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detachment, ready to lay down their lives to protect the person of Pesquiera from any sneak attack by the Yaquis or the federalistas or Gandara’s private guard, or whoever was in the field under Gandara’s orders. There were so many enemies it was hard to keep them straight—Governor Gandara had a fiendish skill when it came to welding together outlandish alliances. It was Giron’s business today to protect Pesquiera against any or all of them.
    He got up restlessly to pace the sloping forest floor. Below, in patches through the timber, he could see the river flash. The hot January sun beat down on all of Mexico, and particularly on Colonel Giron, who was a heavy man very much prone to sweat. His eyes were high and narrow, his cheeks round and his jowls soft and his mustache thick with a soldierly droop. His belly hung comfortably over the wide leather belt, and the skin of his face was very smooth and very brown. His fingers were stubby and thick, and played with the caplock of his rifle. Back in the woods squatted the patient Indios , the breechclouted savages whose job it would be to load the coming cargo of rifles and ammunition onto the pack animals and take care of those animals. The Indians were loyal to Pesquiera because they were paid to be loyal. It made Giron shiver even under the warmth of the sun; every loyalty was so tenuous. He had never been able to develop the calm attitude toward revolutions that his countrymen adopted. Abrupt and frequent shifts of loyalty were not easy for Colonel Giron. He believed today in the republic, as he had always believed; for that reason he fought with Pesquiera against Gandara, only because Gandara had made of himself a dictator, and Pesquiera was a wise man who promised freedom to the people of Sonora. Giron stopped in a clear spot of sunlight and felt sweat drip from his armpits, staining the brown shirt he wore. Crossed bandoliers of ammunition weighted his heavy shoulders; the rifle was sticky where his sweaty hand held it.
    â€œGabilondo is late,” Pesquiera said in liquid Spanish, and Giron saw the mark of impatience in the way Pesquiera’s lips were pressed together. “We cannot wait forever in this place,” Pesquiera went on. “It is too exposed. Gabilondo is an arrogant fool—does he believe he is free to keep me waiting all week?”
    â€œI am sure he is making all haste, mi general ,” Giron assured him.
    â€œBah. I have never yet known him to make haste when his path had to take him through villages where there were women and tequila. Mujeres y tequila —except for these things, Gabilondo is a good soldier. But sometimes I could strangle him.”
    Giron said nothing; he only put his troubled glance once more down the slope toward the trail that wound along the riverbank. The trees rustled gently in the wind.
    Giron removed his big sombrero and wiped sweat from his face with his hand. Soon again it beaded on his lip and gathered in his eyebrows; there was no preventing the sweat. He cursed mildly and tilted his rifle muzzle-up against the trunk of a tree and hooked his thumbs in his belt. His belly hung over like a loose sack of meal. I am heavy , he thought. Too much cerveza—but the beer is so good and a man has little enough pleasure . Back in the woods the Indians shifted around—they were playing some kind of a game, throwing knives at tree trunks. They laughed and Giron swung—“ Sargento . Keep the fools quiet. Do they want to bring Gandara’s whole army down upon us?”
    â€œ Sí coronet .” The sergeant gathered his legs under him and went yawning through the trees toward the group of Indians.
    In the following silence a faint distant sound came to Giron’s ears—the creak and sway of wagons. His head tipped up and he saw Pesquiera rising, standing on the rock bareheaded and gray, a tall man of Mexico. “It is about time,” Pesquiera said testily, and came