They had almost reached Cuquio, when Anastasio Montanez rode up to
Demetrio: "Listen, Compadre, I almost forgot to tell you.... You ought
to have seen the wonderful joke that man Blondie played. You know what
he did with the old man who came to complain about the corn we'd taken
away for horses? Well, the old man took the paper and went to the
barracks. 'Right you are, brother, come in,' said Blondie, 'come in,
come in here; to give you back what's yours is only the right thing to
do. How many bushels did we steal? Ten? Sure it wasn't more than ten?
... That's right, about fifteen, eh? Or was it twenty, perhaps? ... Try
and remember, friend.... Of course you're a poor man, aren't you, and
you've a lot of kids to raise.... Yes, twenty it was. All right, now!
It's not ten or fifteen or twenty I'm going to give you. You're going
to count for yourself.... One, two, three ... and when you've had
enough you just tell me and I'll stop.' And Blondie pulled out his
sword and beat him till he cried for mercy."
War Paint rocked in her saddle, convulsed with mirth. Camilla, unable
to control herself, blurted out:
"The beast! His heart's rotten to the core! No wonder I loathe him!"
At once War Paint's expression changed.
"What the hell is it to you!" she scowled. Camilla, frightened, spurred
her horse forward. War Paint did likewise and, as she trotted past
Camilla, suddenly she reached out, seized the other's hair and pulled
with all her might. Camilla's horse shied; Camilla, trying to brush her
hair back from over her eyes, abandoned the reins. She hesitated, lost
her balance and fell in the road, striking her forehead against the
stones.
War Paint, weeping with laughter, pressed on with utmost skill and
caught Camilla's horse.
"Come on, Tenderfoot; here's a job for you," Pancracio said as he saw
Camilla on Demetrio's saddle, her face covered with blood.
Luis Cervantes hurried toward her with some cotton; but Camilla,
choking down her sobs and wiping her eyes, said hoarsely:
"Not from you! If I was dying, I wouldn't accept anything from you ...
not even water."
In Cuquio Demetrio received a message.
"We've got to go back to Tepatitlan, General," said Luis Cervantes,
scanning the dispatch rapidly. "You've got to leave the men there while
you go to Lagos and take the train over to Aguascalientes."
There was much heated protest, the men muttering to themselves or even
groaning out loud. Some of them, mountaineers, swore that they would
not continue with the troop.
Camilla wept all night. On the morrow at dawn, she begged Demetrio to
let her return home.
"If you don't like me, all right," he answered sullenly.
"That's not the reason. I care for you a lot, really. But you know how
it is. That woman ..."
"Never mind about her. It's all right! I'll send her off to hell today.
I had already decided that."
Camilla dried 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 slowly, mute, somber.
Blondie's shrill, guttural voice broke the silent stupor:
"Thank God! At last I'm rid of that damned louse!"