War Paint spurred her black horse and with one jump was abreast with Demetrio. They rode forward, elbow to elbow. She wore a silk dress and heavy gold earrings. Proudly her pale blue gown deepened her olive skin and the coppery spots on her face and arms. Riding astride, she had pulled her skirts up to her knees; her stockings showed, filthy and full of runs. She wore a gun at her side, a cartridge belt hung over the pommel of her saddle. Demetrio was also dressed in his best clothes. His broad-brimmed hat was richly embroidered; his leather trousers were tight-fitting and adorned with silver buttons; his coat was embroidered with gold thread. There was a sound of doors being beaten down and forced open. The soldiers had already scattered through the town, to gather together ammunition and saddles from everywhere. "We're going to bid Monico good morning," Demetrio said gravely, dismounting and tossing his bridle to one of his men. "We're going to have breakfast with Don Monico, who's a particular friend of mine ...." The general's staff smiled ... a sinister, malign smile.... Making their spurs ring against the pavement, they walked toward a large pretentious house, obviously that of a cacique. "It's closed airtight," Anastasio Montanez said, pushing the door with all his might. "That's all right. I'll open it," Pancracio answered, lowering his rifle and pointing it at the lock. "No, no," Demetrio said, "knock first." Three blows with the butt of the rifle. Three more. No answer. Pancracio disobeys orders. He fires, smashing the lock. The door opens. Behind, a confusion of skirts and children's bare legs rushing to and fro, pell-mell. "I want wine. Hey, there: wine!" Demetrio cries in an imperious voice, pounding heavily on a table. "Sit down, boys." A lady peeps out, another, a third; from among black skirts, the heads of frightened children. One of the women, trembling, walks toward a cupboard and, taking out some glasses and a bottle, serves wine. "What arms have you?" Demetrio demands harshly. "Arms, arms...?" the lady answers, a taste of ashes on her tongue. "What arms do you expect us to have! We are respectable, lonely old ladies!" "Lonely, eh! Where's Senor Monico?" "Oh, he's not here, gentlemen, I assure you! We merely rent the house from him, you see. We only know him by name!" Demetrio orders his men to search the house. "No, please don't. We'll bring you whatever we have ourselves, but please for God's sake, don't do anything cruel. We're spinsters, lone women ... perfectly respectable...." "Spinsters, hell! What about these kids here?" Pancracio interrupts brutally. "Did they spring from the earth?" The women disappear hurriedly, to return with an old shotgun, covered with dust and cobwebs, and a pistol with rusty broken springs. Demetrio smiles. "All right, then, let's see the money." "Money? Money? But what money do you think a couple of spinsters have? Spinsters alone in the world....?"