impassive with the stonelike impassivity of
Aztec idols; others, more human, with a slow smile on their colorless
lips and beardless faces, watched these fierce men who less than a
month ago had made the miserable huts of others tremble with fear, now
in their turn fleeing their own huts where the ovens were cold and the
water tanks dry, fleeing with their tails between their legs, cringing,
like curs kicked out of their own houses.

But the General did not countermand his order. Some soldiers brought
back four fugitives, captive and bound.

II

"WHY do you hide?" Demetrio asked the prisoners.

"We're not hiding, Chief, we're hitting the trail."

"Where to?"

"To our own homes, in God's name, to Durango."

"Is this the road to Durango?"

"Peaceful people can't travel over the main road nowadays, you know
that, Chief."

"You're not peaceful people, you're deserters. Where do you come from?"
Demetrio said, eyeing them with keen scrutiny.

The prisoners grew confused; they looked at each other hesitatingly,
unable to give a prompt answer.

"They're Carranzistas," one of the soldiers said.

"Carranzistas hell!" one of them said proudly. "I'd rather be a pig."

"The truth is we're deserters," another said. "After the defeat we
deserted from General Villa's troops this side of Celaya."

"General Villa defeated? Ha! Ha! That's a good joke."

The soldiers laughed. But Demetrio's brow was wrinkled as though a
black shadow had passed over his eyes.

"There ain't a son of a bitch on earth who can beat General Villa!"
said a bronzed veteran with a scar clear across the face.

Without a change of expression, one of the deserters stared
persistently at him and said:

"I know who you are. When we took Torreon you were with General Urbina.
In Zacatecas you were with General Natera and then you shifted to the
Jalisco troops. Am I lying?"

These words met with a sudden and definite effect. The prisoners gave a
detailed account of the tremendous defeat of Villa at Celaya.
Demetrio's men listened in silence, stupefied.

Before resuming their march, they built a fire on which to roast some
bull meat. Anastasio Montanez, searching for food among the huizache
trees, descried the close-cropped neck of Valderrama's horse in the
distance among the rocks.

"Hey! Come here, you fool, after all there ain't been no gravy!" he
shouted.

Whenever anything was said about shooting someone, Valderrama, the
romantic poet,