comrades. The entire space before the bar was occupied.
War Paint and Blondie had tied up their horses outside;
but the other officers had stormed in brutally, horses
and all. Embroidered hats with enormous and concave
brims bobbed up and down everywhere. The horses
wheeled about, prancing; tossing their restive heads; their
fine breed showing in their black eyes, their small ears
and dilating nostrils. Over the infernal din of the drunk-
ards, the heavy breathing of the horses, the stamp of
their hoofs on the tiled floor, and occasionally a quick,
nervous whinny rang out.

A trivial episode was being commented upon when
Luis Cervantes came in. A man, dressed in civilian
clothes, with a round, black, bloody hole in his fore-
head, lay stretched out in the middle of the street, his
mouth gaping. Opinion was at first divided but finally
all concurred with Blondie's sound reasoning. The poor
dead devil lying out there was the church sexton. . . .
But what an idiot! His own fault, of course! Who in
the name of hell could be so foolish as to dress like a
city dude, with trousers, coat, cap, and all? Pancracio
simply could not bear the sight of a city man in front
of him! And that was that!

Eight musicians, playing wind instruments, interrupted
their labors at Cervantes' command. Their faces were
round and red as suns, their eyes popping, for they had
been blowing on their brass instruments since dawn.