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was going on, so he had the prisoner brought to him.
    â€œIt’s a disgrace, dear leader, just look. Look!” Luis Cervantes exclaimed, showing Demetrio the blood on his pants and his swollen mouth and nose.
    â€œEnough, enough. For God’s sakes then, just tell me, who are you?” Demetrio demanded.
    â€œMy name is Luis Cervantes. I am a medical student and a journalist. I was pursued, trapped, and made a prisoner— all for having said something in favor of the revolutionaries. ”
    The story that he proceeded to tell of his most recent adventure, in his bombastic style, made Pancracio and Lard double over with laughter.
    â€œI have sought to make myself understood, to convince your men here that I am truly a coreligionist.”
    â€œA co-re a . . . what?” Demetrio inquired, perking up his ears.
    â€œA coreligionist, dear leader, which is to say, that I am a believer of the same ideals and that I fight for the same cause as you and your men.”
    Demetrio smiled.
    â€œWell, tell me, then: what cause exactly are we fighting for?”
    Disconcerted, Luis Cervantes did not know how to answer.
    â€œLook at ’im, look at that expression on his face! Why make ’im jump through so many hurdles? Can’t we go ahead and shoot ’im dead now, Demetrio?” Pancracio asked anxiously.
    Demetrio brought his hand up to the tuft of hair covering one of his ears and scratched for a long while as he considered the situation. Then, unable to find a satisfactory solution, he said:
    â€œGet outta here, everyone. My wound’s startin’ to hurt again. Anastasio, blow out that flame. And lock this one up in the corral. And Pancracio and Lard, you watch over ’im. We’ll decide what to do with ’im tomorrow.”

VI
    Still unable to discern the specific shapes of the objects around him by the dim light of the starry nights, Luis Cervantes searched about for the best place to rest. Eventually he brought his exhausted bones to a pile of wet manure and laid his long body down under the broad canopy of a huisache tree. More out of sheer fatigue than resignation, he forced himself to close his eyes, determined to sleep until his fierce guards woke him up, or until the morning sun burned his head—whichever came first. But he felt some kind of vague warmth next to him, followed by a coarse and labored breathing, and he began to tremble. He reached his shaking hand out and touched the bristling hairs of a pig. The animal, in all likelihood annoyed by the man’s proximity, began to grunt.
    All of Luis Cervantes’s efforts to sleep after that were in vain. Not because of the pain in his wounded limb, nor that which he felt all over his battered and bruised body, but because of the vivid and clear failure he sensed within himself.
    Yes. He had not realized early enough how great the distance would be between handling a verbal scalpel—between hurling factious bolts from the columns of a provincial newspaper—and coming out with a rifle in hand to hunt out the bandits in their own den. He was already beginning to suspect his mistake when he was discharged as a cavalry second lieutenant, at the end of the first day. It had been a brutal day in which they had covered fourteen leagues, leaving his hips and knees stiff as a board, as if all his bones had fused into one. He finally understood it eight days later, at the first encounter with the rebels. He could swear upon the Holy Bible itself that when the soldiers had brought their Mausers up to take aim, someone behind him had said in an extremely loud voice: “Every man for himself!” This was so clearly so that his own spirited, noble steed, which was otherwise accustomed to combat, had turned on its hind legs and galloped away, without stopping until they were at a very safe distance from where the firing of the rifles could be heard. By then the sun was already setting, the mountains filling with