“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 con-cerned, 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 him-self.  “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 your-self, 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!”

XIII

Someone plunged a knife
Deep in my side. 
Did he know why? 
I don’t know why. 
Maybe he knew,
I never knew. 
The blood flowed out
Of that mortal wound. 
Did he know why? 
I don’t know why. 
Maybe he knew,
I never knew.

His head lowered, his hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle, Demetrio in melancholy accents sang the strains of the intriguing song.  Then he fell silent; for quite a while he continued to feel oppressed and sad.

“You’ll see, as soon as we reach Lagos you’ll come out of it, General.  There’s plenty of pretty girls to give us a good time,” Blondie said.

“Right now I feel like getting damn drunk,” Deme-trio answered, spurring his horse forward and leaving them as if he wished to abandon himself entirely to his sadness.

After many hours of riding he called Cervantes.

“Listen, Tenderfoot, why in hell do we have to go to Aguascalientes?”

“You have to vote for the Provisional President of the Republic, General!”