With a squad of troopers I descended on the plaza one day. No cabbie anywhere is markedly shy or retiring, and these were hill-bred muleteros. But we got the mules in the end. “You are getting the best of the bargain,” I assured them. “I am only swapping with you. In the corral I have a hundred fine, strong, new mules worth three times as much as these played-out beasts you are getting rid of. You can have the nice new ones to-morrow.” If Gen. Trinidad ever guessed how thoroughly improvised his favorite outfit was—the second in command a bank robber on enforced vacation, the gunners kidnapped, the equipment made by forced labor from commandeered material, and the mules snatched rudely from between the shafts of cabs—he made no comment. He did not live long to enjoy the fruits of my labors. In mid-June, during the ten-day attack which resulted in the fall of Zacatecas, he was mortally wounded. I shall always remember that day, not only for the death of my chief, but for a personal bit of adventure. I was temporarily away from my guns with some riflemen in a trench. The enemy fire was very hot and the men became exceedingly restive. Something had to be done to steady them, for there was no cover of any sort on the bullet-swept, shrapnel-searched plain behind us. Retreat was impossible. There were plenty of horrors in the situation—the blazing sun, the sense of isolation, the cries and curses of the men who were being struck. And there was the cactus. Unless you have been under fire of high-power rifles in a region where the common broad-leaved cactus grows you cannot guess its nerve-shaking possibilities. A jacketed bullet can pierce a score of leaves without much diminution of its velocity, and as it goes through the thick, juicy flesh, it lets out a sound like the spitting of some gigantic cat. Ten Mauser bullets piercing cactus can make you believe a whole battalion is concentrating its fire on your one small but precious person. The men were getting demoralized. If they broke I was done for. If I stayed in the trench alone the Federals would eventually get me and stand me up to the nearest wall. If I retreated with them, nothing was gained. No man can hope to outrun a bullet. I stood up, exposing my body from mid-thigh upward to that withering fire, and took out my cigarette case. The nearest men watched side-wise, waiting to see me fall. By some fortune I was not hit, and after a moment looked down at the man beside me. “Hello, Pablo!” I said, “why aren’t you smoking, too?” I offered my case to him, but took good care to stretch out my arm quite level. To get at the contents he had to rise to his feet.