the butt of his rifle on the ground.

Pancracio appeared, holding a young man by the arms;
the newcomer was covered with dust from his felt hat to
his coarse shoes. A fresh bloodstain lay on his trousers
close to the heel.

"Who's this tenderfoot?" Anastasio demanded.

"You know I'm on guard around here. Well, I hears a
noise in the brush, see, and I shouts, 'Who goes there?'
and then this lad answers, 'Carranza! Carranza!' I don't
know anyone by that name, and so I says, 'Carranza,
hell!' and I just pumps a bit of lead into his hoof."

Smiling, Pancracio turned his beardless head around as
if soliciting applause.
Then the stranger spoke:
"Who's your commander?"

Proudly, Anastasio raised his head, went up to him
and looked him in the face. The stranger lowered his tone
considerably.

"Well, I'm a revolutionist, too, you know. The Govern-
ment drafted me and I served as a private, but I man-
aged to desert during the battle the day before yesterday,
and I've been walking about in search of you all."

"So he's a Government soldier, eh?" A murmur of in-