d her tears....

Every horse was saddled; the men were waiting only for orders from the
Chief. Demetrio went up to War Paint and said under his breath:

"You're not coming with us."

"What!" she gasped.

"You're going to stay here or go wherever you damn well please, but
you're not coming along with us."

"What? What's that you're saying?" Still she could not catch Demetrio's
meaning. Then the truth dawned upon her. "You want to send me away? By
God, I suppose you believe all the filth that bitch..."

And War Paint proceeded to insult Camilla, Luis Cervantes, Demetrio,
and anyone she happened to remember at the moment, with such power and
originality that the soldiers listened in wonder to vituperation that
transcended their wildest dream of profanity and filth. Demetrio waited
a long time patiently. Then, as she showed no sign of stopping, he said
to a soldier quite calmly:

"Throw this drunken woman out."

"Blondie, Blondie, love of my life! Help! Come and show them you're a
real man! Show them they're nothing but sons of bitches! ..."

She gesticulated, kicked, and shouted.

Blondie appeared; he had just got up. His blue eyes blinked under heavy
lids; his voice rang hoarse. He asked what had occurred; someone
explained. Then he went up to War Paint, and with great seriousness,
said:

"Yes? Really? Well, if you want my opinion, I think this is just what
ought to happen. So far as I'm concerned, you can go straight to hell.
We're all fed up with you, see?"

War Paint's face turned to granite; she tried to speak but her muscles
were rigid.

The soldiers laughed. Camilla, terrified, held her breath.

War Paint stared slowly at everyone about her. It all took no more than
a few seconds. In a trice she bent down, drew a sharp, gleaming dagger
from her stocking and leapt at Camilla.

A shrill cry. A body fell, the blood spurting from it.

"Kill her, Goddamn it," cried Demetrio, beyond himself. "Kill her!"

Two soldiers fell upon War Paint, but she brandished her dagger,
defying them to touch her:

"Not the likes of you, Goddamn you! Kill me yourself, Demetrio!"

War Paint stepped forward, surrendered her dagger and, thrusting her
breast forward, let her arms fall to her side.

Demetrio picked up the dagger, red with blood, but his eyes clouded; he
hesitated, took a step backward. Then, with a heavy hoarse voice he
growled, enraged:

"Get out of here! Quick!"

No one dared stop her. She moved off