angrily. 

What tricks were they playing and why? Captain Contreras must have known. 
And the Colonel? Certainly the Colonel had known it all the time. 

It wasn't bad enough he had counted some five hundred rebels before dawn. 
No, now it appeared there were even more. 

But how many more? And where were they? Where were they going? How long had 
they been in this area? 

Clenching his tobacco-stained teeth, his words hardly audible, the sound of 
running horses overbearing; he whispered in the woman's ear. "How many of 
you are there and where are the others ? " 

Patricia couldn't answer, the heavy dust was suffocating her and the man's 
muscular arms were crushing her ribs. 

"You will talk," Sergeant Lopez whispered. "I promise you that." 

They rode up to the garrison, which but two days before had been held by 
some one thousand government troops. It was deserted now, except for a small 
dog that came running out barking. 

"What now?" asked the Corporal, reaching inside his shirt for a 
handkerchief. He cleaned the mixture of dust and sweat from his tired face. 
A few vultures circled high above the silent garrison. 

Inside the garrison a few of the buildings were burned to the ground. And 
scattered all over the grounds were dead corpses, some in uniform and others 
not. Some of the bodies appeared to be incredibly swollen. One body in 
particular was so badly decomposed that its openings were emitting a 
yellowish liquid substance. The stench was sickening. 

"Tie the woman to the flagpole," ordered Sergeant Lopez, tying a 
handkerchief around his mouth and nose. "We don't have a moment to lose." 

"Quickly," he howled to the others. "Help me to build a fire." 

Everything they could find: rags, paper, pieces of wood; they threw it all 
in a big heap and made a fire with it. 

Patricia, her eyes wide with fear, looked on as Sergeant Lopez held a long 
knife over the fire, impatiently glancing at her now and then. 

"You're foolish," he told her several times. "You're making me waste all 
this time! And in the end you will talk anyway!" 

"But I don't know anything," Patricia answered truthfully, her voice 
quivering with fright. 

"You won't lie when your eyes are being burned out," he frowned, attempting 
to determine whether the blade was hot enough. 

"I don't know!" she screamed frantically, the blade was beginning to glow a 
little. "I don't know!" 

"Your last opportunity!" he declared, bringing the very hot blade out of the 
fire to about eight inches from her eyes. "How many of you are there and 
where have the others gone?" 

"I don't know!" she screamed, crying, already sensing the glowing heat 
emanating from the terrifying weapon. "There were many of us. I don't know 
how many. And I swear by God I don't know where they are!" 

"You're lying!" he screamed angrily, bringing the knife still closer. "This 
is your last chance!" he added, wondering if all the time she had been 
telling the truth. 

The terrible heat, now but three inches from her, forced her eyelids to 
clamp shut tightly. 

"Honest!" she cried, the color red overpowering her frantic brain. "Please 
believe me. I don't know anything." 

Sergeant Lopez was about to pull the knife away, convinced she was telling 
the truth, when suddenly he felt a sharp, pointed sensation in the left side 
of his back immediately thereafter spreading to his chest and heard a sharp 
crack before losing consciousness forever. 

For a moment Patricia felt the sharp edge of the burning knife cutting at 
her eyebrows, heard the sizzling sound of burning hair; and then the 
terrible pain against her eyelids overpowered her brain into instant 
blackness. 

The Corporal followed the shot with an outburst from his rifle. 

High on top of the garrison's wall the bullet sped by Pablo's head; like an 
angry wind it passed by grazing him slightly; shocking him into 
unconsciousness, losing his balance, he fell to the outer side of the 
garrison. 

"What now?" asked the Corporal, leaning over, feeling the Sergeant's pulse. 

There was no answer. It was up to the Corporal ; he was in command now. 

He thought in silence. He remembered the great force of rebels they had 
fortunately spotted sometime before dawn, the hundreds of still recent 
campfires which they had seen just a little while ago, and the dead garrison 
with its countless corpses. 

"It's every man for himself," he finally decided. "We are too few to engage 
a bigger enemy. And we are too many to hide effectively." 

"Each man go his own way," he said mounting his horse. "And do it fast. The 
rebels probably have us surrounded." 

They dispersed. And over the endless hours the clouds above concentrated 
into blackness and lightning zigzagged across the skies. 

The sound of thunder frightened Patricia still more. It was dark! Everything 
was black! An immense shadow, a sea of nothingness, had engulfed her. And 
the deep, sharp, resonant sounds: were trying to break in, to smash the 
barrier of blackness, to strike her dead! 

"God!" she whimpered. "Dear God, please, please help me!! " 

Why? Oh, why had they done this to her: She had known nothing. Nothing! 

She was blind. Blind? Yes. And forever and ever and ever. Blind! 

"What am I going to do now!" she screamed, twisting her body frantically, 
the rope cutting deeper into her flesh. "What am I going to do! I am blind! 
Blind! Blind!" 

Wouldn't anyone help? Didn't anyone care? Was there no one here? Where was 
everyone? Had everyone disappeared? 

There was no one. No one to care for her; nobody to give her comfort. 

"I want to die," she cried, the salty tears irritating her already burned 
skin. "Dear God, help me to die." 

There, in the external darkness, trapped by a blackness of her own, she 
cried herself into unconsciousness. And even the rain, which came down in an 
outburst, would not wake her. 

But the rain, wet and cold and falling hard, did wake Pablo. 

Seconds, minutes, hours passed and he could not move. The earth was moving, 
spinning: and it had him pinned to the ground. His every muscle could feel 
the force of the earth, trying to swallow him, to drag him under. The earth 
was like a woman and her womb was reaching out, calling him, screaming for 
him. 

Finally it let go of him. And he managed to stand on his feet. Leaning 
against the adobe wall, he wiped the mud of blood and dirt from his face. 
The bullet had grazed his left temple and it burned. 

His left arm hung loosely, like a lifeless rag, absolutely out of control. 
He looked up the straight wall; five, six times his height. It had been a 
nasty fall. 

A scream still lingered in his mind. A short painful scream. A death scream. 

Patricia? Oh, no...! No! No! He shot the man and he fell forward. The knife? 
The man had a knife. He had shot him and then the scream. A woman's scream. 
And then nothing. 

As he fell the man had plunged the knife into Patricia! 

She was dead! "Patricia!" he screamed, crying, falling slowly to the ground. 

Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Why her? Why? She had harmed no one. "God damn you," he 
mombled over and over, his good hand pounding the earth. "God damn you!" 

Warm, gentle Patricia was dead. His mother and father were dead. And the God 
damn earth was wet and breathing. 

He got back on his feet and started to walk away. He didn't want to see her 
cold dead body. He wanted to remember her the way he had known her: warm, 
kind, and gentle: and life screaming, sprouting, enveloping from within her. 

He was not long in his journey before the memory of the ugly man again 
flowed through his veins, and his heart ached with fury while his mind 
demanded revenge. Someday, someplace. The ugly man would die a thousand 
deaths. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

The ugly man had made love to the Colonel's widow four times. As he rested 
by her side, Marina's body trembled in convulsions and she would not look at 
him. 

She wept and she remembered and she wept some more. She had crossed the 
ocean. She had traveled from one continent to another. 

She laughed hysterically. 

"Don't be afraid, my daughter," her father had told her when she was leaving 
the city of Granada to the port of Malaga. "Sanchez is a good man and he 
will take care of you." 

But how could he know that Sanchez was a good man, she had argued. They 
hadn't seen each other since Sanchez was sixteen years old. 

"The family of Sanchez," her father said sternly, "was one of the best 
families in Granada, so Sanchez is a good and honorable man." 

Her father had not been mistaken. Sanchez had been very good to her. Oh, not 
everything had been perfect. He had been much older than she and he had 
always wanted sex. But all in all he had always been very kind and gentle to 
her. 

After her arrival in Veracruz the Colonel had made their future relationship 
clear. "Ever since my wife died," he had explained, "I have been a very 
lonely man. And a very old man as you can well see. Oh, I know, I know that 
the young don't think very much of the old traditions." 

She had been thinking just that. How could she marry a man old enough to be 
her grandfather? 

"But be realistic," he had said, "I don't have many years left, maybe five 
or ten at the most. And then, my dear, you will be free and modestly 
wealthy. My family has a few holdings here and there. And you will receive 
my pension from the Army." 

She wasn't convinced. She was only eighteen and he was over sixty! 

"Besides," he added, "it is your father's wish." 

Yes. It was the custom. The father arranged the marriage. 

"Surely," he had said in amazement, "you don't wish to break your father's 
heart. 

"Think of it," he continued, "what will your father think of you? And what, 
may I ask, will become of you? Surely you don't think your father will 
receive you with open arms, not after you so impudently disobey him?" 

No. She had not disobeyed her father. She had crossed the ocean. She had 
lain in bed with an old man. All this she had done just so that this animal, 
this savage could ravage her now! 

She could not stop weeping. 

Weep! Weep and weep some more! Is that all the dumb bitches ever do? 

"Why are you crying?" Contreras snapped. "This is probably the best screwing 
you ever had!" 

"How could you know?" she wept. "You are nothing but an animal!" 

"An animal." He laughed, the touch of his hand appreciating the contour of 
her breast. "Aren't we all?" 

"He wasn't," she replied disgusted, trying to move his hand away. 

He roared. "You didn't know the old bastard too well, did you? Anyway, why 
did you ever marry the old goat? He was old enough to be your grandfather." 

"He was a good husband," she replied hotly. "He and my father grew up 
together in Spain..." 

"Good husband!" he interrupted. "What did the old goat do, screw you with 
his forefinger!" 

She swung her right hand at him, with all her might behind it. But he moved 
faster than she, and her hand slammed against the warm ground. Immediately 
he was on top of her. 

"Please," she begged, crying, her eyes shut tight, afraid to look at him. 
"Please, not again!" 

"Why not?" he moaned, rubbing on her ear, kissing her neck, biting her 
breasts. 

"You're the best I ever had," he groaned, running his wet tongue down her 
stomach, below her navel. He kissed her vagina and ran his tongue in and 
out. It was wet and salty and it stank like the sea. 

She started to buck and was crying hard but in his insane passion he thought 
she was moaning and he failed to note that she was reaching for his rifle. 

He felt something cold and hard poking him in his left shoulder but it did 
not bring him back to his senses until he felt something burning pass 
through his shoulder. 

Completely startled he jumped up as she was screaming, "I hope I killed you, 
pig! I hope you are dead!" 

With lightning speed he grabbed the rifle from her and swung it down like a 
club; the terrific impact smashing her head. 

He fell to the ground exhausted, feeling numb, his shoulder hurting. 

Dazed he looked at the creamy, white body with its long well-formed legs. 
She had been the most beautiful woman he had ever known. 

Idiot! Moron! Did you have to kill her! Did you have to smash her face in! 

She would have killed me, he thought a long while after. The bullet had 
passed clean through his shoulder. It wasn't bleeding badly but the blood 
was coming out steadily. 

He searched for his shirt and took a few cigarettes and crushed them, 
rubbing the tobacco on his shoulder. 

The shot! It was probably heard for miles around. He had to get out of here 
and in a hurry! 

Hold it! Just think a minute now! Quit acting like a panicky old woman. If 
anyone is searching you would easily be found out there. This is a good 
place to hide, it is well-hidden by the hill and the heavy underbrush. 

He looked up at the descending sun. It would be dark soon; in an hour, hour 
and a half at most. 

Yes, it would be best to wait until it was dark. Then he would go. 

Go? Yes, but where? Where would the safest place be? He would have to toy 
with the problem. 

Jesus, he was tired! If he could sleep for an hour or two, he would be all 
right. Better concentrate on that first. 

Hell with the shoulder! Think of something nice, something pleasant, 
anything that will help you sleep. 

Something nice? Can't think of anything pleasant. Cut it out! Think of 
nothing then. Think of blackness and nothing else. 

Slowly he dozed off. But his instincts were working, calculating, planning. 

Why not go where the rebels had come from! Since the rebels were there no 
longer, that would be the safest place of all. 

Yes, he would do that. He would seek safety in the lion's den. He would flee 
to the Amado garrison. 

The pain woke him up. The shoulder had stopped bleeding and the pain wasn't 
great but it was steady like a toothache. 

The sky was dark, without stars and with no moon. Flashes of lightning 
streaked throughout the eastern horizon. The smell of rain was in the air. 

Luck is on my side, he thought. The darkness would conceal him; the rain 
might keep the rebels from roaming the outdoors. 

He stretched his arms, trying to unwind his muscles, his right hand touched 
the body of the dead woman. 

An animal, she had called him. A pig. Yes, he thought, I suppose I have 
become an animal. But what had she known! 

Once he had been a priest. Would she have ever believed that? 

No. It was hard even for him to believe it. But it was true. A long time 
ago, he had been a priest. 

"Following family tradition," his father had told him, "you can be either a 
lawyer or a priest. 

"And frankly," the old man had added, an expression of disgust showing on 
his face, always failing to understand how he had ever produced a freak. 
"Your appearance is too repugnant, too offensive to the senses. A lawyer 
earns his bread by working with people of delicate sense. You would starve." 

The old man had shaken his head. "Even as a priest you won't have much of a 
future, certainly the Church would never make you a bishop. No, I am afraid 
you are destined to be a lowly priest all your life, to work with the morons 
of society, to keep them within the true faith. I am sorry, boy, it's a hard 
life." 

"Yes, it's a hard life." He laughed petting the dead woman's cold thigh. 

The more he thought about it the more he laughed. His future as a priest had 
certainly been short and happy. 

Yes, there had been happy days. Happy ? Suddenly he slapped the woman's 
thigh.' Happy? Goddamn, he thought, the pain must be making me delirious. 

No! No! God damn it no! That's when it had really started, his insane 
passion for a woman's flesh. 

He had been twenty-five, recently ordained, and a virgin. 

Even now he was curious. What had finally done it? Hadn't he for years been 
a good boy, an honorable youth? What had made his mind snap, driving his 
senses into a whirlpool of madness ? 

Oh, hell! You are ignorant, Contreras, a complete idiot to be sure. Must 
there be a theory, an explanation for everything? 

He became hysterical, laughing like a madman. Damn it to hell, he thought. 
Twenty-five and a virgin. And I ask for theories! 

The woman and her damned confessions, he suddenly remembered. That's what 
had finally done it. He had been a good boy, a fine man, and a great 
masturbator. By God, he had even grown a fine pair of calluses on his right 
hand! 

Then the adulterous, hot-blooded bitch came into his life. Had she 
deliberately enlivened his imagination, driving him into such a frenzy that 
he actually felt like he had a boil in his balls? Damn it to hell! As if his 
imagination had needed any more stimulation! 

"Oh, padre," she had confessed to him," I know it's wrong. I know it. But I 
can't help myself. My husband is so dull, Padre. So dull. And he hasn't 
touched me in months. Oh, Father, I am so ashamed. But I am a young woman 
and-and T need a man." 

"You don't love this other man then?" he had asked her. 

She wept and stuttered. "Nnno. Oh Padre, I am terrible, I really am!" 

"Well," he told her kindly, "we are all human. You must pray two hundred Ave 
Marias and ask God for forgiveness. And above all, you must never do it 
again. You won't, will you?" 

She had remained quiet for a long time. "Oh, I don't know," she finally 
said, "I need a man, don't you understand!" 

"When a man touches me," she said dreamily, "I feel like I exist, I become 
alive, I feel like a woman. Do you understand, Padre? I need a man's hands 
all over my body. I need them! Do you understand! Otherwise I am dead, I am 
nothing! Do you see, Padre? Do you?" 

"Any-any man-will do?" he asked her, his blood already boiling. 

She hesitated. "Yes," she screamed. "Yes, any man! I don't care, I don't 
care! I just want to know I am alive. I must feel like a woman! I must!" 

That had done it. His mind snapped. He had to have the woman. He had to! 

He took his cassock off and ran out of the confessional and slipped his 
shorts down. Naked he stood next to the curtain that concealed the 
adulterous woman. 

"You may come out," he had whispered panting like an exhausted dog. 

Startled, the young woman slid the curtain open and seeing the naked priest 
she jumped from her knees and started running down the aisle. 

He took a few steps and caught up with her and when she resisted him he 
raped her right there and then in the presence of at least five other women 
who had been waiting their turn to go to confession. 

He was, of course, immediately recalled to Mexico City. And after being 
reprimanded he was given one more chance. 

"We don't particularly approve certain lines of behavior," the Bishop had 
informed him. "But we tolerate them if done with discretion. Now, if certain 
females don't desire your attention, leave them alone." 

The second time he was interviewed by the Bishop, the Bishop was less kind. 
"Father Contreras, we have overlooked a number of your shortcomings, but 
this time you have gone too far. Whoever gave you the authority to teach 
people that as individuals they are entitled to some dignity? Yes, it's true 
that as souls they have certain rights, but in heaven, Father Contreras, not 
on earth. Are you trying to instigate discontent, Father? It was one thing 
for you to try to impose your affection on an unwilling woman, but we won't 
tolerate trouble of this sort." 

Hell with it, he thought. If you are going to be a bastard, at least be 
sincere. But he had tried to be a good priest. And for it, he had been 
excommunicated. 

It made no difference any more. Only the young tried to be the conscience of 
the world. For the mature only the real needs of existence were of any 
importance. 

And this was his pain, his agony, his failure. All his life he had needed 
affection, to be wanted. 

But the devil with that, too. Right now he needed to get away from here, as 
far and as fast as possible. 

He moved quickly and surely as it started to rain and the sound of thunder 
was in his ears. He remembered the whore who had kicked him in the groin, 
and he wondered if the rebels had torn her insides yet. 

The rebel forces had in fact already taken over the Colonel's former 
garrison and the rebel commander was rather perplexed about the whole 
situation. 

"And there was no one else?" asked Captain Reyes, one of Zapata's most 
competent officers. 

The shadows inside the adobe room were long, the light from the one candle 
being very dim. 

"No," replied Sergeant Serrano, the pupils of his eyes enlarging like a 
cat's. "Only three prostitutes. Nobody else was in the garrison." 

"What do you think, Sergeant?" The Captain was soaking his feet in a pail of 
warm water. "You should try it, too," he told the Sergeant. "Your feet 
stink." 

"It's unusual, sir." he answered embarrassed. "It could be a trap." 

"Yes," Captain Reyes agreed, his hands busy scratching his toes inside the 
water. "It could be one hell of a big trap! And I suppose the three whores 
don't know a thing?" 

"No, sir," replied Serrano, fighting a sudden desire to scratch his own 
toes. "They still insist there were only some thirty people in the whole 
garrison." 

"And they don't even know what happened to them!" Reyes snapped angrily. "If 
we ever win this damn war it'll be a miracle! Our decisions can be as good 
as the information behind them. And our information stinks! There was 
supposed to be a whole division here! Now where in the hell is it?" 

"I don't know, sir," Serrano answered apprehensively. 

"You don't know ! " the Captain's face turned red as a tomato's. "You are in 
charge of our spy system, aren't you?" 

"Yes sir! But we can't be expected to know every little change that comes 
along." 

"Little change!" Captain Reyes mimicked, completely exasperated. "Get out! 
Out! Out! Before I drown you!" 

"Yes sir!" snapped Sergeant Serrano, turning around. 

"Wait, you idiot! What about that shot you claim you heard this afternoon? 
You sent out two men to investigate. Have they returned yet?" 

"No sir, they have not." Serrano's lips trembled slightly, the rest of his 
face was indifferent. 

Captain Reyes took his feet out one at a time and dried each one 
meticulously. "One is as good as one's feet," he commented. 

He put on a pair of huarachis and slapped his knees. "Well," he said, "we 
can't afford to be trapped. I am dispatching half our troops back to the 
Amada garrison. They will leave at dawn-break." 

The ugly man would have given anything to know this bit of information. But 
there was no way he could know, and he was proceeding with his plan. 

He found the animals where he had tied them. He took the belongings of the 
Colonel and his wife and hid them in the heavy underbrush. 

He took some sugar from his saddlebag and fed a small amount to each animal. 
And while he chewed on a big piece of jerky he let the other two animals 
loose. 

He would go around the garrison, around the immediate danger and then 
proceed to safety, to the Amada garrison. 

He began to saddle his horse and an uneasy feeling came over him. His 
skillful eyes searched the big trees around him. He spotted something 
unusual, a shadow out of place, a something that didn't quite belong there. 

He dived for the ground, hitting it hard, and he felt his wound open as he 
rolled his body mightily. 

"Hold it, hombre," an unfamiliar voice ordered from on high among the trees, 
"or you're dead!" 

With the speed of a natural-born warrior, with the skilled hands of a 
trained hunter, Contreras slipped a knife out from within his boot and in 
the same motion threw the knife at the shadow he had seen. 

There was a thud followed by a groan and then the sound of twigs breaking 
and leaves being disturbed and another thud. 

His senses became magnified; his eyes, his ears, his nose spanned the 
immediate surroundings ; over and over his eyes scanned each tree. The 
thunder, the rain, the darkness; his own pain hindered his judgment. He 
stood up slowly and walked towards the dead man. His knife had gone through 
the Adam's apple. 

"Don't move!" came another voice from behind him. In quick succession two 
shots rang out and he heard a sharp, whistling sound pass by each ear. "Just 
so you know you don't have a chance," the voice said. 

"Turn around," the voice ordered. "But slowly, very slowly. Or you're dead!" 

The man stepped out from behind a tree and approached Contreras, watching 
for the slightest move, the slightest excuse to kill him. 

"Jesus! You're an ugly bastard," the man said, looking at Contreras for the 
first time. 

Contreras' facial muscles twitched and he looked as though he were going to 
charge the man. 

"Get your horse and move ahead of me." The man moved cautiously to the side. 
"And be careful," he warned. "Very careful. You are of more value alive. But 
I would love to kill you." 

Contreras obeyed and moved slowly ahead of the man. Now and then the man 
would say, "Turn left," or "Go right." 

They approached two horses and the man ordered Contreras to lie on the 
ground while he mounted one of the horses. 

"All right," the man said. "Mount your horse. And whatever you do, don't 
forget I'm holding a rifle pointed directly behind your neck." 

What to do? Was his luck running out? No! There was something, always 
something, one could do. Wait! For the moment, he would wait. But he would 
have to strike fast and soon, before they rode out of the forest. 

He didn't have much going for him, though. Only the thunder and the rain and 
his fear. It would have to do. 

He would wait until two or three simultaneous cracks of thunder broke the 
tension. Two or three loud cracks would dull the man's mind for an instant 
or two. He hoped. 

One, two; he counted. One! One! One, two! One, two, three! No, too late. Try 
it, on the next one. 

One! One! One! One, two! One! One, two, three, four! Now! 

He dove for the neck of the horse, throwing his body to the right side, 
kicking the horse's side with his left leg, his right leg going under the 
horse's belly. 

A bullet whistled by his head, grazing the horse's ear. "Run you bastard!" 
he screamed at the horse. "Run!" 

He got ahead of the rebel some twenty-five feet before the man got his horse 
on the run. He turned his head around and saw the man gaining ground on him. 

Another bullet flew by and hit the horse in the back of the neck. As the 
horse stumbled to the ground Contreras heaved himself away from the falling 
body with all his might. He fell hard on the ground, the wind knocked out of 
him, his lungs hurting for air. His fingers searched the ground frantically 
for a rock, a stick, anything. 

A rock! He grasped it tightly, his only chance, a string between life and 
death. The man was almost on top of him, rifle aimed, death in his heart. 

He swung his arm and felt the rock leave his hand. A terrific impact 
reversed the motion of his hand and slammed him backwards to the ground. A 
bullet had gone through his hand! 

The rock hit the man on the left temple and the upper part of his body fell 
limply on the horse's neck. 

Contreras lay there, his left shoulder and right hand burning and bleeding, 
his throat and nose making desperate sounds, his lungs straining for all the 
air they could inhale, the cramps in his chest minimizing all other pain. 

Must move! There may be more of them! An animal! Must find a horse! Must! 
Come on, move! Move! 

Gritting his teeth, he stood on shaky legs. 

He took a step and another and fell. Again he tried, only to see the ground 
coming up to him. 

Blood! Must stop the bleeding! What to use ? No more tobacco. Mud! Use the 
mud! Use it! Hurry! 

With his good hand, he scraped the wet ground. The wet earth eased the 
burning; it even felt good, it was so cool. 

Thank God for the rain and thunder. I owe my miserable life to both, he 
thought. 

He shrugged his shoulder. Even a worm fights for life. Noble worm, noble 
Contreras; the will to survive is divine. 

His legs were wobbly but he had a strong heart, and the dizziness was 
leaving him. 

The Colonel's horse. He must find it. Couldn't have gone very far. Even the 
donkey would do, if he could find it. 

He walked around in circles, stopping to rest every few minutes. And then he 
heard a human sound, a groan. 

It was the rebel! The same man who had tried to kill him. 

The horse was grazing, its neck stooping way down. The rebel was 
unconscious; the upper part of his body hanging, leading on the animal's 
neck, the blood flowing down to his head. 

Must not scare the horse. No sudden movements, nothing that will alarm the 
animal. 

He approached the animal softly, slowly; and spoke to it gently. The horse 
kept on feeding, undisturbed. 

"What shall I do with him?" he asked the horse. "Should I kill him? 

"No," he whispered to himself. "I have a much better idea, if I can find a 
knife." 

He dismounted the rebel as gently as he could and searched him for a knife. 
He didn't have one. 

What could he use? What would cut the rebel's face? A rock! A sharp rock! 
Yes, but it would take too much time to find one that was sharp enough. What 
else could he use? 

Of course! The belt buckle or rather the pin of the buckle! He unfastened 
his belt and proceeded to butcher the rebel's clean-cut face. He cut two 
huge circles on either cheek. The unconscious man groaned and moaned. 

"Have fun, ugly man," he whispered, wiping the blood from the pin. "Have 
fun." 

He mounted the horse and as he looked down on the rebel, he sincerely felt 
sorry for him. 

Contreras rode slow and he rode all night and when he finally approached the 
Amada garrison it was still dark. And the darkness was terrible and silent. 

Suddenly there came a painful moan. 

He hit the ground and lay still and heard. It was like a cry from hell, 
terrible and urgent. 

His nostrils were filtering a stink that was rotten and insufferable. This 
garrison was like a living, stinking cemetery. 

Perhaps stopping here had been a mistake. If the rebels out there didn't 
kill him, the damn stink of the dead would. But his need to rest had become 
all important. 

Soon it would be dawn and he would be able to see distinctly. Dead bodies 
were all he could make out immediately about him. 

The dead were of no concern, however. He concentrated on the diretion from 
which came the devilish moan. It seemed to be coming from the middle of the 
fortress. 

He zigzagged his way; slowly, around dead bodies, crawling close to the wet 
earth. 

His face was distorted; every movement, the slightest motion bringing 
flowing currents of pain. 

The mud had stopped the bleeding. Yes. But his hand was swollen, and if he 
didn't burn the wound soon the infection would spread. 

The shoulder wound wasn't bad. It hurt. But it didn't appear to be infected. 
Still, it would be wise to burn that wound, too, and since it was much 
nearer to the heart than the other wound he would burn that one first. 

He laughed. Damn earth! It would save your life in one way and kill you by 
another! 

He was near the flagpole now, and he could hear a desperate whisper. 

"Dear God!" he heard the agonizing chant. "Dear God! Please help me!" 

He stood fascinated, then slowly approached the source of the entrancing 
sound. 

Strange! One always pleaded for God, even cried for Him. Sufficient proof 
that one always desired for there to be a God. He had always believed so. 

Odd! There was never a reply from God, not one way or the other. Did this 
mean that while man believed in God, God did not believe in man? 

Oh, to hell with it! What a time to be making such moronic distinctions! 

What was wrong with the woman? Was she blind! Yes! Yes, of course. 

Her eyes were fixed on him. But it was a blind stare. And now he could see 
her eyes had been burned! 

"Dear God," she whispered. "Please help me. Please." 

Poor wretch! She might as well be dead. What good was she blind? Shame, too, 
she was a beautiful woman. 

He hesitated a moment and then brought his hand up, level against the 
woman's neck. He was going to strangle the poor wretch! 

He took a step forward and felt something under his boot. A dead body! 
Disgusted he looked down. 

Sergeant Lopez! What in the devil's name was he doing there! He bent down 
and took his pulse. Sergeant Lopez was as dead as a stone. 

"Is someone there?" asked the girl frantically. "Help me please! In the name 
of God, please help me!" 

Contreras said nothing. He stood up and brought his hands forward. Again she 
cried out, more desperate in tone this time. "I need help! Please, I need 
someone! I need someone! In the name of heaven, please answer me!" 

There was no reply and she cried in hopeless abandon. 

I need help! I need someone! Contreras put his hands down. How well he knew 
those words! Hadn't he uttered those same words a million times! 

"It's all right," he said, somewhat disconcerted. "It's all right now." 

"Oh, thank you God!" she moaned, her head drooping. "Thank you." 

He untied her from the pole and carried her inside one of the adobe 
buildings. He laid her badly bruised body on the dirt floor. 

"Mil gracias," she uttered gratefully. "A thousand thanks." 

She was thanking him, the ugly man! Was he dreaming! A woman; a real flesh 
and blood woman, thanking him! 

No! It was not a dream. The poor wretch was blind as a bat! 

She smiled. "I thought I would die," she said. "I wanted to die." 

"Don't talk now," he said petting her head gently. "I'll get some water to 
clean your wounds." 

"Have you ever felt like that?" she asked, her face twitching from the pain. 
"Like you want to die, really wanted to die." 

"Yes," he said, confused. "Many times. Now don't talk any more and conserve 
your strength." 

He went out and found a well on the west side of the garrison. He came back 
with a pail of water. 

She was crying. "I am blind." She was whimpering. "I am blind." 

He put the pail down and knelt by her side. "Listen," he said, feeling a 
little annoyed. "There are worse things that could happen. You have to 
believe that." 

"I am sorry," she whispered, her body trembling-"But I'm frightened. What am 
I going to do? I am blind! Don't you understand!" 

She started to scream, shaking frantically. "Don't you understand! Who will 
take care of me! Who!" 

"Stop it!" he shouted, shaking her by her shoulders. "Stop it! I'll take 
care of you!" 

"But why?" she asked unbelievingly, crying her heart out. "Why would you 
want to take care of me! Why would anyone want to care for a blind woman!" 

"Never mind," he screamed angrily. "Believe me, that's all! Now look," he 
ordered her. 

"Take control of yourself! I'm going to build a fire and heat some water." 

He went out and searched all the other buildings for all the paper and wood 
he could accumulate. 

And as the sun was coming out he built the fire and placed the tin pail on 
top of two pieces of wood. He waited until the water was boiling. 

"Did you really mean what you said?" she asked when she heard him come in. 
"Will you really take care of me?" 

"Yes," he said. He was very tired. "If you let me, I'll take care of you. 
Now," he went on, putting the pail down. "I don't want you to be frightened, 
but I want you to undress. I'll be able to clean your wounds better that 
way. The rope cut badly into your flesh." 

He felt a surge of desire pass through him as he watched her undress. 

Forget it! Let it pass from the mind! There's no time! No time at all! If he 
waited any longer, he would have to cut off his own hand! 

He tore a piece of cloth from her dress and soaked it in the boiling water. 

Very gently, very tenderly he cleansed her body wounds. He was sweating. She 
was a beautiful woman. 

"Put your dress on," he ordered, "before I cleanse your face." 

When he got through cleaning the area around her eyes he fell to the floor 
exhausted. 

"What's wrong?" she asked, frightened again. 

"Nothing!" he replied after a long moment, trying desperately to regain some 
energy. 

"I'm wounded," he finally said. "If you hear me screaming, don't be 
frightened. I have an infection and I'm going to burn it out. It will burn 
like hell but I'll be all right." 

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, frightened, concerned. 

"Yes," he replied, getting up. "Be a good girl and get all the rest you 
can." 

"You won't leave me here alone?" she asked trembling a little. 

"No," he said smiling. "I won't leave you." 

He walked awhile among the rotting stinking bodies, then picked up a 
bayonet. 

Sitting down by the fire, he placed the bayonet in the middle of the blazing 
flame. 

She was a good-looking woman, that girl. He could take her to Sonora. His 
father had left him a good, sizable piece of land there. 

He could learn to farm the land. Why not? He had learned to be a soldier. 

Yes! It would be nice. He needed someone; he had always needed someone. And 
here she was and she needed him! 

Yes, but she was blind! What good was a blind person! She would be useless! 

Hold it, stupid! Now just wait and think! Does she need her eyes to make 
love? No! Does she need her eyes to have children ? No!! 

And if she could see, would she want him? No! 

He smiled and turned the bayonet around. Well then! She was exactly what he 
had been looking for! 

Yes! By God, he would take her there! Who knows, he might even become a 
decent man once again! He had been a decent man once, before the despair of 
his desolation had driven him into a degenerate. 

Yes! A woman he definitely needed; he needed the companionship she could 
offer; and God, oh God, their children could make a complete man out of him! 

The bayonet was ready. Jesus! It would hurt like the devil! 

He grabbed the bayonet with his right, swollen hand and with great 
difficulty, closed his fingers around the handle. 

He closed his eyes, tightly and quickly brought the hot blade against his 
left shoulder. Count to ten! 

He screamed and screamed but did not let up on the bayonet. 

"Jesus! Jesus!" he mumbled lifting the bayonet. "Sometimes it's hell to be 
alive!" He was crying and with his left hand he wiped the tears away. 

"Are you all right?" a feminine voice called out. "Please answer me, are you 
all right." 

I feel like hell, he thought. "There's nothing you can do," he called out. 
"Don't be frightened." 

"What's your name anyway?" he asked a little later, struggling against the 
dizziness. 

"Patricia," she replied, "Patricia Diaz. And you?" 

"Patricia." He pronounced the name slowly. "It's a beautiful name, Patricia. 
I like it!" 

He grabbed the bayonet with his left hand this time. "My name is Pancho." he 
said, gripping the burning blade with his swolled hand! 

"Pancho Contreras!" he screamed. 

Hold on! Another second! And another! And still one more! 

He let go of the blade, and with a great roar coming deep from within his 
lungs, the bayonet flew away from his left hand. 

"Pancho!" she screamed. "Are you all right? Pancho!" 

There was no reply. He had fainted. She was scared. 

Was the man Pancho dead ? Had he run away, leaving her here? 

"Pancho." she quivered. "Pancho, where are you?" 

Nothing. The dark silence was frightening, horrifying. 

The screaming still echoed in her ears. Why had the man screamed so 
terribly? 

She was alone! God, she was alone and she couldn't see! 

She had to find her way out of here, find out what had happened. 

Leaning against the adobe wall she got her maltreated, hurting body upright 
and with her hands against the solid, cold, rough surface she took a step at 
a time. 

When she reached the first corner, her head bumped against the wall. 

God! What was she going to do! She was blind! Blind! Blind! 

"Mother of God!" she cried. "Help me! Help me!" 

She dropped to the floor, weeping. She was useless! Helpless! 

What would she do ? What could she do! She couldn't even find her way out of 
a room! 

"Pancho!" she wailed. "Answer me! Where are you? Are you hurt? Are you 
dead?" 

It was dark. It was so terribly dark! If she could only see, if only she 
could see a little! 

She rested her head between her two small hands. And she sobbed. 

The man had left! He had gone and left her here to die! 

And why not, she thought. What was she to him ? Why would any man want to be 
burdened with her? 

She had nothing to offer. She was blind and useless! She was nothing! Good 
for nothing! 

"Kill me, God!" she cried. "Please kill me!" 

Contreras could not hear the woman screaming. He was in another world, and 
all he knew was that he was burning and burning, and burning. 

There was a blurred shadow of intense heat before his half-opened eyes. 

The noon sun was a burning inferno hanging over a humid sky. 

Contreras rolled over, away from the sun god and moaned. 

Jesus! The pain had been unbearable! His body felt numb, except his shoulder 
and hand. The two wounds were very much alive, two very raw spots. 

He groaned and groaned. The sound of his agony helped him to bear it. 

"Madre mia!" he uttered once every so often. "Madre mia, damn you, damn you, 
for having given me birth!" 

Little by little, curse by curse, groan by groan, the agonizing pain flowed 
out, not all of it, but enough so his mind started functioning again. 

Contreras! Contreras! You cowardly scum! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! 

Be bigger than yourself! Much bigger! You're not dead yet! 

Get up! On your feet! Come on! Feel the blood go round, feel it flow through 
your miserable veins! You know you're alive! 

He raised himself to his knees first, and slowly worked his way up on a pair 
of wobbly legs. 

He felt weak and dizzy and tne world before him was alternating in black and 
gray. 

He took a few steps, up the wooden sidewalk and rested against the adobe 
wall. 

The bodies of the dead spread the length and the width of the rectangular 
court. 

The dead! Soon he would be dead, if he did nothing but stay there. 

Where would he go from here? Where? 

He remembered the blind woman. What was her name? Patricia. 

Patricia. He liked the name. She was a good-looking woman, too. The image of 
her naked body came to him. 

Ah, Contreras! You ugly bastard! Here you are almost dead and you think of 
naked females ! 

He smiled. Why not? Here they were alone, with nobody to bother them but the 
dead. 

He moved back a few steps, leaning against the wall and found the doorway. 

The woman was sleeping, her body resting against the right corner of the 
room. 

He looked at the woman for some time. Had he dreamed it or had it really 
happened? 

Was this woman, this beautiful woman willing to go with him! 

He brought his fingers up to his harelip and ran them up his scar. 

No. He had not dreamed it. The woman was blind and frightened to death. 

In any case she could be his. Why rape her then? Why not be nice and decent 
to her? 

Yes. It was in his interest to behave decently. She would be his. It would 
just take longer that's all. 

He walked up to her and knelt beside her. "Patricia," he whispered as gently 
as he knew how. "Patricia, wake up." 

Startled she groped around with her hands, touching his left hand. 

"Are you all right?" she asked, surprised. "Are you all right?" 

"Yes, I feel fine now," he said, studying her face closely. "Have you been 
crying again?" 

"I, I thought you had left me here, alone," she stuttered. 

"I was out cold, like a stone," he said angrily. 

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't know what to think. The darkness is so 
strange and frightening." 

"Anyway," he whispered, holding her right hand. "It doesn't make any 
difference. Do you still want to go with me?" 

"Yes! Oh, yes," she replied. "Don't leave me alone! Please!" 

He hesitated a moment still looking down at the burned face. 

"I have some land," he explained seriously. "On a place which is many 
hundreds of miles from here, in the state of Sonora. Have you ever heard of 
it?" 

"No," she replied shaking her head. 

"It borders the United States of America," he added. 

"The United States," she asked. "What's that?" 

"It's a nation like Mexico," he explained. "Anyway, my lands are near a 
small town called 

Bacuachi. It's an ancient town, so old I guess nobody really knows how old 
it is. 

"I want to go back there," he went on with enthusiasm growing in his tone. 
"I want to go there and make the land grow!" 

He hesitated again. "Would you like to go there with me?" 

"If you want me," she said, not quite believing. "Yes, I would like to go 
with you." 

His jet black pupils lit up like two very finely polished stones. 

"Good!" he exclaimed, giving her hand a soft squeeze. "We will go to 
Bacuachi then!" 

Letting go of her hand, he said, "You must be hungry." 

"I don't know." She laughed nervously. "I've been so scared and hurting." 

"I have some dried meat we can eat," he said. "And then we must rest. We can 
start our journey after it's dark." 

"After it's dark?" she asked, her nose twitching a little. "Do you think the 
Pelones might be out there?" 

"The Pelones?" He hesitated. She didn't know he was a federal soldier! 

"No. I don't think they are anywhere near here. But why not play it safe." 
He hesitated. "Now, don't you worry about anything." I'll be back in a few 
minutes." 

He went out and walked across the court of the dead and found his horse 
where he had tied him before dawn. 

Should he tell her? Should she know he was a Pelon? 

He walked the very tired-looking horse to the stables and took off the 
saddle. Poor animal! It started to eat the alfalfa which covered the ground. 

No! There was no need for her to know. Perhaps he might tell her later when 
she knew him better and felt more comfortable with him. If he told her now 
it would only frighten her. 

He took two bundles of dried meat from the saddlebag and walked out of the 
stables. 

No, what he needed now was a plan. Bacuachi was a fine idea but it was a 
long way off. And it was the rebels who held the immediate area. He looked 
down at some of the dead bodies. The rebels must have been in a hurry to not 
even bury their own people. 

A sudden thought struck him. Why not change uniforms with a dead rebel! If 
federal troops caught up with him he could always establish his identity. 
But if the rebels caught him, how would they ever know he wasn't one of 
them? 

He searched around and found a big cadaver of about his own size and traded 
his torn uniform for a pair of what had once been white pants and a white 
shirt. 

The pants and shirt were now brownish with dirt and mud. 

The boots! He hated to trade the pair of black leather boots for the 
cadaver's huarachis. 

Off with them, Contreras, you greedy bastard ! It may be either the boots or 
your life! 

He took off his boots and hesitated a moment before making the exchange. 

Yes. Everything would work out fine. Nobody in Bacuachi knew he had become a 
professional soldier. He would have to offer no explanations. The people 
there didn't even know he had become a priest. No. The last time he had been 
in Bacuachi was in his youth, the day he had left for Mexico City to study 
at the University. It had been long ago, nearly seventeen years had passed 
by since. 

He stood in the huarachis feeling sort of naked. He would get used to them. 
One could get used to everything except, maybe, not eating. 

What about the army! He and the army had been together now for some seven 
years. Would they inquire about him, make trouble? 

No. They would just assume he had been killed with all the others and let it 
go at that. 

The meat in his hand, he headed for the adobe room where Patricia waited for 
him. 

Yes, everything would work itself out and things would be fine. 

Patricia was sitting, leaning against the corner. "Is that you, Pancho?" she 
asked, bringing the upper part of her body forward. 

"Yes," he answered, gently placing a bundle of meat in her hand. 

They chewed hungrily on the meat for a few minutes. He was watching her 
closely all this time. 

It would be nice. It was something he had wanted all his life. 

She would always be there, someone to talk seriously to, someone to take 
care of; a woman, a person, a being who would accept him; a woman who would 
share his life. 

He might in time learn to love her. And if he were gentle and kind to her, 
she might learn to love him. It could happen. 

He would make it happen! By God, he would! 

"Pancho!" she spoke suddenly. "What's that noise?" 

"What noise?" he stopped chewing. 

"Listen," she said, her face startled, frightened. 

He pressed his ear close to the ground. Horses! Hundreds of horses! 

"Oh, God," she squirmed. "Pelones! They must be coming here!" 

Pelones! No. They were rebels! The woman could not know. She didn't know 
what he knew. 

He hesitated a few moments. 

He would have to trust her. 

He would tell her who he really was. His survival depended on it. 

And if she betrayed him? 

He would kill her! Yes, he would kill her, if it was the last thing he ever 
did! 

He moved next to her. And with his good hand, he held hers, ever so gently. 

"Patricia," he said in a calm, slow voice. "Listen carefully, I am Captain 
Contreras of the Federal Army." 

Her hands jerked a little, the rest of her remained still. 

"I meant everything," he said. "I want you to go with me to the land of my 
birth." 

He pressed her hands lightly and kissed her right cheek. 

"Those horses, those people," he explained. "They are not Pelones. They are 
rebels." 

"I am one of them," she whispered nervously. 

"I thought you were," he said. "That's why you can save my life, if you 
want." 

She said nothing. Her nose was twitching again. 

He observed her closely and continued. 

"I discarded my uniform but if they get the chance to talk too much with me, 
they might suspect the truth. You can save me by telling them I was a 
prisoner of the Pelones who blinded you, that the two of us were left for 
dead. Tell them I'm too wounded to talk to them, that I need to rest." 

The horses were approaching the gates and they could now hear the sound of 
voices. 

"Will you do it?" he asked. 

She didn't answer. 

He moved away from her and lay flat on the floor and pretended to be asleep. 
If she betrayed him, he would kill her! She was confused. 

The deep voice; the rough, gentle hands; the man in the room with her. Who 
was he? He had saved her! 

He had cleansed her wounds and fed her! 

No. It was impossible. He could not have been one of those mean, bestial 
people! 

But he was a Pelon! He had said so himself. Her enemy! He was her enemy! 

Leaning against the corner of the adobe room, she pushed herself upward. 

He had given her comfort! 

The laughter of men, the curses of soldiers, the neighing of horses were 
there; only the earth walls were between them. 

"Help!" she screamed. "Help!" 

She was blind! 

She was useless! What would become of her ? 

He had promised her a home! 

"Madre mia!" uttered the first rebel to come in the room. "What have we here 
? " 

"Zapatistas!" she replied, a hand against each wall, a blind stare in the 
direction of the rebel's voice. 

"I am blind," she said, bowing her head. "And he's terribly wounded. Help 
us. In the name of God, help us." 

The first rebel walked in and was followed by others. He turned Contreras 
around and a long whistle escaped his dry lips. 

"What happened?" he asked, taking his straw sombrero off. 

"I know you," one of the rebels interrupted. "You're Patricia, aren't you? 
The woman of Manuel Morales." 

"I was," she answered, much of the tension leaving her. "Manuel was killed 
two days ago." 

"Who's he?" asked the same rebel, pointing at Pancho. "I never seen him 
before." 

Pancho groaned and moaned. "Kill the Pelones!" he uttered. "Kill the 
Pelones!" 

"Poor man," said Patricia. "He's been having terrible dreams." 

The rebels laughed and one of them said. 

"Good, I hope he kills them all." 

"He was a prisoner of the Pelones," Patricia said, easing herself slowly 
down to a sitting position. "There were about thirty of them. And they 
passed through here a day ago. They captured me and they brought us here. 
When we wouldn't give them any information they tortured me and shot him. 
And then they left, leaving us for dead." 

She brought her knees up and rested her head on top of them. 

Pablo! What had happened to him? Had he been killed by the Pelones? 

"Have any of you seen a young man named Pablo Vargas?" she asked. 

No. The rebels shook their heads. 

"We were left behind," she explained. "When I was captured, he was waiting 
for me." 

"Did this man burn his own wounds?" asked the rebel who had first entered 
the room. 

"Yes," she said. "His wounds were catching infection." 

The rebel whistled. "It takes a lot of man to do that." 

An elderly man came in and inspected Pancho's wounds and then turned to her. 

"There's nothing we can do for him, except to let him rest," he said. 

"And the only thing I can do for you," he told her, watching the terribly 
burned face, "is to apply some lard over the burned area. It may help you 
from getting a very painful blister. All right," he said to the others. "All 
of you, out. Let them rest. They'll be all right." 

Pablo! 

Pablo Vargas! 

That was the boy he should have killed. 

Damn those soldiers of his! If only they hadn't been stone drunk. He should 
have known. 

Oh, hell! The boy had escaped. And now he was around here somewhere. 

He opened his eyes gradually. They were alone. Patricia was resting 
peacefully near the right corner of the room and he looked at her for a long 
time. 

How much did she know? Had the boy told her anything? 

He listened to the laughter and curses. They were picking the dead up and 
carrying them out of the garrison. 

His hand was hurting him quite a bit now and he started to shake it. 

He was being stupid. Even the boy didn't know a great deal. 

"Patricia," he whispered. "You awake?" 

There was no answer. She was breathing softly, now and then turning her body 
to either side. 

Hell, he was being an old woman. How could she know anything when the boy 
didn't! And even if he had described him to her, how could she ever know. 
She was blind. 

His tired eyes wandered over the ceiling and down the wall opposite him. 

An old, faded painting of the Baby Jesus hung there. 

He looked at the painting a long time and sighed. "Your Old Man sure made a 
hell of a mess when He built this earth of His." 

Patricia grunted in her sleep as she rolled over, her face against the 
corner. 

The noise from the court had subsided, only an occasional outburst of 
laughter broke the dull, late afternoon air. 

Well, he would know what to do about the boy. But he hoped they would meet 
under better circumstances. 

"Patricia," he tried again. "You awake?" 

She grunted and with no further reply she remained as still and as quiet as 
a statue. 

He stared at her back, appreciating the contour of her buttocks. 

A very warm feeling originating from the pit of his stomach soon spread 
throughout his body. 

She had not betrayed him! 

She was a woman and she was a person. And for the first time in his life he 
had not been betrayed by either one. 

His forehead started to feel very heavy and this heaviness worked its way 
downward, leaving his eyes barely open. Drowsiness seized his brain and 
everything became shadowy and then completely dark. 

Suddenly he was startled by loud, hysterical screaming. 

"The Revolution is over! The Revolution is over!" 

It was pitch black in the room and he was painfully working his way up to 
his feet when a jubilant voice broke in from the doorway. "Wake up!" the 
voice said. "Wake up! Did you hear the messenger! Did you hear the news! 
Mexico City is ours! The Revolution is over! We can go home now! We can all 
go home!" 

"Did you hear that?" Patricia asked. 

"Yes," he said finding his way in the darkness. He sat down beside her. 

They listened for a while. The songs were happy and light. The screams and 
laughter flowed with an unbelievable reality. 

"How long will the trip take us?" Patricia finally asked. 

"About a month," he said, resting his head against the wall. 

There was a pause and then she said, "I'll be good to you, Pancho, I 
promise." 

"I know you will," he said, and he leaned over and kissed her forehead very 
gently. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Once again, for the fourth time in less than four years, the peasant mind 
thought of the Revolution as coming to the end of the beginning. 

To the peasant, Mexico City was the government. Whoever controlled Mexico 
City was the government. 

Emiliano Zapata was now the government, and he was desperately trying to 
hand it over to someone else. 

He was sad and tired and he did not want to be President. 

Who would he be fooling? If he was a General it was because he believed 
deeply that his people's wrongs should be righted. If he ordered a thousand 
men to die, he needed no education to do so. All he needed was conviction 
and a strong heart. And when he communicated with his men, he barked 
directions mixed with obscenities. What did he know of good manners and of 
speaking so refined as to offend no one? 

Besides-he really did feel more comfortable around horses. The only 
beautiful memories he had of his boyhood and early manhood were centered 
around horses. He had been happy as a stableman. But then the Army of Don 
Porfirio Diaz had forced him to join its ranks. And his rebellion had 
started. 

No, his job was done. Mexico City was under his control. He had kicked 
Obregon out of the Capitol. 

"Are you sure that thing works?" Zapata asked the telegraph operator. 

"Si, mi General." The young man waved his hand requesting a moment's 
silence. A message was coming in. 

Yes. His job was done. And he hoped this was for the last time. The burden 
of war was too heavy. All his being was yearning to break chains, to be free 
as the wind. 

He looked out the glass window. A young couple walked by, the woman holding 
a small baby in her arms. His weary eyes followed them until they 
disappeared around the corner. 

Lucky people! The world belongs to them. 

I have a wife, too, he thought. Poor woman! Poor wife! Some bargain she had 
received. She was married but to a name. How she must wish for flesh, blood, 
and bones to share her bed! 

The operator turned to Zapata. "General Villa wants to know if you still 
refuse the Presidency." 

Not only was Villa a bandit, he was crazy too! "No! I don't want to be 
President! I don't want to be anything! I have a wife! I want to go home!" 

The young man's eyes opened wide in disbelief. He turned around and started 
tapping on the key. 

"Ask him, why not him?" ordered Zapata. "He would be a good president." 

The door to the telegraph office opened and a small bell rang. The 
heavy-bearded captain came in and approached Zapata. 

"You were right, General," the small, powerfully built man said. "The 
so-called delegates who refused to recognize Gutierrez, they were nothing 
but Obregon's puppets." 

Zapata frowned. "Carranza and Obregon want power so badly they can taste 
it." 

"If you have no other duties for me, I think I'll go to bed. I could sleep 
for a week." 

"No, go ahead, Captain," Zapata said. "There's nothing to do now but wait." 

"Gracias, mi General," yawned the small soldier and walked out. 

The operator was writing furiously on a piece of paper. It was hard to 
believe. Could words really travel hundreds of miles? And in such a short 
time! All he could hear was a tic-tac sound. 

The operator stopped writing and turned to Zapata. "General Villa says that 
old habits are hard to break. His one big love had been to steal from the 
government. What joy would there be in stealing from his own government?" 

"Does he suggest anybody?" Zapata asked anxiously, his hands gripping the 
rail that divided the room in two. 

"Yes," the operator said. "He wants to know what you think of General Roque 
Gonzalez Garza? Would he be agreeable to you?" 

Zapata walked back and forth across the small office. 

God! He wanted to go home so badly the pit of his stomach ached. 

But could Garza be trusted? Would he serve the cause of the Revolution? Or 
would the power go to his head? 

How does one know! How can one ever possibly know? A man never reveals his 
true colors until he feels the devil's temptation! 

Garza was a good man. He believed in the cause. But even the mountains could 
change overnight! 

He thought of the couple he had seen a few minutes before. 

His own wife was young and beautiful. How long would a woman wait to realize 
her womanhood? How long? 

He thought of the many people he had seen die, of the many people he had 
killed himself. How long can a man live with death and still be a man? How 
long? 

He remembered the illusions and the disillusions, the dreams and the 
shortcomings, the ideals and the realities. 

No! His job was done. He had done a soldier's job. Let others now carry the 
burden. This was a politician's job. Let them carry the weight. Let them 
play with the mud of life. Let them shape that mud into the kind of statue 
the people want. 

Garza had fought with the people, for the people. He was as good a man as 
any, if he didn't change. 

"I agree!" Zapata finally said. "When can I expect him?" 

The operator relayed the message and waited pencil in hand. 

But God help him! If Garza ever betrayed the Revolution, God help him! 

Ah! It would be nice to live a man's life again. No more hate! No more 
shooting! No more death! 

Only he and his wife and their love, and the land! Yes! It would be nice! 

The operator wrote down the reply. It was short and to the point. 

"General Garza will be in Mexico City in a few days, a week at the most." 

While these arrangements were being made, General Obregon was going ahead 
with his campaign, but not without a great deal of difficulty. Once he 
reached Veracruz he had explained his campaign to Carranza. But Carranza was 
raving mad. "You have caused us a political disaster," he accused Obregon. 
"You should have consulted with me," he went on and on, "before abandoning 
the capitol to those ravaging dogs." 

But Obregon was resolute. He was very much in doubt that any foreign 
government would ever recognize a government composed of ignorant 
peasants-and especially so, if the intent of that government was immediate 
confiscation of all foreign property. 

Why, the American government had even refused to recognize the Huerta 
regime, and Huerta had been backed by all the conservative elements who 
wished to preserve the economic gains made by Don Porfirio Diaz. 

"Yes, yes," answered Carranza, "but the only reason why Huerta wasn't ever 
recognized was because of his offensive personality and because of the 
cowardly way in which he assassinated Madero." 

The argument between the two men went on. Carranza wanted Obregon to attack 
Mexico City immediately. Obregon would not comply. Mexico City did not 
interest him. The destruction of the rebel armies was what was important. 

Even if Carranza's fears were to come true, he reasoned, the foreign 
governments would not pass recognition for several months to come. And by 
that time his own campaign would have been completed. 

"As long as we control the modern harbors of Tampico and Veracruz," he 
assured Carranza, "I foresee no real dangers. With these two harbors under 
our wings we can receive weapons and supplies. And that's your job. We need 
more weapons and supplies." 

Carranza was not at all convinced that Obregon's way was the right way, but 
he did know that Obregon commanded the loyalty of almost every officer in 
the army. He decided to let Obregon have his way. 

But he made a mental notation to get rid of Obregon sometime in the near 
future. 

In the days to come, weapons were accumulated and more men were recruited. 
Long months of planning and preparation came to an end, and Obregon launched 
his attack on the central regions of Mexico. In a few weeks Obregon was the 
master of central Mexico. But not everything had gone well. Pancho Villa had 
escaped with a few men to the Chihuahua mountains. 

And Carranza had grown bitter and impatient. Time was running out and 
Obregon had neglected to take Mexico City. 

The two men were again in conference and Obregon was in a good mood. Taking 
Mexico City now would be child's play. 

Carranza, however, was in anything but a good mood. "This time," he said in 
a deadly serious voice, "we must completely crush the opposition." 

"I quite agree," said General Obregon, seated across the desk from Carranza. 

"Of course," said Obregon, "it will be no problem to run Garza out of Mexico 
City. He only has a few hundred peasants protecting the city." 

"Yes," Carranza agreed, looking up at the ceiling, thoughtfully. "The 
problem as always will be Villa and Zapata." 

Obregon inhaled deeply from his cigar. "Well," he said. "I don't know about 
Villa. But there is only one thing that will stop Zapata. And that is his 
own death." 

"Do you suggest assassination?" asked Carranza looking closely at Obregon. 

Obregon shrugged his shoulders. "I am not suggesting anything," he said. 
"All I know is that as soon as we run Garza out of the capital, Zapata will 
come down from his mountains and organize another peasant army. And then it 
will happen all over again." 

"I know," said Carranza, tapping the desk with his fingers. "I know." 

"Villa," continued Obregon. "I don't know about him. But I always felt he 
was a bandit above and beyond all else. Perhaps we could buy him off, so to 
speak. We could offer him money, a ranch, anything of value, just so he 
minds his own business." 

"I think you are right." Carranza stood up. "Time has run out. We simply 
don't have any more time to deal with ignorant fanatics. We must destroy 
them, one way or the other." 

Obregon also stood up and extended his right arm across the desk. "Well," he 
said, shaking hands with Carranza. "I'll leave the nasty little details to 
you. I'll see you in Mexico City. It should be ours in two days." 

Carranza looked after Obregon suspiciously. The man was too damn smart for 
his own good. Somehow he must assassinate him, too. 

Had Carranza known what Obregon had been thinking lately, he would have been 
more than suspicious. 

As far as Obregon was concerned, Carranza was a man who was confused about 
what he really wanted. Carranza would have liked to think of himself as a 
man who wanted only what was best for Mexico. Obregon could believe this, 
but in its proper perspective. He had no doubt that Carranza loved Mexico. 
But he felt that Carranza was primarily interested in the power of being 
President. 

And this worried Obregon. He, too, wanted to be President. He was willing to 
wait until Carranza served his six year term. But what if Carranza did not 
keep his promise? He had been elected on the platform of no reelection. 

No, if he had assessed the man correctly, Carranza would attempt to find a 
way not to relinquish the presidency. He would have to keep a very careful 
eye on Carranza. 

And why did he want to be president? Did he, too, want to become another 
Porfirio Diaz and rule the country for several decades ? 

Yes and no. He was no fool. If the country was in a mood to tolerate another 
Porfirio Diaz, he would love to become another Diaz-though he would do 
things much differently than Diaz ever did. But Mexico was far from being in 
the mood of ever tolerating another dictator. So the next best thing was to 
be president for a decent term of time. Being president, number one, was one 
of the highest glories a man could achieve. What man, in his right mind, 
would walk away from it? 

Yes, he wanted to be president. But he was also a businessman, and for the 
compensation of being president he would give Mexico's problems the best of 
his abilities. It was a fair trade in any businessman's language. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

When Pablo left Patricia, thinking she was dead, he headed straight for 
Mexico City. It was a new and altogether different world from the one he 
knew. 

The strangeness, the fascination of the metropolis made him forget the ugly 
man but for a few days. 

He saw and heard and experienced things he never, not even in his wildest 
dreams, had imagined could exist. For hours at a time he would stare at 
those odd-looking, mechanical self-running things called automobiles. How 
could they move if nothing was pushing and nobody was pulling? He wondered 
about the huge, massive buildings he saw everywhere. What held them up; why 
didn't they crumble? The plumbing mystified him. Water flowing in through 
the walls, water draining down the floors. Mother of God, what sort of magic 
was this? The markets with their hundreds of different foods entranced him. 
Where did it all come from, how could people buy these different foods? 
Money, he was told. Money will buy you anything you want. 

Money? What was money? Why it was just a piece of paper. "You mean," he 
asked a street vendor, "all I need is paper and I can really get anything I 
want." 

The street vendor roared with laughter. "Si muchacho, si," he said amiably, 
producing a peso out of his pocket. "All you need is this kind of paper." 

Pablo was really perplexed. Not everything in the city had been beautiful 
and awe-inspiring. He had also seen people starving in the streets like wild 
dogs without a dime. Why didn't these people just gather all the paper they 
could find and then go to the markets? Were they just lazy and indifferent 
about their own hunger? 

No. No. No. The vendor was shocked. "Only the government can produce this 
paper," he tried to explain. "You just don't find it in the streets." 

Pablo was also introduced to very ancient joys of the flesh. One day a 
bartender gave him a marijuana cigarette to smoke. It was wild. No, it was 
even better than that. It was a dream like no dream he had ever had. His 
mind somehow became disattached from his body. It was a universe all of its 
own. 

It was frightening. "And sometimes it can drive you insane," the bartender 
said. 

"You're full of shit." A customer started an argument with the bartender. 
I've been smoking it for ten years and it's the only thing that keeps me 
sane." 

The bartender ignored the troublemaker and recounted the story of a man who 
had been smoking it for years. 

"Like many of us," the bartender began, "the man was a coward. He couldn't 
face reality any longer. His wife died, leaving him with ten children. Soon 
after that his two elder girls became prostitutes. One of his sons became a 
thief and murderer. And he, himself, was completely fed up working for a 
shoemaker who made him work for fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. So 
he started smoking marijuana and chewing peyote. He was a changed man; he 
was even a happy man. For years and years he smoked it. Then one night he 
came in here and drank a bottle of mescal and smoked three whole sticks of 
marijuana. Very calm and composed, he suddenly got up and produced a long 
sharp knife. He walked up to the bar, unbuttoned his pants, took his penis 
out and held it against the bar. He chopped his penis off and held it high 
in the air. And while he bled to death he screamed over and over. "I don't 
need it anymore! I am a god! I am a god." 

As the days went by and the novelty of the city wore off, Pablo was once 
again confronted by his own ugly reality. The ugly bastard had to die. He 
had to find him and kill him. He had to! 

Over the next several months, while Obregon and his troops were raising hell 
and death all over central Mexico, Pablo worked patiently and meticulously 
under a plan which would find him the ugly man. 

But as Villa and his troops abandoned city after city until only Mexico City 
remained under rebel troops, Pablo became frantic. He was fast running out 
of time. And if he didn't find the ugly man now, he might never find him. 

As he walked into a bar facing the city's main fortress, he was very much 
aware that today might be the very last chance he had of ever catching up 
with the ugly devil. 

"Buenos alias, Pablo," the bartender said. "What will it be today?" 

"Aqua con tequila," said Pablo, cleaning the sweat and dirt of the late 
afternoon sun off his triangular shaped face. 

"How does it look out there?" the bartender asked, placing a glass of water 
on the bar and serving a shot of tequila in a separate glass. 

"Bad," Pablo said, "real bad. Carranza's army is all over around Mexico 
City." 

"That bad, huh." 

Pablo swallowed the tequila and for a moment enjoyed the burning sensation 
down his throat. 

"Yeah," he said, drinking the water. "It's that bad." 

"I'm not surprised," said the bartender. "In the last few years I've seen 
armies come and go like the seasons of the year. 

"Another shot?" he asked, holding the bottle up. 

"No, gracias," Pablo said, tucking the handkerchief inside his shirt. "I 
have to meet Carlos at the Main Cuartel." 

"You still trying, huh?" The bartender slammed the cork back into the bottle 
and put it away on the top shelf. 

"Wouldn't you ? " Pablo snapped, walking out of the cantina. 

He crossed the unusually wide street and approached the two men guarding the 
entrance to the fort. 

"Your friend Carlos is not here," the smaller of the two guards told Pablo. 

"I'll wait," Pablo said, leaning against the very massive wall. 

"Haven't you gone through all the records?" the other guard asked, spitting 
tobacco juice. 

Pablo looked at the man. "No," he said. "We still have two rooms of files to 
go through." 

Both guards whistled. "But what if the file you are looking for," the 
smaller of the two men asked, "was one of the many files that were burned?" 

Pablo looked at the ground. "I don't know," he said. 

The two men looked at each other and smiled and shook their heads. 

It was hopeless! He knew it was impossible. But he had to try. 

If only he knew the name of the ugly bastard! Then he could find him, 
somewhere. 

He wanted to kill that man! He wanted to kill that man more than he wanted 
anything else! 

But he knew nothing about the man! Nothing! Except that he was ugly. 

Well, somewhere inside the fort, among the thousands and thousands of files, 
he would find a man described as being ugly because of a monstrous harelip. 

And then, yes, then he would know the man's name! 

Pablo walked towards the guard who was chewing tobacco. "Compadre," he said, 
"if Carlos gets here, tell him to wait for me. I am going to the plaza to 
see if he is still there." 

As he walked away a terrible thought occurred to him. What if the ugly 
bastard was already dead! What if he had already been killed? 

He walked eastward three blocks and approached the small plazita where 
Carlos did business. 

God no, he thought. I have to kill him myself! I have to! 

Carlos was still there. He was busy writing a letter for an old woman who 
was dictating to him. 

He finished the letter and charged the woman one peso. "Ah, Pablo, my boy," 
he said. "I'm sorry I am late. But business is good, very good." 

His brown eyes sparkled. "And to think the Revolution wants people to learn 
to read and write! Why they will starve me! That's what the Revolution will 
do for me!" 

He slapped his knees. "Well, let's see if we can find that devil of yours 
today. "You have a peso for me?" 

Pablo reached deep in his pants pocket and produced one peso. 

Carlos grabbed it greedily. "Let's see," he said, slapping Pablo's back. 
"That makes forty-five pesos you have given me in three months. The next 
hour is yours to command." 

As they approached the fort the ground started to shake and rumble. And 
black smoke and dust were everywhere. 

While Pablo stood there, full of awe, and his mouth open, Carlos ran down 
the street. 

The fort was being attacked by artillery fire. The whole establishment was 
being crushed, burned to the ground. 

God, no! No! No! Now he would never find the ugly bastard! 

As men and horses raced back and forth, Pablo cried. 

All the files! All the documents were burning ! And there was nothing he 
could do. Nothing. 

The bombardment continued through the night and before dawn General Garza 
had given up all hope of holding the capitol. His defenses around the city 
were nearly crushed, but he gathered what forces he could and he led them to 
the north of the city. From there he spearheaded his troops through the 
enemy lines and they broke through but with considerable losses. For the 
next several weeks they rode hell and leather through the enemy-held 
territory. They traveled through five states until they reached the 
Chihuahua mountains. 

Most of the troops never made it. When they broke through, there were some 
two hundred of them. Only ten rode into the mountains, and they were more 
dead than alive. 

Pablo was one of the few who had lived through the long and devilish 
journey, but he really didn't give a damn one way or the other any more. He 
had given up all hope now. He would never find the ugly bastard, the thought 
of whom still boiled through his veins. 

He wished he had marijuana or peyote now. The mescal he was drinking wasn't 
half doing its job. He wanted to get so drunk that his mind would jump out 
of his body and whirl on and on and on into oblivion. 

He hated his consciousness, his awareness. It oppressed him. It was like 
chains. And he wanted to break them. He wanted to be free, to drown in 
nothingness, to jump in a black deep hole with no bottom to it. 

But all he had was this damn mescal and it wasn't doing what he wanted. Just 
the same it was better than nothing, and he drank it down like a man dying 
of thirst. 

Even in the dark, Pablo could sense the old man's eyes on him. 

"What's wrong, old man?" he asked, his voice drunk, his tone slurred. 

The old man shook his head, scratched his white beard and continued to drink 
his coffee. 

Pablo placed the half-empty bottle of mescal to his lips and sucked a long 
long shot from it. 

"So young," whispered the old man. "So young. And so drunk." 

"Mind your business," Pablo snarled. "What the hell do you know about 
anything!" 

"Nothing," said the old man quietly, pity in his eyes. "But you won't find a 
solution in the bottle." 

"Leave me alone, you old bastard!" Pablo cried. "Go on! Go bother someone 
else!" 

The old man stood up quietly, picked his saddle up, and walked softly away 
to another campfire. 

Pablo put the bottle to his mouth again and swallowed another hard drink. 

"The old man is right," said a voice from across the fire. "Why don't you 
get some sleep." 

A hysterical sound escaped his lips. It sounded like laughter, except it 
wasn't. It was the sobs of a madman. 

Sleep! God, yes! He wanted to sleep! He needed to sleep! 

But he couldn't. He could not sleep. Every-time he closed his eyes he 
dreamed. 

"I can't sleep," he cried, throwing the bottle into the fire. "I won't 
sleep! I won't!" 

"Hey, muchacho," the same voice from across the fire said. "Take it easy. 
You have a long life ahead of you." 

"I won't sleep," he cried in a drunken furor. "I won't! I won't!" 

But he was too drunk. He was too tired. He had fought off sleep and now 
sleep was winning, creeping in, dominating him. And he fell flat on his 
back. And he slept. And he dreamed. 

It was always the same. It started as a beautiful dream. And it always ended 
as a nightmare. 

It was a woman, beautiful and naked. She would wait for him, legs spread 
out, buttocks moving up and down. 

He would crawl up to her and going slowly into her he would see her face. It 
was Patricia. He would bring his lips down on hers and a wild gyration of 
movement would follow. 

Going off in her, giving her everything that was in him, he would again look 
at her face. 

It was not Patricia. 

It was his mother, an expression of hopeless ecstasy on her wild-looking 
face! 

He woke, sweat running down his tortured wrought face. 

He slapped his face a couple of times, killing a moth that had persisted on 
landing on his nose. 

It was still dark. A weird silence had settled over the entire camp. Now and 
then a loud snore would break the dead feeling of the night. 

About a hundred yards away he could see two men against a fire still burning 
strong. One of the men was Persident Garza. The other one, he thought, must 
be General Villa. 

He looked at the two men for a while. Villa was walking back and forth, at 
times moving his arms wildly, while Garza just sat still, his back stooped. 

Pablo inhaled deeply a few times and then gazed at the dying fire. 

Suddenly he broke down crying. He could have killed the ugly bastard! He had 
had his chance! Why hadn't he? Why? 

Oh, God, how well he remembered! For ten, twenty seconds, the ugly bastard 
had been at his mercy. His mother had been screaming and then she had 
stopped; and all this time, the ugly bastard had been outside the hut. 

And so had he. He had been hiding behind a tree, a huge rock in his hand. 

It could have been so easy. He could have crushed the ugly bastard's head 
with the rock. 

Why hadn't he? Why? Why? 

He knew. 

His eyes did not flicker. He gazed up at the open black sky. 

It was an empty stare. 

And tears rolled down his young, old face. 

He knew why. 

He had enjoyed it. The whole act had fascinated him. He had fought, yes, but 
not against the act. Only against his enjoyment of it. 

And he had been defeated. 

The fascination had finally paralyzed him, so that he could not throw the 
rock. 

His fingers dug deeply into the earth. 

"God damn you," he mumbled. "God damn you." 

A hundred yards away Pancho Villa was also cursing. 

God damn the Gringos, thought Pancho Villa, God damn them all! 

He was going to pay them in full! By God, he was going to teach them to mind 
their own business! 

It was difficult to see, even by the campfire, but Pancho Villa was 
blushing. He was embarrassed. 

Garza was gazing at the fire, drinking coffee from a tin cup. Since his 
arrival an hour before, he hadn't said a word. 

Garza had traveled hundreds of miles, but he didn't appear tired any more. 

He conveyed anger-a furious, savage silent anger. 

Villa had promised him weapons-hundreds upon hundreds of weapons to defend 
the capitol. 

Garza poured the remaining coffee into the ground and looked up directly at 
Villa. "Why?" he asked simply. "Why?" 

Villa faced the angry eyes and held them. "I had weapons coming in," he said 
calmly. "I had them coming in from the north." 

Villa's eyes lit up with a fury that had no match. "But the Gringos placed 
an embargo on all arms and munitions! That's why I couldn't keep my 
promise." 

Garza remained silent. 

"How many men did you bring with you?" Villa asked, serving himself a cup of 
coffee. 

Garza gazed into the fire. "Only what I came in with," he murmured. "The 
rest were cut to pieces. About two hundred of us broke through the 
encirclement." 

"And the rest of your army was slaughtered?" Villa asked surprised. 

"Yes," Garza said "Carranza's army was well-equipped, American weapons for 
the most part." 

"Damn Gringos!" said Villa. "They are going to pay, compadre!" 

"How?" asked Garza looking up at him. 

"We are going to steal every damn Gringo company in this part of Mexico! And 
then, compadre," Villa's face lit up with enthusiasm. "We are going to use 
their filthy money to buy weapons, preferably from them. And then, compadre, 
with their own weapons we are going to hit them! We are going to hit those 
damn Gringos at least once! 

"And they will always remember, compadre. They should never have messed with 
Villa!" 

"What's your plan?" asked Garza, unimpressed. 

Villa walked back and forth, unable to contain his vast energy. "Very 
briefly, compadre, we'll divide our forces into three groups. The main group 
stays here in Chihuahua. The second group crosses into Sonora, and the third 
group rides into Coahuila and Monterrey. 

"In every town there's some Gringo who shouldn't be there, fleecing our 
people. Once we have borrowed what's ours by national right, we'll meet back 
here. Then we will attack either El Paso but probably Columbia. It will be 
easier to escape from Columbia than it would be from El Paso." 

Garza expressed concern. "What about the American Army, General?" 

Villa doubled up in laughter. And then he was deadly serious. "Do you think, 
General Garza, that anyone of their schoolboy generals is capable of finding 
me?" 

Garza shook his head, for he was talking to the master guerrilla of them 
all. 

Villa had been defeated not only by Obregon but also once by Huerta. Both 
times, however, he had escaped their grips. He was a soldier, but not in the 
conventional sense of being a soldier. His way was the way of the guerrilla; 
his tactics always the tactics of a bandit. 

And that's what he was, this Pancho Villa. A bandit. He had been a bandido 
all his adult life and half of his youth. Not by choice by any means, but a 
bandido he was because he had been forced into being one. 

He had been a peon like almost every male in Mexico was a peon. One fine day 
when Pancho Villa was not Pancho Villa but still Doroteo Arango, the son of 
his patron, the landlord, decided he was going to seduce Doroteo's sister. 
This he did, except that when Doroteo's sister didn't want to be seduced she 
was raped. Doroteo was a proud youth and when he learned that his sister had 
been violated he killed the son of the patron. 

Now such things were just not done, at least, not to the patrones and their 
families. Doroteo immediately fled from the state of Durango to the 
Chihuahua mountains. And once there he joined a band of bandidos led by a 
man named Pancho Villa. 

Doroteo learned the profession well; so well, in fact, that one day he 
decided there was room for only one caudillo. He killed Pancho Villa and 
because he was sentimental in an odd sort of way he assumed the name of the 
man who had taught him his trade. 

Over the years he grew to be one great big thorn in Don Porfirio Diaz' side. 
The Rurales, a specal branch of law enforcement, could never catch up with 
him. He always gave the army a run for its money. So Diaz finally put a 
price on his head in the hope that some poor peon might shoot him for the 
money. 

But Villa had foreseen years before that Diaz might do just such a thing, 
and to protect himself against being assassinated by some poor peon he had 
been sharing his loot with the peasants. 

Over the years the word got around that he was a sort of Robin Hood, 
stealing from the rich to give to the poor. And far from killing him, the 
peasants loved him and protected him from the Rurales and the regular army. 

For more than ten years before the Revolution, Pancho Villa terrorized the 
landowners of Chihuahua and Durango. And the people loved him for it. Who 
was it, they sang in secret, who made the patrones walk with their behinds 
between their legs ? Who was it, they praised, that made the patrones' 
ladies cross their legs at the mere mention of his name? 

Yes, Pancho Villa was made a hero by an oppressed people. And though he was 
really no hero, he was nevertheless influenced by the love and praise of the 
people. When he offered his services to Madero he was not unaware that as a 
revolutionary leader he stood a good chance to mak a fortune. But he 
believed that the people's secret desires were legitimate. It was not just 
that so few should own all the land and wealth of Mexico. 

Whatever Pancho Villa really was, he was ruthless, calculating, and 
vengeful. And his plan to attack the Americans had a double purpose. He 
would teach the meddling Gringos a lesson, and conceivably he might bring 
Carranza down on his knees. The Gringos, he had no doubt, would send an army 
to pursue him. This would embarrass the Carranza government, and Carranza 
would be forced to attack the Gringo invaders. 

After this the possibilities were too unpredictable, but it would have 
served his dual purpose. He would have taught both the Gringos and Carranza 
that it did not pay to tangle with Pancho Villa. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

As the year of 1915 approached its bloody end, Pancho Contreras-unsuspecting 
that the breathing, bleeding earth was already crying urgently for his flesh 
and soul-drove a wagon-load of red chile into the town of Bacuachi. 

Had he known that a group of Villistas were in town, he might have turned 
back. Maybe not. It is impossible to predict. He was different now, this 
ugly man. 

He wasn't really ugly any more. Oh, a hideous scar still marked his 
monstrous harelipped face. 

But inside-inside he was beautiful. It was amazing what a woman's compassion 
and a woman's willing body had done to him. Even his animalistc face 
softened into something more human. 

Everything he looked upon, whether old memories or familiar things, he now 
saw with a different perspective. 

He had hated his mother before. She had rejected him so completely that soon 
after he was born she had entrusted his care to a maid. And his father, of 
course, had been no better. All Pancho had to do was look at his old man and 
he would get a whipping for it. He had shocked his parents so badly that 
they had simply refused to have any more children. 

Somehow though he couldn't hate them anymore, not that they still weren't 
worthy of hate. He just didn't have anything inside him with which to hate. 
It seemed as though he had been washed, rinsed, and then put out under the 
sun to be cleansed. He had visited their graves not long ago; and while he 
had not been able to cry for them he had at least not cursed them. 

He drove on into the old town, and he was familiar with every street and 
every building and he felt good. He felt at home. 

He went on about his business and sold his crop of red chile. And as the day 
moved on he decided to get a haircut. 

The barber worked slowly, cutting hair for a few seconds and spending long 
minutes chasing a persistent burro that insisted on being inside the small 
shop. 

As the barber whistled a nameless but happy tune the burro walked in again 
and made himself comfortable smelling the barber's behind. 

"Burro desgraciado," he said, laughing. "You must be on my wife's side." 

Contreras laughed. "How's that?" 

The barber pushed the chair around. "Well, it's like this, Senor Contreras," 
he explained, covering his behind with both hands. "She keeps telling me I 
should bathe more often. But I insist as my father always said, that bathing 
is bad for the system. 

"No, no, it's really true," he said, looking into Contreras' doubtful eyes. 
"Every time you take a bath you wash away a little bit of yourself. Why in 
no time at all you could wash all of yourself away. 

"My father, Senor Contreras, he got to be over a hundred years old. And 
before he died, the devil bless his soul, he told me his secret. 

"Do you want to know the secret of his long life?" the barber asked, looking 
into Contreras' smiling eyes. "Well, I'll tell you. He never took a bath, 
not once in his long life. He used to clean his body once a month, but with 
alcohol. 

"Senor," the barber laughed, placing his arms around the donkey's neck and 
dragging the burro out of the shop. "My father was never clean, but he was 
preserved." 

He dragged the burro across the narrow street where two small boys were 
playing and gave them ten centavos each in exchange for taking the burro 
away from the vicinity. 

"You know, senor," he said when he came back inside, "that burro reminds me 
of the Revolution." 

"Oh?" 

The barber moved his head both ways, very secretively. "Si-si senor," he 
whispered, "the whole thing is dumb like a burro." 

Pancho leaned back in the chair and made himself comfortable while the 
barber searched for his scissors among a pile of instruments. 

"I mean the way it started," he continued, "it was a real burro thing. Do 
you know how it all started?" 

"I've heard different versions," Pancho answered. 

"Well-this the real burro, senor. And you tell me if it isn't a real burro. 
The way I heard it, it seems an American magazine sent a man by the name of 
James Creelman to Mexico City to interview Don Porfirio Diaz. I think this 
was back in 1908. 

"Anyway, Don Porfirio became burro careless during the interview and said 
that when his present term expired that he would not serve again. He also 
added that he would welcome an opposition party in the republic. 

"When Madero read this burro statement that had been made in a burro mood by 
an old man who was really so old as to be burro senile, he made this burro 
thing ride him all the way to the Capitol. Not that it did him any good 
either. It didn't take Huerta long to take the burro away. 

"Well," he asked Pancho, "wasn't it a real burro thing? I mean, what 
difference will it really make once the burro is killed. Senor, the poor man 
was born to be fucked, no matter how many burros come and go." 

Pancho laughed. 

"And speaking of Huerta," the barber asked, "Have you read the papers 
lately." 

"What's he done now?" 

"Well," he said, "it seems he found his way into the United States and he 
was buying weapons and recruiting an army. The American authorities arrested 
him in Newman, New Mexico and jailed him in Fort Bliss, Texas. He hasn't got 
a chance now, senor. Those damn Texans will hate him to death. They don't 
like Mexicans, you know. Ever since that bastard Santa Anna gave them Texas 
they can't stand the sight of any Mexican. 

"But if Mexico ever becomes a powerful nation. No. No, Senor Contreras, 
don't laugh. Miracles still do happen, you know. And don't forget, senor, 
that while those damn Gringos were still running with their asses bare 
against the wind, our ancestors were a powerful empire. 

"Anyway, senor Contreras, a Mexican is like an elephant. He never, never 
forgets. And God knows those Gringos have stolen our elephant blind. One way 
or the other they crooked us out of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and 
California. 

"Well-for now, we can kill them with words, eh, senor?" 

"You read a great deal," commented Pancho. 

"Si," the barber agreed. "Now I read just so people know that I can read. 
But I went through a great deal of trouble to learn how because I wanted to 
know what was going on in the world. You know what I found out? 

"If you want the truth of anything your read, senor Contreras, you must 
imagine the complete opposite of what you read and then you have the truth." 

Pancho couldn't stop laughing. 

"You're a happy man," Contreras said to the barber after the man had resumed 
cutting his hair. 

"Si, senor," the barber agreed. "And why not? Since the Villistas have been 
in town, business has been very good." 

"What are they doing here, anyway?" Contreras asked. 

"It's hard to say, senor," the barber replied. "The only thing they have 
done so far is to ask questions." 

"Oh, what questions?" 

"Gringos, senor. They are looking for Gringos, any Gringo." 

"Why?" 

"Well, Senor, they don't really want the Gringos. It's their money they 
want." 

He finished cutting and dusted the loose hair off of Contreras' face with a 
small brush made of chicken feathers. 

"Anyway," the barber said, "they found out there's a lot of Gringos living 
in Cananea. So I imagine they'll be going there very soon." 

Contreras produced a roll of bills from his pocket and gave the barber one 
peso. 

"How's the milpa coming along, Senor ? " the barber asked, putting the peso 
inside an old cigar box. 

"Good," Contreras replied, "very good. I just sold my first crop of red 
chile." 

"Well, I guess that makes you a farmer, Senor," the barber said, taking off 
his apron. "Only, don't become like the other farmers around here. Can you 
imagine, they try to cut their own hair, the cheap bastards." 

Pancho laughed. "No," he said, "I'll see you in another three months or so." 

He was happy. 

For the first time in his life, he was a happy man. And as he walked down 
the narrow street, Contreras swung his arms wide and proud and free. 

Jesus! He felt good! The first crop of chile had sold well. He had taken 
care of that chile the way a woman takes care of her child. 

He placed his hand next to his pants pocket and felt the bulge of bills 
there, nearly a thousand pesos. 

It was worth it, all the work and sweat to make the damn earth give a little 
chile! Yes sir, it was worth it. 

He approached the corner and was about to turn left when he noticed a group 
of five men coming up the street. The ammunition belts hanging diagonally 
across their chests marked them as Villistas. 

Pancho turned right, away from the approaching group. 

No sir. He didn't want trouble. He didn't need trouble any more. 

Everything he had ever wanted, he now had. And that's the way he was going 
to keep it. 

He whistled as he walked. And he enjoyed the peaceful feeling within 
himself. 

He looked back and saw that the street was now empty, so he turned back. He 
walked some three and a half blocks and entered the Bacuachi General Store. 

"Linda senora," he said to the elderly clerk, "I want the most beautiful 
dress in your store for the most beautiful woman in the world." 

"Ahh, senor Contreras," the woman said, clapping her hands. "I have just 
what you want. A dress imported all the way from Paris." 

He followed the short, plump woman to the back room and waited while she 
opened a big, white box and unfolded a red dress out of it. 

"But, senora," he objected, "that dress is two times bigger than my woman." 

"So?" the woman smiled. "That's no problem. Make her pregnant. Besides," she 
added, "this is the only dress I have in the whole store." 

"All right," he said. "I'll take it then." Well, if Patricia wasn't 
pregnant, nobody could accuse him of not trying. He had squirted more sperm 
into that woman than the clouds pour water on this earth. 

"Will that be all?" the woman asked. 

"Huh, oh, no, here is a list of provisions you can fill for me." 

But it was no problem. If they couldn't have children of their own, they 
could always adopt an orphan or two. 

What the hell? If there was one thing the bloody revolution was producing, 
it was lots of orphans. 

It sure bothered Patricia though. Getting pregnant had become an obsession 
with her. 

He smiled. 

Life was one hell of a joke at times. Lately he was forced into the 
situation of having to make love to Patricia in the morning, at noon, and at 
night. 

"Pancho," she would say, "I have to get pregnant. You have given me so much. 
The least I can do is give you a son." 

He knew what was bothering her. And he would tell her, "Don't feel the way 
you do. I need you. Believe me, I need you. I need you like the air I 
breathe." 

And she would cry, "But if I could give you a son then I wouldn't feel so 
helpless." 

Helpless! What the hell, she got around the house all right. She could do 
the chores around the house as well as any other woman could. 

Well, he would just have to keep on trying to make her realize how badly he 
really needed her. She was indispensable to him. In time she would come to 
know it. He would make her see it. 

"Senor Contreras," the woman clerk called out, "that will come to two 
hundred and twenty-three pesos." 

He paid the woman and carried the merchandise out in a wooden crate. His 
wagon was parked about half a block way. 

He placed the medium-sized crate in the back and lazily climbed onto the 
driver's seat. Whistling, feeling peaceful and content, he drove the horses 
through the narrow streets. 

He drove by the church, the school, and residential homes. And then at the 
outskirts of the small town he passed the cantina. 

Pancho glanced at a wild-looking man who was just coming out. His hair was 
long, as long as a woman's hair. A very light black beard covered his face. 

For a fraction of a second Pancho's eyes were riveted on the young man's 
eyes. They were bitter, cold eyes. 

He drove by the cantina. He knew that young man, from somewhere, from some 
place. But where ? 

Pancho looked back. The young man was still looking after him. 

Something. There was something familiar about him. 

Well, if he couldn't remember, it couldn't have been of any importance. 

* * * 

The ugly man! 

Before his drunken eyes had passed the devil. Some place, some time. The 
place was here, the time was now! 

"Kill!" the beat of the heart pounded. 

"Kill!" the air of the lungs breathed. 

"Kill!" the impulses of the brain commanded. 

And the young body obeyed. He ran two blocks, maybe three, he didn't know. 
He reached the stables. 

"My horse, old man." He gasped for air. "Hurry!" 

The calm old man responded patiently. "He's eating. Besides-my son is just 
fitting him with the shoes you ordered." 

"Then lend me one," Pablo regained his breath. "Or rent me one." 

"Seguro," the old man smiled, "but I have to know where you are going." 

"Visiting," he whispered. 

"Where?" 

"Well, perhaps you can help me," Pablo answered. "I was drinking at the 
cantina with a fellow who lives around this region. And he invited me to 
stay with him a few days. But I was very drunk, you understand, and now I 
don't remember what the fellow's name is nor the place where he told me he 
lives. 

"But perhaps you know the man. He's a very, well, you understand, a very 
ugly man. He has a harelip and a circular scar covers his right cheek." 

"Oh, si," the old man replied. "There's no mistaking him. His name is 
Pancho, Pancho Contreras." 

"Yes, yes that's his name!" Pablo smiled. "It's coming back to me. And he 
lives where?" 

The old man spat out a mouthful of tobacco juice. 

"You know where the cantina is," he said. "Well, you follow that road for 
about four kilometers until you come to a side road that breaks in from the 
left. You follow that side road for about a kilometer and a half. That's 
where he lives." 

He had wasted enough time. 

"All right, all right," he said. "May I have a horse now." 

"Oh, si," the old man replied, walking up to a black stallion. "I am kind of 
surprised though. I mean, that he invited you to his place. That man has 
always kept to himself." 

The old man lifted an old, worn-out, faded-looking saddle and placed it on 
the horse's back. 

"I guess he must have changed some," he said, fastening the belt under the 
horse's belly. "He was gone for years and years. Didn't come back until six 
or seven months ago. Ugly as hell that boy is, but somehow he managed to get 
himself a real handsome looking woman. Yeah, I guess he must have changed 
some." 

"All right, all right, old man, cut the silly talk. How much do I owe you?" 

"Five pesos now and five when you bring the horse back. 

Pablo mounted the black stallion and with impatient hate gave chase to the 
man who had for so long now tortured his mind and body. 

So the ugly bastard has a woman, he kept thinking. 

Good! 

He had raped his mother. He would rape his woman. It was as simple as that. 
And then he would kill him a hundred times over! 

"God," he prayed, "Let him die slowly, oh, so slowly." 

The night was bright, the moon was full, and the distant stars twinkled over 
the silent night. 

Behind a group of trees, some thirty yards away from the small adobe house, 
Pablo observed and waited. 

He had waited a long time. He could wait a while more. 

He smiled. The right time was here. He took his shirt off and with both 
hands in front of him, he ran towards the house. 

The woman had come out of the house and she was now standing below the 
clothes line. 

Patricia heard the sudden, approaching noise and was in the process of 
turning when Pablo reached her. 

He placed the extended shirt over her head, swinging his right fist down on 
the back of her neck. He tied the sleeves of the shirt a-round the woman's 
neck. 

Good! The woman had not made a sound. 

He reached for the gun tucked between his belly and his pants. 

He moved quickly, silently, to the front door. The ugly man wasn't in the 
kitchen. 

From the entrance he could see that three other rooms connected with the 
kitchen. But he could see there was light coming from only one of the rooms. 
The other two were dark. 

He went in as quietly as he could and his back leaning against the wall he 
peeked into the lighted room. 

He was there! He was in bed, reading a book. 

Pablo moved and boldly he stood in the doorway screaming, "Don't make a 
move, you ugly bastard!" 

With the speed of lightning Pancho let go of the book, hitting Pablo in the 
face. 

At the same time Pablo fired once and heard a groan. 

"Oh, no," he whispered regaining his balance, "I killed him. Oh, God, and I 
didn't even make him suffer!" 

Crying, cursing himself, he took the ugly man's pulse. 

He was alive! 

The devil's heart was still beating. 

The bullet had found its mark in his chest, about two inches above the 
heart. 

Pablo tucked his gun between his belly and pants and grabbed the ugly man by 
the shoulders. 

He dragged him through the house, all the way outside, to one of the 
clothesline poles. He went back into the kitchen and came out with a knife. 

He cut one of the ropes between the two poles and with it he tied the ugly 
man to the pole. 

Slapping the devil's face several times he screamed, "Wake up, you bastard!" 

When the ugly man finally opened his eyes, Pablo demanded, "Do you know who 
I am?" 

Pancho said nothing, his drowsy eyes showing no recognition. He was dying 
fast. 

"You raped my mother," Pablo cried, slapping him hard across the face. "You 
remember me, don't you. You made me watch! 

"And now do you know what I am going to do?" he said slowly, dragging the 
body of the unconscious woman before Pancho. "I am going to rape your 
woman!" 

He pulled the woman's dress up, above her waist. And he tore her panties 
off. 

He unbuttoned his pants and moved between the woman's legs; rubbing and 
rubbing. 

God damn it! He couldn't do it! 

He was willing. God, he was willing! 

But his penis just hung there, limp! 

Pancho was pulling against the pole with all his remaining strength, a blind 
stare in his eyes. 

"Don't do this to her!" he pleaded just once. 

"I can't do it!" Pablo finally said. "God damn it, I can't do it. 

"You think it's funny," he said, standing up buttoning his pants. "I promise 
you this. I am going to tear your woman to pieces. Remember the way you and 
your men tore my mother to pieces!" 

Pablo ran to the barn and came out with two horses. And he cut the remaining 
rope between the clothesline poles. 

"Wake up, you bastard," he screamed, kicking Pancho in the face. 

He brought the two horses together by throwing the rope around their necks 
and making a knot between the two. He cut the remaining rope. 

He lifted the woman up and placed her between the two horses, one leg 
resting on each horse, her buttocks hanging between the two beasts. 

He tied each leg securely but independently onto each beast. 

Pancho looked on sheer terror in his nearly dead face. "No." he whispered, 
"No!" 

"That's right," Pablo rejoiced, cutting the rope holding the two animals 
together. "Enjoy it, you ugly bastard, enjoy it!" 

He walked behind the two animals, and brought his hands up, each hand coming 
down hard on each animal. 

The animals sprung forward, parallel to one another for about ten feet. 

And then they broke apart, tearing the woman in two. 

"No!" with his last breath, Pancho pulled on the pole, breaking it. He fell 
flat on his face, dead. 

The other end of the pole came down on Pablo knocking him unconscious. 

Peace! At last, he thought from somewhere deep in his insides, I can have 
peace! 


THE END
