Our brigade had been withdrawn within twenty minutes of the beginning of the action—as soon as it was quite certain the surprise had failed. Patricio was waiting there because his brother had been killed and he wanted, if possible, to take back his body. “But,” cried the colonel, suddenly warming into emotion, “you—where have you been? You, valiant German, refused to come back with the others! All night, all by yourself, you have been fighting single-handed. Let me embrace you!” He flung his arms about me, to receive a fresh surprise. “You are all sticky with something,” he cried. “What is it?” “Blood,” I told him simply and truthfully. My reputation was made. Bravado stirs a Mexican as nothing else can. Counterfeit bravado is just as effective as any so long as the substitution is not suspected. Young Capt. von der Goltz, in his first real engagement, had got stupidly lost and very badly frightened. But of Capt. von der Goltz Col. Patricio and his troopers sang the praises for days thereafter to every officer and every peon soldier they met. He had fought on alone for hours after every comrade left him. He had bathed himself in the blood of his enemies, up to his hips and up to his shoulders. You could see it on his clothes. By the time Ojinaga fell “_El Diable Aleman_”—the German Devil—had become a tradition of the Constitutionalist Army. Ojinaga fell at New Year’s, 1914, the Federalists retreating across the Rio Grande into the United States. We pursued them. And on the bank of the river I had a little adventure. You remember that when I left Chihuahua, a released prisoner, the last person who spoke to me was Col. Carlos Orozco, commanding the Sixth Infantry Battalion, and his farewell was a threat. That Sixth Battalion had been engaged in the defense of Ojinaga and had retreated with its fellow organizations. When I came up to the Rio Grande a small body of fugitives was in midstream. My handful of troopers rode in, surrounded them and brought them back to Mexico. Their heroic commander, who had offered no show of resistance, proved to be Orozco, with the colors of his outfit wrapped round his body, under his blouse! The provocation was too much for me. “Don Carlos,” I asked him, “is it possible you have forgotten me? When we parted last time you promised to shoot me if ever we met again. I am naturally all on fire to learn whether you are thinking of keeping your promise now?”