The Underdogs Read Free Page B

smooth stones.
    By the time he reached the summit, the sun was bathing the high plains of the Sierra in a lake of gold. Looking down toward the ravine, he could see enormous tapered stones, bristling protuberances like fantastic African heads, pitahaya cacti like the ossified fingers of a colossus, and trees stretching out toward the bottom of the abyss. And among the dry boulders and the parched bushes, the bright San Juan roses dawned like a white offering to the star beginning to spread its golden tendrils from stone to stone.
    Demetrio stopped at the summit. Then he reached back with his right hand, pulled out the horn hanging across his back, brought it to his thick lips, and blew into it three times, his cheeks filling out with air as he did so. Beyond the bordering crest three whistles responded to his signal.
    In the distance, from among a conical heaping of reeds and rotten hay, many men came forth, one after the other. They were dark and polished like old bronze statues, their chests and legs bare.
    Quickly they came to meet Demetrio.
    â€œThey burned my house!” he said in response to their inquisitive looks.
    There were curses, threats, insults.
    Demetrio let them vent. Then he brought a bottle out from his shirt, took a drink, wiped it with the back of his hand, and passed it to the man next to him. The bottle went around from mouth to mouth and was quickly emptied. The men licked their lips.
    â€œGod willin’,” Demetrio said, “tomorrow, or perhaps even tonight, we will get another close-up of the Federales. What do you say, muchachos? Ready to show ’em ’round these paths and trails?”
    The half-naked men jumped up and down, howling with joy. Then they repeated the insults, the curses, and the threats.
    â€œWe don’t know how many of ’em there’s gonna be,” Demetrio stated, scrutinizing the faces around him. “But back in Hostotipaquillo, 3 Julián Medina 4 challenged all the pigs and Federales in town with just half a dozen scraggly men armed with knives sharpened on a metate, 5 and he crushed ’em all.”
    â€œAnd what do Medina’s men have that we don’t have?” said a massive, robust, bearded man with very dark, thick eyebrows and sweet eyes. “All I know,” he added, “is that if tomorrow I don’t have me a Mauser rifle, a good cartridge belt, pants, and shoes, then my name’s not Anastasio Montañés. Seriously! Look here, Quail, 6 don’t tell me you don’t believe me? I’ve been pumped fulla lead half a dozen times already. Ask my compadre Demetrio here if you don’t believe me. You know, I’m no more afraid of a little ball of candy than I am of bullets. Don’t tell me that ya don’t believe me?”
    â€œLong live Anastasio Montañés!” Lard 7 yelled.
    â€œNo,” Anastasio replied. “Long live our leader Demetrio Macías. And long live God in heaven and long live the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
    â€œLong live Demetrio Macías!” they all yelled.
    They lit a fire using straw and dry wood, and placed strips of fresh meat on the live coals. Gathered around the fire, sitting back on their haunches, they hungrily smelled the meat as it sizzled and crackled on the embers.
    Near them, piled up on the blood-soaked ground, lay the golden hide of a calf, while the rest of the meat hung between two huisache trees, 8 suspended with twine, set to cure in the sun and the air.
    â€œOkay, then,” Demetrio said. “As you see, other than my thirty-thirty 9 here, we don’t have more than twenty rifles. If there’s only a few of ’em, we hit ’em until there’s none of ’em left. And if there’s a lot of ’em, well then, then we give ’em a good run till they’re at least good ’n scared.”
    He loosened the belt from around his waist, untied one of its knots, and offered its contents to his