Chapter 5

The ugly man had made love to the Colonel's widow four times. As he rested by her side, Marina's body trembled in convulsions and she would not look at him.

She wept and she remembered and she wept some more. She had crossed the ocean. She had traveled from one continent to another.

She laughed hysterically.

"Don't be afraid, my daughter," her father had told her when she was leaving the city of Granada to the port of Malaga. "Sanchez is a good man and he will take care of you."

But how could he know that Sanchez was a good man, she had argued. They hadn't seen each other since Sanchez was sixteen years old.

"The family of Sanchez," her father said sternly, "was one of the best families in Granada, so Sanchez is a good and honorable man."

Her father had not been mistaken. Sanchez had been very good to her. Oh, not everything had been perfect. He had been much older than she and he had always wanted sex. But all in all he had always been very kind and gentle to her.

After her arrival in Veracruz the Colonel had made their future relationship clear. "Ever since my wife died," he had explained, "I have been a very lonely man. And a very old man as you can well see. Oh, I know, I know that the young don't think very much of the old traditions."

She had been thinking just that. How could she marry a man old enough to be her grandfather?

"But be realistic," he had said, "I don't have many years left, maybe five or ten at the most. And then, my dear, you will be free and modestly wealthy. My family has a few holdings here and there. And you will receive my pension from the Army."

She wasn't convinced. She was only eighteen and he was over sixty!

"Besides," he added, "it is your father's wish."

Yes. It was the custom. The father arranged the marriage.

"Surely," he had said in amazement, "you don't wish to break your father's heart.

"Think of it," he continued, "what will your father think of you? And what, may I ask, will become of you? Surely you don't think your father will receive you with open arms, not after you so impudently disobey him?"

No. She had not disobeyed her father. She had crossed the ocean. She had lain in bed with an old man. All this she had done just so that this animal, this savage could ravage her now!

She could not stop weeping.

Weep! Weep and weep some more! Is that all the dumb bitches ever do?

"Why are you crying?" Contreras snapped. "This is probably the best screwing you ever had!"

"How could you know?" she wept. "You are nothing but an animal!"

"An animal." He laughed, the touch of his hand appreciating the contour of her breast. "Aren't we all?"

"He wasn't," she replied disgusted, trying to move his hand away.

He roared. "You didn't know the old bastard too well, did you? Anyway, why did you ever marry the old goat? He was old enough to be your grandfather."

"He was a good husband," she replied hotly. "He and my father grew up together in Spain..."

"Good husband!" he interrupted. "What did the old goat do, screw you with his forefinger!"

She swung her right hand at him, with all her might behind it. But he moved faster than she, and her hand slammed against the warm ground. Immediately he was on top of her.

"Please," she begged, crying, her eyes shut tight, afraid to look at him. "Please, not again!"

"Why not?" he moaned, rubbing on her ear, kissing her neck, biting her breasts.

"You're the best I ever had," he groaned, running his wet tongue down her stomach, below her navel. He kissed her vagina and ran his tongue in and out. It was wet and salty and it stank like the sea.

She started to buck and was crying hard but in his insane passion he thought she was moaning and he failed to note that she was reaching for his rifle.

He felt something cold and hard poking him in his left shoulder but it did not bring him back to his senses until he felt something burning pass through his shoulder.

Completely startled he jumped up as she was screaming, "I hope I killed you, pig! I hope you are dead!"

With lightning speed he grabbed the rifle from her and swung it down like a club; the terrific impact smashing her head.

He fell to the ground exhausted, feeling numb, his shoulder hurting.

Dazed he looked at the creamy, white body with its long well-formed legs. She had been the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

Idiot! Moron! Did you have to kill her! Did you have to smash her face in!

She would have killed me, he thought a long while after. The bullet had passed clean through his shoulder. It wasn't bleeding badly but the blood was coming out steadily.

He searched for his shirt and took a few cigarettes and crushed them, rubbing the tobacco on his shoulder.

The shot! It was probably heard for miles around. He had to get out of here and in a hurry!

Hold it! Just think a minute now! Quit acting like a panicky old woman. If anyone is searching you would easily be found out there. This is a good place to hide, it is well-hidden by the hill and the heavy underbrush.

He looked up at the descending sun. It would be dark soon; in an hour, hour and a half at most.

Yes, it would be best to wait until it was dark. Then he would go.

Go? Yes, but where? Where would the safest place be? He would have to toy with the problem.

Jesus, he was tired! If he could sleep for an hour or two, he would be all right. Better concentrate on that first.

Hell with the shoulder! Think of something nice, something pleasant, anything that will help you sleep.

Something nice? Can't think of anything pleasant. Cut it out! Think of nothing then. Think of blackness and nothing else.

Slowly he dozed off. But his instincts were working, calculating, planning.

Why not go where the rebels had come from! Since the rebels were there no longer, that would be the safest place of all.

Yes, he would do that. He would seek safety in the lion's den. He would flee to the Amado garrison.

The pain woke him up. The shoulder had stopped bleeding and the pain wasn't great but it was steady like a toothache.

The sky was dark, without stars and with no moon. Flashes of lightning streaked throughout the eastern horizon. The smell of rain was in the air.

Luck is on my side, he thought. The darkness would conceal him; the rain might keep the rebels from roaming the outdoors.

He stretched his arms, trying to unwind his muscles, his right hand touched the body of the dead woman.

An animal, she had called him. A pig. Yes, he thought, I suppose I have become an animal. But what had she known!

Once he had been a priest. Would she have ever believed that?

No. It was hard even for him to believe it. But it was true. A long time ago, he had been a priest.

"Following family tradition," his father had told him, "you can be either a lawyer or a priest.

"And frankly," the old man had added, an expression of disgust showing on his face, always failing to understand how he had ever produced a freak. "Your appearance is too repugnant, too offensive to the senses. A lawyer earns his bread by working with people of delicate sense. You would starve."

The old man had shaken his head. "Even as a priest you won't have much of a future, certainly the Church would never make you a bishop. No, I am afraid you are destined to be a lowly priest all your life, to work with the morons of society, to keep them within the true faith. I am sorry, boy, it's a hard life."

"Yes, it's a hard life." He laughed petting the dead woman's cold thigh.

The more he thought about it the more he laughed. His future as a priest had certainly been short and happy.

Yes, there had been happy days. Happy ? Suddenly he slapped the woman's thigh.' Happy? Goddamn, he thought, the pain must be making me delirious.

No! No! God damn it no! That's when it had really started, his insane passion for a woman's flesh.

He had been twenty-five, recently ordained, and a virgin.

Even now he was curious. What had finally done it? Hadn't he for years been a good boy, an honorable youth? What had made his mind snap, driving his senses into a whirlpool of madness ?

Oh, hell! You are ignorant, Contreras, a complete idiot to be sure. Must there be a theory, an explanation for everything?

He became hysterical, laughing like a madman. Damn it to hell, he thought. Twenty-five and a virgin. And I ask for theories!

The woman and her damned confessions, he suddenly remembered. That's what had finally done it. He had been a good boy, a fine man, and a great masturbator. By God, he had even grown a fine pair of calluses on his right hand!

Then the adulterous, hot-blooded bitch came into his life. Had she deliberately enlivened his imagination, driving him into such a frenzy that he actually felt like he had a boil in his balls? Damn it to hell! As if his imagination had needed any more stimulation!

"Oh, padre," she had confessed to him," I know it's wrong. I know it. But I can't help myself. My husband is so dull, Padre. So dull. And he hasn't touched me in months. Oh, Father, I am so ashamed. But I am a young woman and-and T need a man."

"You don't love this other man then?" he had asked her.

She wept and stuttered. "Nnno. Oh Padre, I am terrible, I really am!"

"Well," he told her kindly, "we are all human. You must pray two hundred Ave Marias and ask God for forgiveness. And above all, you must never do it again. You won't, will you?"

She had remained quiet for a long time. "Oh, I don't know," she finally said, "I need a man, don't you understand!"

"When a man touches me," she said dreamily, "I feel like I exist, I become alive, I feel like a woman. Do you understand, Padre? I need a man's hands all over my body. I need them! Do you understand! Otherwise I am dead, I am nothing! Do you see, Padre? Do you?"

"Any-any man-will do?" he asked her, his blood already boiling.

She hesitated. "Yes," she screamed. "Yes, any man! I don't care, I don't care! I just want to know I am alive. I must feel like a woman! I must!"

That had done it. His mind snapped. He had to have the woman. He had to!

He took his cassock off and ran out of the confessional and slipped his shorts down. Naked he stood next to the curtain that concealed the adulterous woman.

"You may come out," he had whispered panting like an exhausted dog.

Startled, the young woman slid the curtain open and seeing the naked priest she jumped from her knees and started running down the aisle.

He took a few steps and caught up with her and when she resisted him he raped her right there and then in the presence of at least five other women who had been waiting their turn to go to confession.

He was, of course, immediately recalled to Mexico City. And after being reprimanded he was given one more chance.

"We don't particularly approve certain lines of behavior," the Bishop had informed him. "But we tolerate them if done with discretion. Now, if certain females don't desire your attention, leave them alone."

The second time he was interviewed by the Bishop, the Bishop was less kind. "Father Contreras, we have overlooked a number of your shortcomings, but this time you have gone too far. Whoever gave you the authority to teach people that as individuals they are entitled to some dignity? Yes, it's true that as souls they have certain rights, but in heaven, Father Contreras, not on earth. Are you trying to instigate discontent, Father? It was one thing for you to try to impose your affection on an unwilling woman, but we won't tolerate trouble of this sort."

Hell with it, he thought. If you are going to be a bastard, at least be sincere. But he had tried to be a good priest. And for it, he had been excommunicated.

It made no difference any more. Only the young tried to be the conscience of the world. For the mature only the real needs of existence were of any importance.

And this was his pain, his agony, his failure. All his life he had needed affection, to be wanted.

But the devil with that, too. Right now he needed to get away from here, as far and as fast as possible.

He moved quickly and surely as it started to rain and the sound of thunder was in his ears. He remembered the whore who had kicked him in the groin, and he wondered if the rebels had torn her insides yet.

The rebel forces had in fact already taken over the Colonel's former garrison and the rebel commander was rather perplexed about the whole situation.

"And there was no one else?" asked Captain Reyes, one of Zapata's most competent officers.

The shadows inside the adobe room were long, the light from the one candle being very dim.

"No," replied Sergeant Serrano, the pupils of his eyes enlarging like a cat's. "Only three prostitutes. Nobody else was in the garrison."

"What do you think, Sergeant?" The Captain was soaking his feet in a pail of warm water. "You should try it, too," he told the Sergeant. "Your feet stink."

"It's unusual, sir." he answered embarrassed. "It could be a trap."

"Yes," Captain Reyes agreed, his hands busy scratching his toes inside the water. "It could be one hell of a big trap! And I suppose the three whores don't know a thing?"

"No, sir," replied Serrano, fighting a sudden desire to scratch his own toes. "They still insist there were only some thirty people in the whole garrison."

"And they don't even know what happened to them!" Reyes snapped angrily. "If we ever win this damn war it'll be a miracle! Our decisions can be as good as the information behind them. And our information stinks! There was supposed to be a whole division here! Now where in the hell is it?"

"I don't know, sir," Serrano answered apprehensively.

"You don't know ! " the Captain's face turned red as a tomato's. "You are in charge of our spy system, aren't you?"

"Yes sir! But we can't be expected to know every little change that comes along."

"Little change!" Captain Reyes mimicked, completely exasperated. "Get out! Out! Out! Before I drown you!"

"Yes sir!" snapped Sergeant Serrano, turning around.

"Wait, you idiot! What about that shot you claim you heard this afternoon? You sent out two men to investigate. Have they returned yet?"

"No sir, they have not." Serrano's lips trembled slightly, the rest of his face was indifferent.

Captain Reyes took his feet out one at a time and dried each one meticulously. "One is as good as one's feet," he commented.

He put on a pair of huarachis and slapped his knees. "Well," he said, "we can't afford to be trapped. I am dispatching half our troops back to the Amada garrison. They will leave at dawn-break."

The ugly man would have given anything to know this bit of information. But there was no way he could know, and he was proceeding with his plan.

He found the animals where he had tied them. He took the belongings of the Colonel and his wife and hid them in the heavy underbrush.

He took some sugar from his saddlebag and fed a small amount to each animal. And while he chewed on a big piece of jerky he let the other two animals loose.

He would go around the garrison, around the immediate danger and then proceed to safety, to the Amada garrison.

He began to saddle his horse and an uneasy feeling came over him. His skillful eyes searched the big trees around him. He spotted something unusual, a shadow out of place, a something that didn't quite belong there.

He dived for the ground, hitting it hard, and he felt his wound open as he rolled his body mightily.

"Hold it, hombre," an unfamiliar voice ordered from on high among the trees, "or you're dead!"

With the speed of a natural-born warrior, with the skilled hands of a trained hunter, Contreras slipped a knife out from within his boot and in the same motion threw the knife at the shadow he had seen.

There was a thud followed by a groan and then the sound of twigs breaking and leaves being disturbed and another thud.

His senses became magnified; his eyes, his ears, his nose spanned the immediate surroundings ; over and over his eyes scanned each tree. The thunder, the rain, the darkness; his own pain hindered his judgment. He stood up slowly and walked towards the dead man. His knife had gone through the Adam's apple.

"Don't move!" came another voice from behind him. In quick succession two shots rang out and he heard a sharp, whistling sound pass by each ear. "Just so you know you don't have a chance," the voice said.

"Turn around," the voice ordered. "But slowly, very slowly. Or you're dead!"

The man stepped out from behind a tree and approached Contreras, watching for the slightest move, the slightest excuse to kill him.

"Jesus! You're an ugly bastard," the man said, looking at Contreras for the first time.

Contreras' facial muscles twitched and he looked as though he were going to charge the man.

"Get your horse and move ahead of me." The man moved cautiously to the side. "And be careful," he warned. "Very careful. You are of more value alive. But I would love to kill you."

Contreras obeyed and moved slowly ahead of the man. Now and then the man would say, "Turn left," or "Go right."

They approached two horses and the man ordered Contreras to lie on the ground while he mounted one of the horses.

"All right," the man said. "Mount your horse. And whatever you do, don't forget I'm holding a rifle pointed directly behind your neck."

What to do? Was his luck running out? No! There was something, always something, one could do. Wait! For the moment, he would wait. But he would have to strike fast and soon, before they rode out of the forest.

He didn't have much going for him, though. Only the thunder and the rain and his fear. It would have to do.

He would wait until two or three simultaneous cracks of thunder broke the tension. Two or three loud cracks would dull the man's mind for an instant or two. He hoped.

One, two; he counted. One! One! One, two! One, two, three! No, too late. Try it, on the next one.

One! One! One! One, two! One! One, two, three, four! Now!

He dove for the neck of the horse, throwing his body to the right side, kicking the horse's side with his left leg, his right leg going under the horse's belly.

A bullet whistled by his head, grazing the horse's ear. "Run you bastard!" he screamed at the horse. "Run!"

He got ahead of the rebel some twenty-five feet before the man got his horse on the run. He turned his head around and saw the man gaining ground on him.

Another bullet flew by and hit the horse in the back of the neck. As the horse stumbled to the ground Contreras heaved himself away from the falling body with all his might. He fell hard on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, his lungs hurting for air. His fingers searched the ground frantically for a rock, a stick, anything.

A rock! He grasped it tightly, his only chance, a string between life and death. The man was almost on top of him, rifle aimed, death in his heart.

He swung his arm and felt the rock leave his hand. A terrific impact reversed the motion of his hand and slammed him backwards to the ground. A bullet had gone through his hand!

The rock hit the man on the left temple and the upper part of his body fell limply on the horse's neck.

Contreras lay there, his left shoulder and right hand burning and bleeding, his throat and nose making desperate sounds, his lungs straining for all the air they could inhale, the cramps in his chest minimizing all other pain.

Must move! There may be more of them! An animal! Must find a horse! Must! Come on, move! Move!

Gritting his teeth, he stood on shaky legs.

He took a step and another and fell. Again he tried, only to see the ground coming up to him.

Blood! Must stop the bleeding! What to use ? No more tobacco. Mud! Use the mud! Use it! Hurry!

With his good hand, he scraped the wet ground. The wet earth eased the burning; it even felt good, it was so cool.

Thank God for the rain and thunder. I owe my miserable life to both, he thought.

He shrugged his shoulder. Even a worm fights for life. Noble worm, noble Contreras; the will to survive is divine.

His legs were wobbly but he had a strong heart, and the dizziness was leaving him.

The Colonel's horse. He must find it. Couldn't have gone very far. Even the donkey would do, if he could find it.

He walked around in circles, stopping to rest every few minutes. And then he heard a human sound, a groan.

It was the rebel! The same man who had tried to kill him.

The horse was grazing, its neck stooping way down. The rebel was unconscious; the upper part of his body hanging, leading on the animal's neck, the blood flowing down to his head.

Must not scare the horse. No sudden movements, nothing that will alarm the animal.

He approached the animal softly, slowly; and spoke to it gently. The horse kept on feeding, undisturbed.

"What shall I do with him?" he asked the horse. "Should I kill him?

"No," he whispered to himself. "I have a much better idea, if I can find a knife."

He dismounted the rebel as gently as he could and searched him for a knife. He didn't have one.

What could he use? What would cut the rebel's face? A rock! A sharp rock! Yes, but it would take too much time to find one that was sharp enough. What else could he use?

Of course! The belt buckle or rather the pin of the buckle! He unfastened his belt and proceeded to butcher the rebel's clean-cut face. He cut two huge circles on either cheek. The unconscious man groaned and moaned.

"Have fun, ugly man," he whispered, wiping the blood from the pin. "Have fun."

He mounted the horse and as he looked down on the rebel, he sincerely felt sorry for him.

Contreras rode slow and he rode all night and when he finally approached the Amada garrison it was still dark. And the darkness was terrible and silent.

Suddenly there came a painful moan.

He hit the ground and lay still and heard. It was like a cry from hell, terrible and urgent.

His nostrils were filtering a stink that was rotten and insufferable. This garrison was like a living, stinking cemetery.

Perhaps stopping here had been a mistake. If the rebels out there didn't kill him, the damn stink of the dead would. But his need to rest had become all important.

Soon it would be dawn and he would be able to see distinctly. Dead bodies were all he could make out immediately about him.

The dead were of no concern, however. He concentrated on the diretion from which came the devilish moan. It seemed to be coming from the middle of the fortress.

He zigzagged his way; slowly, around dead bodies, crawling close to the wet earth.

His face was distorted; every movement, the slightest motion bringing flowing currents of pain.

The mud had stopped the bleeding. Yes. But his hand was swollen, and if he didn't burn the wound soon the infection would spread.

The shoulder wound wasn't bad. It hurt. But it didn't appear to be infected. Still, it would be wise to burn that wound, too, and since it was much nearer to the heart than the other wound he would burn that one first.

He laughed. Damn earth! It would save your life in one way and kill you by another!

He was near the flagpole now, and he could hear a desperate whisper.

"Dear God!" he heard the agonizing chant. "Dear God! Please help me!"

He stood fascinated, then slowly approached the source of the entrancing sound.

Strange! One always pleaded for God, even cried for Him. Sufficient proof that one always desired for there to be a God. He had always believed so.

Odd! There was never a reply from God, not one way or the other. Did this mean that while man believed in God, God did not believe in man?

Oh, to hell with it! What a time to be making such moronic distinctions!

What was wrong with the woman? Was she blind! Yes! Yes, of course.

Her eyes were fixed on him. But it was a blind stare. And now he could see her eyes had been burned!

"Dear God," she whispered. "Please help me. Please."

Poor wretch! She might as well be dead. What good was she blind? Shame, too, she was a beautiful woman.

He hesitated a moment and then brought his hand up, level against the woman's neck. He was going to strangle the poor wretch!

He took a step forward and felt something under his boot. A dead body! Disgusted he looked down.

Sergeant Lopez! What in the devil's name was he doing there! He bent down and took his pulse. Sergeant Lopez was as dead as a stone.

"Is someone there?" asked the girl frantically. "Help me please! In the name of God, please help me!"

Contreras said nothing. He stood up and brought his hands forward. Again she cried out, more desperate in tone this time. "I need help! Please, I need someone! I need someone! In the name of heaven, please answer me!"

There was no reply and she cried in hopeless abandon.

I need help! I need someone! Contreras put his hands down. How well he knew those words! Hadn't he uttered those same words a million times!

"It's all right," he said, somewhat disconcerted. "It's all right now."

"Oh, thank you God!" she moaned, her head drooping. "Thank you."

He untied her from the pole and carried her inside one of the adobe buildings. He laid her badly bruised body on the dirt floor.

"Mil gracias," she uttered gratefully. "A thousand thanks."

She was thanking him, the ugly man! Was he dreaming! A woman; a real flesh and blood woman, thanking him!

No! It was not a dream. The poor wretch was blind as a bat!

She smiled. "I thought I would die," she said. "I wanted to die."

"Don't talk now," he said petting her head gently. "I'll get some water to clean your wounds."

"Have you ever felt like that?" she asked, her face twitching from the pain. "Like you want to die, really wanted to die."

"Yes," he said, confused. "Many times. Now don't talk any more and conserve your strength."

He went out and found a well on the west side of the garrison. He came back with a pail of water.

She was crying. "I am blind." She was whimpering. "I am blind."

He put the pail down and knelt by her side. "Listen," he said, feeling a little annoyed. "There are worse things that could happen. You have to believe that."

"I am sorry," she whispered, her body trembling-"But I'm frightened. What am I going to do? I am blind! Don't you understand!"

She started to scream, shaking frantically. "Don't you understand! Who will take care of me! Who!"

"Stop it!" he shouted, shaking her by her shoulders. "Stop it! I'll take care of you!"

"But why?" she asked unbelievingly, crying her heart out. "Why would you want to take care of me! Why would anyone want to care for a blind woman!"

"Never mind," he screamed angrily. "Believe me, that's all! Now look," he ordered her.

"Take control of yourself! I'm going to build a fire and heat some water."

He went out and searched all the other buildings for all the paper and wood he could accumulate.

And as the sun was coming out he built the fire and placed the tin pail on top of two pieces of wood. He waited until the water was boiling.

"Did you really mean what you said?" she asked when she heard him come in. "Will you really take care of me?"

"Yes," he said. He was very tired. "If you let me, I'll take care of you. Now," he went on, putting the pail down. "I don't want you to be frightened, but I want you to undress. I'll be able to clean your wounds better that way. The rope cut badly into your flesh."

He felt a surge of desire pass through him as he watched her undress.

Forget it! Let it pass from the mind! There's no time! No time at all! If he waited any longer, he would have to cut off his own hand!

He tore a piece of cloth from her dress and soaked it in the boiling water.

Very gently, very tenderly he cleansed her body wounds. He was sweating. She was a beautiful woman.

"Put your dress on," he ordered, "before I cleanse your face."

When he got through cleaning the area around her eyes he fell to the floor exhausted.

"What's wrong?" she asked, frightened again.

"Nothing!" he replied after a long moment, trying desperately to regain some energy.

"I'm wounded," he finally said. "If you hear me screaming, don't be frightened. I have an infection and I'm going to burn it out. It will burn like hell but I'll be all right."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, frightened, concerned.

"Yes," he replied, getting up. "Be a good girl and get all the rest you can."

"You won't leave me here alone?" she asked trembling a little.

"No," he said smiling. "I won't leave you."

He walked awhile among the rotting stinking bodies, then picked up a bayonet.

Sitting down by the fire, he placed the bayonet in the middle of the blazing flame.

She was a good-looking woman, that girl. He could take her to Sonora. His father had left him a good, sizable piece of land there.

He could learn to farm the land. Why not? He had learned to be a soldier.

Yes! It would be nice. He needed someone; he had always needed someone. And here she was and she needed him!

Yes, but she was blind! What good was a blind person! She would be useless!

Hold it, stupid! Now just wait and think! Does she need her eyes to make love? No! Does she need her eyes to have children ? No!!

And if she could see, would she want him? No!

He smiled and turned the bayonet around. Well then! She was exactly what he had been looking for!

Yes! By God, he would take her there! Who knows, he might even become a decent man once again! He had been a decent man once, before the despair of his desolation had driven him into a degenerate.

Yes! A woman he definitely needed; he needed the companionship she could offer; and God, oh God, their children could make a complete man out of him!

The bayonet was ready. Jesus! It would hurt like the devil!

He grabbed the bayonet with his right, swollen hand and with great difficulty, closed his fingers around the handle.

He closed his eyes, tightly and quickly brought the hot blade against his left shoulder. Count to ten!

He screamed and screamed but did not let up on the bayonet.

"Jesus! Jesus!" he mumbled lifting the bayonet. "Sometimes it's hell to be alive!" He was crying and with his left hand he wiped the tears away.

"Are you all right?" a feminine voice called out. "Please answer me, are you all right."

I feel like hell, he thought. "There's nothing you can do," he called out. "Don't be frightened."

"What's your name anyway?" he asked a little later, struggling against the dizziness.

"Patricia," she replied, "Patricia Diaz. And you?"

"Patricia." He pronounced the name slowly. "It's a beautiful name, Patricia. I like it!"

He grabbed the bayonet with his left hand this time. "My name is Pancho." he said, gripping the burning blade with his swolled hand!

"Pancho Contreras!" he screamed.

Hold on! Another second! And another! And still one more!

He let go of the blade, and with a great roar coming deep from within his lungs, the bayonet flew away from his left hand.

"Pancho!" she screamed. "Are you all right? Pancho!"

There was no reply. He had fainted. She was scared.

Was the man Pancho dead ? Had he run away, leaving her here?

"Pancho." she quivered. "Pancho, where are you?"

Nothing. The dark silence was frightening, horrifying.

The screaming still echoed in her ears. Why had the man screamed so terribly?

She was alone! God, she was alone and she couldn't see!

She had to find her way out of here, find out what had happened.

Leaning against the adobe wall she got her maltreated, hurting body upright and with her hands against the solid, cold, rough surface she took a step at a time.

When she reached the first corner, her head bumped against the wall.

God! What was she going to do! She was blind! Blind! Blind!

"Mother of God!" she cried. "Help me! Help me!"

She dropped to the floor, weeping. She was useless! Helpless!

What would she do ? What could she do! She couldn't even find her way out of a room!

"Pancho!" she wailed. "Answer me! Where are you? Are you hurt? Are you dead?"

It was dark. It was so terribly dark! If she could only see, if only she could see a little!

She rested her head between her two small hands. And she sobbed.

The man had left! He had gone and left her here to die!

And why not, she thought. What was she to him ? Why would any man want to be burdened with her?

She had nothing to offer. She was blind and useless! She was nothing! Good for nothing!

"Kill me, God!" she cried. "Please kill me!"

Contreras could not hear the woman screaming. He was in another world, and all he knew was that he was burning and burning, and burning.

There was a blurred shadow of intense heat before his half-opened eyes.

The noon sun was a burning inferno hanging over a humid sky.

Contreras rolled over, away from the sun god and moaned.

Jesus! The pain had been unbearable! His body felt numb, except his shoulder and hand. The two wounds were very much alive, two very raw spots.

He groaned and groaned. The sound of his agony helped him to bear it.

"Madre mia!" he uttered once every so often. "Madre mia, damn you, damn you, for having given me birth!"

Little by little, curse by curse, groan by groan, the agonizing pain flowed out, not all of it, but enough so his mind started functioning again.

Contreras! Contreras! You cowardly scum! Stop feeling sorry for yourself!

Be bigger than yourself! Much bigger! You're not dead yet!

Get up! On your feet! Come on! Feel the blood go round, feel it flow through your miserable veins! You know you're alive!

He raised himself to his knees first, and slowly worked his way up on a pair of wobbly legs.

He felt weak and dizzy and tne world before him was alternating in black and gray.

He took a few steps, up the wooden sidewalk and rested against the adobe wall.

The bodies of the dead spread the length and the width of the rectangular court.

The dead! Soon he would be dead, if he did nothing but stay there.

Where would he go from here? Where?

He remembered the blind woman. What was her name? Patricia.

Patricia. He liked the name. She was a good-looking woman, too. The image of her naked body came to him.

Ah, Contreras! You ugly bastard! Here you are almost dead and you think of naked females !

He smiled. Why not? Here they were alone, with nobody to bother them but the dead.

He moved back a few steps, leaning against the wall and found the doorway.

The woman was sleeping, her body resting against the right corner of the room.

He looked at the woman for some time. Had he dreamed it or had it really happened?

Was this woman, this beautiful woman willing to go with him!

He brought his fingers up to his harelip and ran them up his scar.

No. He had not dreamed it. The woman was blind and frightened to death.

In any case she could be his. Why rape her then? Why not be nice and decent to her?

Yes. It was in his interest to behave decently. She would be his. It would just take longer that's all.

He walked up to her and knelt beside her. "Patricia," he whispered as gently as he knew how. "Patricia, wake up."

Startled she groped around with her hands, touching his left hand.

"Are you all right?" she asked, surprised. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I feel fine now," he said, studying her face closely. "Have you been crying again?"

"I, I thought you had left me here, alone," she stuttered.

"I was out cold, like a stone," he said angrily.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't know what to think. The darkness is so strange and frightening."

"Anyway," he whispered, holding her right hand. "It doesn't make any difference. Do you still want to go with me?"

"Yes! Oh, yes," she replied. "Don't leave me alone! Please!"

He hesitated a moment still looking down at the burned face.

"I have some land," he explained seriously. "On a place which is many hundreds of miles from here, in the state of Sonora. Have you ever heard of it?"

"No," she replied shaking her head.

"It borders the United States of America," he added.

"The United States," she asked. "What's that?"

"It's a nation like Mexico," he explained. "Anyway, my lands are near a small town called

Bacuachi. It's an ancient town, so old I guess nobody really knows how old it is.

"I want to go back there," he went on with enthusiasm growing in his tone. "I want to go there and make the land grow!"

He hesitated again. "Would you like to go there with me?"

"If you want me," she said, not quite believing. "Yes, I would like to go with you."

His jet black pupils lit up like two very finely polished stones.

"Good!" he exclaimed, giving her hand a soft squeeze. "We will go to Bacuachi then!"

Letting go of her hand, he said, "You must be hungry."

"I don't know." She laughed nervously. "I've been so scared and hurting."

"I have some dried meat we can eat," he said. "And then we must rest. We can start our journey after it's dark."

"After it's dark?" she asked, her nose twitching a little. "Do you think the Pelones might be out there?"

"The Pelones?" He hesitated. She didn't know he was a federal soldier!

"No. I don't think they are anywhere near here. But why not play it safe." He hesitated. "Now, don't you worry about anything." I'll be back in a few minutes."

He went out and walked across the court of the dead and found his horse where he had tied him before dawn.

Should he tell her? Should she know he was a Pelon?

He walked the very tired-looking horse to the stables and took off the saddle. Poor animal! It started to eat the alfalfa which covered the ground.

No! There was no need for her to know. Perhaps he might tell her later when she knew him better and felt more comfortable with him. If he told her now it would only frighten her.

He took two bundles of dried meat from the saddlebag and walked out of the stables.

No, what he needed now was a plan. Bacuachi was a fine idea but it was a long way off. And it was the rebels who held the immediate area. He looked down at some of the dead bodies. The rebels must have been in a hurry to not even bury their own people.

A sudden thought struck him. Why not change uniforms with a dead rebel! If federal troops caught up with him he could always establish his identity. But if the rebels caught him, how would they ever know he wasn't one of them?

He searched around and found a big cadaver of about his own size and traded his torn uniform for a pair of what had once been white pants and a white shirt.

The pants and shirt were now brownish with dirt and mud.

The boots! He hated to trade the pair of black leather boots for the cadaver's huarachis.

Off with them, Contreras, you greedy bastard ! It may be either the boots or your life!

He took off his boots and hesitated a moment before making the exchange.

Yes. Everything would work out fine. Nobody in Bacuachi knew he had become a professional soldier. He would have to offer no explanations. The people there didn't even know he had become a priest. No. The last time he had been in Bacuachi was in his youth, the day he had left for Mexico City to study at the University. It had been long ago, nearly seventeen years had passed by since.

He stood in the huarachis feeling sort of naked. He would get used to them. One could get used to everything except, maybe, not eating.

What about the army! He and the army had been together now for some seven years. Would they inquire about him, make trouble?

No. They would just assume he had been killed with all the others and let it go at that.

The meat in his hand, he headed for the adobe room where Patricia waited for him.

Yes, everything would work itself out and things would be fine.

Patricia was sitting, leaning against the corner. "Is that you, Pancho?" she asked, bringing the upper part of her body forward.

"Yes," he answered, gently placing a bundle of meat in her hand.

They chewed hungrily on the meat for a few minutes. He was watching her closely all this time.

It would be nice. It was something he had wanted all his life.

She would always be there, someone to talk seriously to, someone to take care of; a woman, a person, a being who would accept him; a woman who would share his life.

He might in time learn to love her. And if he were gentle and kind to her, she might learn to love him. It could happen.

He would make it happen! By God, he would!

"Pancho!" she spoke suddenly. "What's that noise?"

"What noise?" he stopped chewing.

"Listen," she said, her face startled, frightened.

He pressed his ear close to the ground. Horses! Hundreds of horses!

"Oh, God," she squirmed. "Pelones! They must be coming here!"

Pelones! No. They were rebels! The woman could not know. She didn't know what he knew.

He hesitated a few moments.

He would have to trust her.

He would tell her who he really was. His survival depended on it.

And if she betrayed him?

He would kill her! Yes, he would kill her, if it was the last thing he ever did!

He moved next to her. And with his good hand, he held hers, ever so gently.

"Patricia," he said in a calm, slow voice. "Listen carefully, I am Captain Contreras of the Federal Army."

Her hands jerked a little, the rest of her remained still.

"I meant everything," he said. "I want you to go with me to the land of my birth."

He pressed her hands lightly and kissed her right cheek.

"Those horses, those people," he explained. "They are not Pelones. They are rebels."

"I am one of them," she whispered nervously.

"I thought you were," he said. "That's why you can save my life, if you want."

She said nothing. Her nose was twitching again.

He observed her closely and continued.

"I discarded my uniform but if they get the chance to talk too much with me, they might suspect the truth. You can save me by telling them I was a prisoner of the Pelones who blinded you, that the two of us were left for dead. Tell them I'm too wounded to talk to them, that I need to rest."

The horses were approaching the gates and they could now hear the sound of voices.

"Will you do it?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

He moved away from her and lay flat on the floor and pretended to be asleep. If she betrayed him, he would kill her! She was confused.

The deep voice; the rough, gentle hands; the man in the room with her. Who was he? He had saved her!

He had cleansed her wounds and fed her!

No. It was impossible. He could not have been one of those mean, bestial people!

But he was a Pelon! He had said so himself. Her enemy! He was her enemy!

Leaning against the corner of the adobe room, she pushed herself upward.

He had given her comfort!

The laughter of men, the curses of soldiers, the neighing of horses were there; only the earth walls were between them.

"Help!" she screamed. "Help!"

She was blind!

She was useless! What would become of her ?

He had promised her a home!

"Madre mia!" uttered the first rebel to come in the room. "What have we here ? "

"Zapatistas!" she replied, a hand against each wall, a blind stare in the direction of the rebel's voice.

"I am blind," she said, bowing her head. "And he's terribly wounded. Help us. In the name of God, help us."

The first rebel walked in and was followed by others. He turned Contreras around and a long whistle escaped his dry lips.

"What happened?" he asked, taking his straw sombrero off.

"I know you," one of the rebels interrupted. "You're Patricia, aren't you? The woman of Manuel Morales."

"I was," she answered, much of the tension leaving her. "Manuel was killed two days ago."

"Who's he?" asked the same rebel, pointing at Pancho. "I never seen him before."

Pancho groaned and moaned. "Kill the Pelones!" he uttered. "Kill the Pelones!"

"Poor man," said Patricia. "He's been having terrible dreams."

The rebels laughed and one of them said.

"Good, I hope he kills them all."

"He was a prisoner of the Pelones," Patricia said, easing herself slowly down to a sitting position. "There were about thirty of them. And they passed through here a day ago. They captured me and they brought us here. When we wouldn't give them any information they tortured me and shot him. And then they left, leaving us for dead."

She brought her knees up and rested her head on top of them.

Pablo! What had happened to him? Had he been killed by the Pelones?

"Have any of you seen a young man named Pablo Vargas?" she asked.

No. The rebels shook their heads.

"We were left behind," she explained. "When I was captured, he was waiting for me."

"Did this man burn his own wounds?" asked the rebel who had first entered the room.

"Yes," she said. "His wounds were catching infection."

The rebel whistled. "It takes a lot of man to do that."

An elderly man came in and inspected Pancho's wounds and then turned to her.

"There's nothing we can do for him, except to let him rest," he said.

"And the only thing I can do for you," he told her, watching the terribly burned face, "is to apply some lard over the burned area. It may help you from getting a very painful blister. All right," he said to the others. "All of you, out. Let them rest. They'll be all right."

Pablo!

Pablo Vargas!

That was the boy he should have killed.

Damn those soldiers of his! If only they hadn't been stone drunk. He should have known.

Oh, hell! The boy had escaped. And now he was around here somewhere.

He opened his eyes gradually. They were alone. Patricia was resting peacefully near the right corner of the room and he looked at her for a long time.

How much did she know? Had the boy told her anything?

He listened to the laughter and curses. They were picking the dead up and carrying them out of the garrison.

His hand was hurting him quite a bit now and he started to shake it.

He was being stupid. Even the boy didn't know a great deal.

"Patricia," he whispered. "You awake?"

There was no answer. She was breathing softly, now and then turning her body to either side.

Hell, he was being an old woman. How could she know anything when the boy didn't! And even if he had described him to her, how could she ever know. She was blind.

His tired eyes wandered over the ceiling and down the wall opposite him.

An old, faded painting of the Baby Jesus hung there.

He looked at the painting a long time and sighed. "Your Old Man sure made a hell of a mess when He built this earth of His."

Patricia grunted in her sleep as she rolled over, her face against the corner.

The noise from the court had subsided, only an occasional outburst of laughter broke the dull, late afternoon air.

Well, he would know what to do about the boy. But he hoped they would meet under better circumstances.

"Patricia," he tried again. "You awake?"

She grunted and with no further reply she remained as still and as quiet as a statue.

He stared at her back, appreciating the contour of her buttocks.

A very warm feeling originating from the pit of his stomach soon spread throughout his body.

She had not betrayed him!

She was a woman and she was a person. And for the first time in his life he had not been betrayed by either one.

His forehead started to feel very heavy and this heaviness worked its way downward, leaving his eyes barely open. Drowsiness seized his brain and everything became shadowy and then completely dark.

Suddenly he was startled by loud, hysterical screaming.

"The Revolution is over! The Revolution is over!"

It was pitch black in the room and he was painfully working his way up to his feet when a jubilant voice broke in from the doorway. "Wake up!" the voice said. "Wake up! Did you hear the messenger! Did you hear the news! Mexico City is ours! The Revolution is over! We can go home now! We can all go home!"

"Did you hear that?" Patricia asked.

"Yes," he said finding his way in the darkness. He sat down beside her.

They listened for a while. The songs were happy and light. The screams and laughter flowed with an unbelievable reality.

"How long will the trip take us?" Patricia finally asked.

"About a month," he said, resting his head against the wall.

There was a pause and then she said, "I'll be good to you, Pancho, I promise."

"I know you will," he said, and he leaned over and kissed her forehead very gently.