The old man, however, was a little bitter. Holding up a horsehair rope, he said: "Three years ago I had four _riatas_ like this. Now I have only one. One the _colorados_ took, and the other Urbina’s people took, and the last one José Bravo.... What difference does it make which side robs you?" But he didn’t mean it all. He was immensely proud of his youngest son, the bravest officer in all the army. We sat in the long adobe room, eating the most exquisite cheese, and _tortillas_ with fresh goat-butter,—the deaf old mother apologizing in a loud voice for the poverty of the food, and her warlike son reciting his personal Iliad of the nine-days’ fight around Torreon. "We got so close," he was saying, "that the hot air and burning powder stung us in the face. We got too close to shoot, so we clubbed our rifles——" Just then all the dogs began to bark at once. We leaped from our seats. One didn’t know what to expect in the Cadena those days. It was a small boy on horseback, shouting that the _colorados_ were entering the Puerta—and off he galloped. Longinos roared to put the mules in the coach. The entire family fell to work with a fury, and in five minutes Longinos dropped on one knee and kissed his father’s hand, and we were tearing down the road. "Don’t be killed! Don’t be killed! Don’t be killed!" we could hear the Señora wailing. We passed a wagon loaded with corn-stalks, with a whole family of women and children, two tin trunks, and an iron bed, perched on top. The man of the family rode a burro. Yes, the _colorados_ were coming—thousands of them pouring through the Puerta. The last time the _colorados_ had come they had killed his daughter. For three years there had been war in this valley, and he had not complained. Because it was for the Patria. Now they would go to the United States where—— But Juan lashed the mules cruelly, and we heard no more. Farther along was an old man without shoes, placidly driving some goats. Had he heard about the _colorados_? Well, there had been some gossip about _colorados_. Were they coming through the Puerta, and how many? "_Pues, quien sabe, señor!_" At last, yelling at the staggering mules, we came into camp just in time to see the victorious Tropa straggle in across the desert, firing off many more rounds of ammunition than they had used in the fight. They moved low along the ground, scarcely higher on their broncos than the drab mesquite through which they flashed, all big sombreros and flapping gay serapes, the last sunshine on their lifted rifles.