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silence. And then:
    â€œI thought that you would gladly accept someone who came to offer his help, as small as my help may be to you, and yet of benefit only to you. What do I care, after all, if the revolution succeeds or not?”
    As he spoke out loud, he slowly began to regain his confidence, and eventually the languor in his eyes began to fade.
    â€œThe revolution benefits the poor, the ignorant. It is for him who has been a slave his entire life, for the wretched who do not even know that they are so because the rich man transforms the blood, sweat, and tears of the poor man into gold—”
    â€œBah! What’re we supposed to do with all of that? I never cared much for sermons!” Pancracio interrupted.
    â€œI wanted to fight the blessed struggle of the poor and the weak. But you do not understand me, you reject me. And so I say: do with me what you will!”
    â€œWell, maybe I’ll just put this here rope ’round your throat, which sure is nice ’n chubby ’n white, isn’t it now?”
    â€œYeah, I know what you’re here for,” Demetrio responded sharply, scratching his head. “I’m havin’ you shot to death, eh?”
    Then, turning to Anastasio:
    â€œTake ’im away. And if he wants to confess, bring ’im a priest.”
    Impassive as always, Anastasio gently grabbed Cervantes’s arm.
    â€œYou’re comin’ with me, curro .”
    When Quail showed up a few minutes later, dressed in the cassock, they all burst out laughing.
    â€œH’m! This curro sure can talk,” he remarked. “I think he was even havin’ a laugh at me when I started askin’ ’im questions.”
    â€œBut he didn’t sing nothin’?”
    â€œNothin’ more than what he said last night.”
    â€œI’m thinkin’ that he didn’t come here to do what you fear, compadre,” Anastasio noted.
    â€œOkay then. Give ’im somethin’ to eat and keep an eye on ’im.”

VIII
    The next day, Luis Cervantes could barely get up. Dragging his wounded leg about, he wandered from house to house asking for a little alcohol, some boiling water, and shreds of rags. Camila, with her tireless friendliness, supplied him with everything.
    She sat next to him and watched him treat himself, observing with the curiosity typical of someone from the Sierra as he rinsed out the wound.
    â€œListen, and who taught ya to cure like that? And whatcha boil the water for? And the rags, whatcha sew ’em together for? Well, wouldya look at that. How curious. And what’re ya pourin’ on your hands? Is that really alcohol? Well, what d’ya know, I thought alcohol was only good for colic! Ah! So ya was gonna be a doctor, really? Ha, ha, ha! What a laugh riot! And wouldn’t it be better if ya put some cold water on there? You sure do tell some fantastic stories! Little tiny animals livin’ in the water if you don’t boil the water! Phooey! I sure don’t see nothin’ when I look at it!”
    Camila continued asking him questions with such a friendly nature that before long she was addressing him informally. 1
    But Luis Cervantes, lost in his own thoughts, was no longer listening to her.
    â€œSo where are those admirably armed men and their steeds, those men who are receiving their wages in solid gold coins that Villa is minting in Chihuahua. Bah! All we have here is twenty-some half-naked, louse-ridden men, one of them even riding a decrepit old mare, nearly whipped to death from its withers to its tail. Could it be true, then, what the government press and what he himself had claimed before, that the so-called revolutionaries were nothing more than a bunch of bandits grouped together under a magnificent pretext just to satiate their thirst for gold and blood? Could it be, then, that everything that was said of them by those who sympathized with the revolution was a lie? But if the newspapers were