complete-guide

The spirit of nomadic tribes stirred their souls. What matters
it whether you go and whence you come All that
matters is to walk, to walk endlessly, without ever stopping;
to possess the valley, the heights of the sierra, far
as the eye can read.
Trees, brush, and cactus shone fresh after rain. Heavy
drops of limpid water fell from rocks, ocher in hue as
rusty armor.
Demetrio Macias' men grew silent for a moment.
They believed they heard the familiar rumor of firing in
the distance. A few minutes elapsed but the sound was
not repeated.
"In this same sierra," Demetrio said, "with but twenty
men I killed five hundred Federals. Remember, Anastasio"
As Demetrio began to tell that famous exploit, the
men realized the danger they were facing. What if the
enemy, instead of being two days away, was hiding somewhere
among the underbrush on the terrible hill through
whose gorge they now advanced None dared show the
slightest fear. Not one of Demetrio Macias' men dared
say, "I shall not move another inch!"
So, when firing began in the distance where the vanguard
was marching, no one felt surprised. The recruits
turned back hurriedly, retreating in shameful flight,
searching for a way out of the canyon.
A curse broke from Demetrio's parched lips.
"Fire at 'em. Shoot any man who runs away!"
"Storm the hill!" he thundered like a wild beast.
But the enemy, lying in ambush by the thousand,
opened up its machine-gun fire. Demetrio's men fell like
wheat under the sickle.
Tears of rage and pain rise to Demetrio's eyes as
Anastasio slowly slides from his horse without a sound,
and lies outstretched, motionless. Venancio falls close
beside him, his chest riddled with bullets. Meco hurtles
over the precipice, bounding from rock to rock.