complete-guide

wound, examined it carefully, and shook his head. The
ligaments had made a furrow in the skin. The leg, badly
swollen, seemed about to burst. At every move he made,
Demetrio stifled a moan. Luis Cervantes cut the ligaments,
soaked the wound in water, covered the leg with
large clean rags and bound it up. Demetrio was able to
sleep all afternoon and all night. On the morrow he
woke up happy.
"That tenderfoot has the softest hand in the world!"
he said.
Quickly Venancio cut in:
"All right; just as you say. But don't forget that tenderfoots
are like moisture, they seep in everywhere. It's
the tenderfoots who stopped us reaping the harvest of
the revolution."
Since Demetrio believed in the barber's knowledge
implicitly, when Luis Cervantes came to treat him on
the next day he said:
"Look here, do your best, see. I want to recover
soon and then you can go home or anywhere else you
damn well please."
Discreetly, Luis Cervantes made no reply.
A week, ten days, a fortnight elapsed. The Federal
troops seemed to have vanished. There was an abundance
of corn and beans, too, in the neighboring ranches.
The people hated the Government so bitterly that they
were overjoyed to furnish assistance to the rebels. Demetrio's
men, therefore, were peacefully waiting for the
complete recovery of their chief.
Day after day, Luis Cervantes remained humble and
silent.
"By God, I actually believe you're in love," Demetrio
said jokingly one morning after the daily treatment.
He had begun to like this tenderfoot. From then
on, Demetrio began gradually to show an increasing interest
in Cervantes' comfort. One day he asked him if