It was a heavenly morning. It had rained all night, the sky awakened
covered with white clouds. Young wild colts trotted on the summit of
the sierra, with tense manes and waving hair, proud as the peaks
lifting their heads to the clouds.
The soldiers stepped among the huge rocks, buoyed up by the happiness
of the morning. None for a moment dreamed of the treacherous bullet
that might be awaiting him ahead; the unforeseen provides man with his
greatest joy. The soldiers sang, laughed, and chattered away. The
spirit of nomadic tribes stirred their souls. What matters it whether
you go and whence you come? All that matters is to walk, to walk
endlessly, without ever stopping; to possess the valley, the heights of
the sierra, far as the eye can read.
Trees, brush, and cactus shone fresh after rain. Heavy drops of limpid
water fell from rocks, ocher in hue as rusty armor.
Demetrio Macias' men grew silent for a moment. They believed they heard
the familiar rumor of firing in the distance. A few minutes elapsed but
the sound was not repeated.
"In this same sierra," Demetrio said, "with but twenty men I killed
five hundred Federals. Remember, Anastasio?"
As Demetrio began to tell that famous exploit, the men realized the
danger they were facing. What if the enemy, instead of being two days
away, was hiding somewhere among the underbrush on the terrible hill
through whose gorge they now advanced? None dared show the slightest
fear. Not one of Demetrio Macias' men dared say, "I shall not move
another inch!"
So, when firing began in the distance where the vanguard was marching,
no one felt surprised. The recruits turned back hurriedly, retreating
in shameful flight, searching for a way out of the canyon.
A curse broke from Demetrio's parched lips.
"Fire at 'em. Shoot any man who runs away!"
"Storm the hill!" he thundered like a wild beast.
But the enemy, lying in ambush by the thousand, opened up its
machine-gun fire. Demetrio's men fell like wheat under the sickle.
Tears of rage and pain rise to Demetrio's eyes as Anastasio slowly
slides from his horse without a sound, and lies outstretched,
motionless. Venancio falls close beside him, his chest riddled with
bullets. Meco hurtles over the precipice, bounding from rock to rock.
Suddenly, Demetrio finds himself alone. Bullets whiz past his ears like
hail. He dismounts and crawls over the rocks, until he finds a parapet:
he lays down a stone to protect his head and, lying flat on the ground,
begins to shoot.
The enemy scatter in all directions, pursuing the few fugitives hiding
in the brush. Demetrio aims; he does not waste a single shot.
His famous marksmanship fills him with joy. Where he settles his
glance, he settles a bullet. He loads his gun once more ... takes
aim....
The smoke of the guns hangs thick in the air. Locusts chant their
mysterious, imperturbable song. Doves coo lyrically in the crannies of
the rocks. The cows graze placidly.
The sierra is clad in gala colors. Over its inaccessible peaks the
opalescent fog settles like a snowy veil on the forehead of a bride.
At the foot of a hollow, sumptuous and huge as the portico of an old
cathedral, Demetrio Macias, his eyes leveled in an eternal glance,
continues to point the barrel of his gun.