Everything was still swathed in shadows as Demetrio Macias began his
descent to the bottom of the ravine. Between rocks striped with huge
eroded cracks, and a squarely cut wall, with the river flowing below, a
narrow ledge along the steep incline served as a mountain trail.
"They'll surely find me now and track us down like dogs," he mused.
"It's a good thing they know nothing about the trails and paths up
here.... But if they got someone from Moyahua to guide them ..." He
left the sinister thought unfinished. "All the men from Limon or Santa
Rosa or the other nearby ranches are on our side: they wouldn't try to
trail us. That cacique who's chased and run me ragged over these hills,
is at Mohayua now; he'd give his eyeteeth to see me dangling from a
telegraph pole with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, purple and
swollen...."
At dawn, he approached the pit of the canyon. Here, he lay on the rocks
and fell asleep.
The river crept along, murmuring as the waters rose and fell in small
cascades. Birds sang lyrically from their hiding among the pitaya
trees. The monotonous, eternal drone of insects filled the rocky
solitude with mystery.
Demetrio awoke with a start. He waded the river, following its course
which ran counter to the canyon; he climbed the crags laboriously as an
ant, gripping root and rock with his hands, clutching every stone in
the trail with his bare feet.
When he reached the summit, he glanced down to see the sun steeping the
valley in a lake of gold. Near the canyon, enormous rocks loomed
protrudent, like fantastic Negro skulls. The pitaya trees rose tenuous,
tall, like the tapering, gnarled fingers of a giant; other trees of all
sorts bowed their crests toward the pit of the abyss. Amid the stark
rocks and dry branches, roses bloomed like a white offering to the sun
as smoothly, suavely, it unraveled its golden threads, one by one, from
rock to rock.
Demetrio stopped at the summit. Reaching backward, with his right arm
he drew his horn which hung at his back, held it up to his thick lips,
and, swelling his cheeks out, blew three loud blasts. From across the
hill close by, three sharp whistles answered his signal.
In the distance, from a conical heap of reeds and dry straws, man after
man emerged, one after the other, their legs and chests naked, lambent
and dark as old bronze. They rushed forward to greet Demetrio, and
stopped before him, askance.
"They've burnt my house," he said.
A murmur of oaths, imprecations, and threats rose among them.
Demetrio let their anger run its course. Then he drew a bottle from
under his shirt and took a deep swig; then he wiped the neck of the
bottle with the back of his hand and passed it around. It passed from
mouth to mouth; not a drop was left. The men passed their tongues
greedily over their lips to recapture the tang of the liquor.
"Glory be to God and by His Will," said Demetrio, "tonight or tomorrow
at the latest we'll meet the Federals. What do you say, boys, shall we
let them find their way about these trails?"
The ragged crew jumped to their feet, uttering shrill cries of joy;
then their jubilation turned sinister and they gave vent to threats,
oaths and imprecations.
"Of course, we can't tell how strong they are," said Demetrio as his
glance traveled over their faces in scrutiny.
"Do you remember Medina? Out there at Hostotipaquillo, he only had a
half a dozen men with knives that they sharpened on a grindstone. Well,
he held back the soldiers and the police, didn't he? And he beat them,
too."
"We're every bit as good as Medina's crowd!" said a tall,
broad-shouldered man with a black beard and bushy eyebrows.
"By God, if I don't own a Mauser and a lot of cartridges, if I can't
get a pair of trousers and shoes, then my name's not Anastasio
Montanez! Look here, Quail, you don't believe it, do you? You ask my
partner Demetrio if I haven't half a dozen bullets in me already.
Christ! Bullets are marbles to me! And I dare you to contradict me!"
"Viva Anastasio Montanez," shouted Manteca.
"All right, all right!" said Montanez. "Viva Demetrio Macias, our
chief, and long life to God in His heaven and to the Virgin Mary."
"Viva Demetrio Macias," they all shouted.
They gathered dry brush and wood, built a fire and placed chunks of
fresh meat upon the burning coals. As the blaze rose, they collected
about the fire, sat down Indian-fashion and inhaled the odor of the
meat as it twisted on the crackling fire. The rays of the sun, falling
about them, cast a golden radiance over the bloody hide of a calf,
lying on the ground nearby. The meat dangled from a rope fastened to a
huizache tree, to dry in the sun and wind.
"Well, men," Demetrio said, "you know we've only twenty rifles, besides
my thirty-thirty. If there are just a few of them, we'll shoot until
there's not a live man left. If there's a lot of 'em, we can give 'em a
good scare, anyhow."
He undid a rag belt about his waist, loosened a knot in it and offered
the contents to his companions. Salt. A murmur of approbation rose
among them as each took a few grains between the tips of his fingers.
They ate voraciously; then, glutted, lay down on the ground, facing the
sky. They sang monotonous, sad songs, uttering a strident shout after
each stanza.