Proudly her pale blue gown deepened her olive skin and
the coppery spots on her face and arms. Riding astride,
she had pulled her skirts up to her knees; her stockings
showed, filthy and full of runs. She wore a gun at her
side, a cartridge belt hung over the pommel of her saddle.

Demetrio was also dressed in his best clothes. His
broad-brimmed hat was richly embroidered; his leather
trousers were tight-fitting and adorned with silver but-
tons; his coat was embroidered with gold thread.

There was a sound of doors being beaten down and
forced open. The soldiers had already scattered through
the town, to gather together ammunition and saddles
from everywhere.

"We're going to bid Monico good morning," Deme-
trio said gravely, dismounting and tossing his bridle to
one of his men. "We're going to have breakfast with
Don Monico, who's a particular friend of mine . . . ."

The general's staff smiled . . . a sinister, malign
smile. . . .

Making their spurs ring against the pavement, they
walked toward a large pretentious house, obviously that
of a cacique.

"It's closed airtight," Anastasio Montanez said, push-
ing the door with all his might.