We walked across the great open square, in the furious light of the desert stars, to a stone store-house set apart. Inside, a few candles stuck against the wall illumined the rifles stacked in the corners, the saddles on the floor, and the blanket-rolled _compañeros_ with their heads on them. One or two were awake, talking and smoking. In a corner, three sat muffled in their serapes, playing cards. Five or six had voices and a guitar. They were singing "Pascual Orozco," beginning: _"They say that Pascual Orozco has turned his coat_ _Because Don Terrazzas seduced him;_ _They gave him many millions and they bought him_ _And sent him to overthrow the government._ _"Orozco believed it_ _And to the war he went;_ _But the Maderista cannon_ _Was his calamity._ _"If to thy window shall come Porfirio Diaz,_ _Give him for charity some cold tortillas;_ _If to thy window shall come General Huerta,_ _Spit in his face and slam the door._ _"If to thy window shall come Inez Salazar,_ _Lock your trunk so that he can’t steal;_ _If to thy window shall come Maclovio Herrera,_ _Give him dinner and put the cloth on the table."_ They didn’t distinguish me at first, but soon one of the card-players said: "Here comes Meester!" At that the others roused, and woke the rest. "That’s right—it’s good to sleep with the _hombres_—take this place, amigo—here’s my saddle—here there is no crookedness—here a man goes straight...." "May you pass a happy night, _compañero_," they said. "Till morning, then." Pretty soon somebody shut the door. The room became full of smoke and fetid with human breath. What little silence was left from the chorus of snoring was entirely obliterated by the singing, which kept up, I guess, until dawn. The _compañeros_ had fleas.... But I rolled up in my blankets and lay down upon the concrete floor very happily. And I slept better than I had before in Mexico. At dawn we were in the saddle, larking up a steep roll of barren desert to get warm. It was bitter cold. The Tropa were wrapped in serapes up to their eyes, so that they looked like colored toadstools under their great sombreros. The level rays of the sun, burning as they fell upon my face, caught them unaware, glorifying the serapes to more brilliant colors than they possessed. Isidro Amayo’s was of deep blue and yellow spirals; Juan Sanchez had one brick red, Captain Fernando’s was green and cerise; against them flashed a purple and black zigzag pattern....