"That’s enough!" cried someone, and I looked up to see Longinos Güereca standing over me. "Julian Reyes, you know nothing. This _compañero_ comes thousands of miles by the sea and the land to tell his countrymen the truth of the fight for Liberty. He goes into battle without arms, he’s braver than you are, because you have a rifle. Get out now, and don’t bother him any more!" He sat down where Julian had been, smiled his homely, gentle smile, and took both my hands in his. "We shall be _compadres_, eh?" said Longinos Güereca. "We shall sleep in the same blankets, and always be together. And when we get to the Cadena I shall take you to my home, and my father shall make you my brother.... I will show you the lost gold-mines of the Spaniards, the richest mines in the world.... We’ll work them together, eh? ... We’ll be rich, eh?..." And from that time on until the end, Longinos Güereca and I were always together. But the _baile_ grew wilder and wilder. Orchestra and pianola alternated without a break. Everybody was drunk now. Pablo was boasting horribly of killing defenseless prisoners. Occasionally, some insult would be passed, and there would be a snapping of rifle levers all over the place. Then perhaps the poor exhausted women would begin to go home; and what an ominous shout would go up: "_No vaya_! Don’t go! Stop! Come back here and dance! Come back here!" And the dejected procession would halt and straggle back. At four o’clock, when somebody started the report that a Gringo Huertista spy was among us, I decided to go to bed. But the _baile_ kept up until seven.... *CHAPTER VI* *"QUIEN VIVE?"* At dawn I woke to the sound of shooting, and a cracked bugle blowing wildly. Juan Sanchez stood in front of the cuartel, sounding Reveille; he didn’t know which call Reveille was, so he played them all. Patricio had roped a steer for breakfast. The animal started on a plunging, bellowing run for the desert, Patricio’s horse galloping alongside. The rest of the Tropa, only their eyes showing over their serapes, kneeled with their rifles to their shoulders. Crash! In that still air, the enormous sound of guns labored heavily up. The running steer jerked sideways,—his screaming reached us faintly. Crash! He fell headlong. His feet kicked in the air. Patricio’s pony jerked roughly up, and his serape flapped like a banner. Just then the enormous sun rose bodily out of the east, pouring clear light over the barren plain like a sea.... Pablo emerged from the Casa Grande, leaning on his wife’s shoulder. "I am going to be very ill," he groaned, suiting the action to the word. "Juan Reed will ride my horse." He got into the coach, weakly took the guitar, and sang: