He raised his eyes and glanced at the girl, whose features were common but whose voice had a note of kindness in it. Wiping his sweating brow with the back of his palm and turning on one side, he gasped: "May God reward you." Then his whole body shook, making the leaves of the stretcher rustle. Fever possessed him; he fainted. "It's a damp night and that's terrible for the fever," said Remigia, an old wrinkled barefooted woman, wearing a cloth rag for a blouse. She invited them to move Demetrio into her hut. Pancracio, Anastasio Montanez, and Quail lay down beside the stretcher like faithful dogs, watchful of their master's wishes. The rest scattered about in search of food. Remigia offered them all she had, chili and tortillas. "Imagine! I had eggs, chickens, even a goat and her kid, but those damn soldiers wiped me out clean." Then, making a trumpet of her hands, she drew near Anastasio and murmured in his ear: "Imagine, they even carried away Senora Nieves' little girl!" V Suddenly awakening, Quail opened his eyes and stood up. "Montanez, did you hear? A shot, Montanez! Hey, Montanez, get up!" He shook him vigorously until Montanez ceased snoring and in turn woke up. "What in the name of ... Now you're at it again, damn it. I tell you there aren't ghosts any more," Anastasio muttered out of a half-sleep. "I heard a shot, Montanez!" "Go back to sleep, Quail, or I'll bust your nose." "Hell, Anastasio I tell you it's no nightmare. I've forgotten those fellows they hung, honest. It's a shot, I tell you. I heard it all right." "A shot, you say? All right, then, hand me my gun." Anastasio Montanez rubbed his eyes, stretched out his arms and legs, and stood up lazily. They left the hut. The sky was solid with stars; the moon rose like a sharp scythe. The confused rumor of women crying in fright resounded from the various huts; the men who had been sleeping in the open, also woke up and the rattle of arms echoed over the mountain. "You cursed fool, you've maimed me for life." A voice rang clearly through the darkness. "Who goes there?" The shout echoed from rock to rock, through mound and over hollow, until it spent itself at the far, silent reaches of the night. "Who goes there?" Anastasio repeated his challenge louder, pulling back the lock of his Mauser. "One of Demetrio's men," came the answer. "It's Pancracio," Quail cried joyfully. Relieved, he rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. Pancracio appeared, holding a young man by the arms; the newcomer was covered with dust from his felt hat to his coarse shoes. A fresh bloodstain lay on his trousers close to the heel. "Who's this tenderfoot?" Anastasio demanded. "You know I'm on guard around here. Well, I hears a noise in the brush, see, and I shouts, 'Who goes there?' and then this lad answers, 'Carranza! Carranza!' I don't know anyone by that name, and so I says, 'Carranza, hell!' and I just pumps a bit of lead into his hoof."