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Suddenly, Demetrio finds himself alone. Bullets whiz
past his ears like hail. He dismounts and crawls over the
rocks, until he finds a parapet: he lays down a stone to
protect his head and, lying flat on the ground, begins to
shoot.
The enemy scatter in all directions, pursuing the few
fugitives hiding in the brush. Demetrio aims; he does not
waste a single shot.
His famous marksmanship fills him with joy. Where
he settles his glance, he settles a bullet. He loads his gun
once more . . . takes aim. . . .
The smoke of the guns hangs thick in the air. Locusts
chant their mysterious, imperturbable song. Doves coo
lyrically in the crannies of the rocks. The cows graze
placidly.
The sierra is clad in gala colors. Over its inaccessible
peaks the opalescent fog settles like a snowy veil on the
forehead of a bride.
At the foot of a hollow, sumptuous and huge as the
portico of an old cathedral, Demetrio Macias, his eyes
leveled in an eternal glance, continues to point the barrel
of his gun.