_"I am Count Oliveros_ _Of the Spanish artillery...."_ Juan proudly displayed four bullet wounds. He had killed a few defenseless prisoners with his own gun, he said; giving promise of growing up to be _muy matador_ (a great killer) some day. He boasted of being the strongest and bravest man in the army. His idea of humor seemed to be breaking eggs into the pocket of my coat. Juan was very young for his years, but very likable. But the best friend I had beside ’Gino Güereca was Subteniente Luis Martinez. They called him "_Gachupine_"—the contemptuous name for Spaniards—because he might have stepped out of a portrait of some noble Spanish youth by Greco. Luis was pure race—sensitive, gay and high-spirited. He was only twenty, and had never been in battle. Around the contour of his face was a faint black beard. He fingered it, grinning. "Nicanor and I made a bet that we wouldn’t shave until we took Torreon...." Luis and I slept in different rooms. But at night, when the fire had gone out and the rest of the fellows were snoring, we sat at each other’s blankets—one night in his cuartel, the one next to mine—talking about the world, our girls, and what we were going to be and to do when we really got at it. When the war was over, Luis was coming to the United States to visit me; and then we were both coming back to Durango City to visit the Martinez family. He showed me the photograph of a little baby, proudly boasting that he was an uncle already. "What will you do when the bullets begin to fly?" I asked him. "_Quien sabe?_" he laughed. "I guess I’ll run!" It was late. The sentinel at the door had long since gone to sleep. "Don’t go," said Luis, grabbing my coat. "Let’s gossip a little longer...."