wound; he could no longer ride on horseback. They were
forced to carry him the rest of the way on a makeshift
stretcher of leaves and branches.

"He's bleeding frightfully," said Anastasio Montanez,
tearing off one of his shirt-sleeves and tying it tightly
about Demetrio's thigh, a little above the wound.

"That's good," said Venancio. "It'll keep him from
bleeding and stop the pain."

Venancio was a barber. In his native town, he pulled
teeth and fulfilled the office of medicine man. He was
accorded an unimpeachable authority because he had
read The Wandering Jew and one or two other books.
They called him "Doctor"; and since he was conceited
about his knowledge, he employed very few words.

They took turns, carrying the stretcher in relays of
four over the bare stony mesa and up the steep passes.

At high noon, when the reflection of the sun on the
calcareous soil burned their shoulders and made the
landscape dimly waver before their eyes, the monoto-
nous, rhythmical moan of the wounded rose in unison
with the ceaseless cry of the locusts. They stopped to rest
at every small hut they found hidden between the steep,
jagged rocks.

"Thank God, a kind soul and tortillas full of beans and