image of his son, his efforts were vain; he had for-
gotten. . . .

He reached the camp. Lying among the farrows, the
soldiers slept with the horses, heads bowed, eyes closed.

"Our horses are pretty tired, Anastasio. I think we
ought to stay here at least another day."

"Well, Compadre Demetrio, I'm hankering for the
sierra. . . . If you only knew. . . . You may not believe
me but nothing strikes me right here. I don't know what
I miss but I know I miss something. I feel sad . . .
lost. . . ."

"How many hours' ride from here to Limon?"

"It's no matter of hours; it's three days' hard riding,
Demetrio."

"You know," Demetrio said softly, "I feel as though
I'd like to see my wife again!"

Shortly after, War Paint sought out Camilla.

"That's one on you, my dear. . . . Demetrio's going to
leave you flat! He told me so himself; 'I'm going to get
my real woman,' he says, and he says, 'Her skin is white
and tender . . . and her rosy cheeks. . . . How beautiful
she is!' But you don't have to leave him, you know; if