He got up, feeling his wounded forehead. He had to get back to the forest again: it was the only safe place. He staggered. The sun melted his vision and blurred the horizon into crusts, the dry grass, the line of mountains. When he reached the trees, he grabbed a trunk; he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and ripped off his shirt sleeve. He spit on it and put the moist spot on his lacerated forehead. He tied the rag around his head-his head was pounding painfully when the dry branches alongside him splintered under the weight of unknown boots: the soldier belonged to the revolutionary troops and he was carrying a body on his back, a bloody, broken sack with a blood-encrusted arm.
"I found him where the forest begins. He was dying. They blew most of his arm off…Lieutenant."
The tall, dark soldier squinted until he could see the insignia. "I think he's gone and died on me. He feels like a dead man."
He put the body down, resting it against the tree. Artemio had done the same thing half an hour, fifteen minutes before. The soldier brought his face close to the wounded man's mouth; he recognized the open mouth, the high cheekbones, the half-closed eyes.
"Yes. He's gone. If only I'd gotten there a little sooner, I might have saved him."
He closed the dead man's eyes with his square hand. He hooked the silver belt buckle, and as he bent his head, he muttered through white teeth: "Damnit, Lieutenant. If there weren't a few brave guys like this one in the world, where would the rest of us be?"
He turned his back on the soldier and the dead man and ran toward the open plain. It was preferable. Even if he neither heard nor saw. Even if the world passed him by like a shadow. Even if all the noises of war and peace-mockingbirds, wind, distant roaring-that persisted were to turn into that single, dull drumming that encompassed all noise and reduced it to sadness. He tripped over a corpse. He bent down, without knowing why, seconds before that voice cut through the deaf drumming of all these noises.
"Lieutenant…Lieutenant Cruz."
A hand rested on the lieutenant's shoulder; he raised his face.
"You're badly wounded, Lieutenant. Come with us. The federales ran off. Jiménez held the town square. Come back with us to headquarters in Río Hondo. The cavalry really did a job; they multiplied, really. Come on. You don't look so well."
He clasped the officer's shoulders and murmured: "To headquarters. Right, let's go."
The thread was broken. The thread that allowed him to traverse the labyrinth of war without getting lost. Without getting lost: without deserting. He wasn't strong enough to hold the reins. But the horse was tethered to Major Gavilán's saddle during that slow march through the mountains separating the battle plain from the valley where she waits for him. The thread stayed behind. There below, the town of Río Hondo hadn't changed: it was the same jumble of houses he'd left behind that morning, with broken roof tiles and adobe walls, pink, reddish, surrounded by cactuses. He thought he could pick out, next to the green lips of the ravine, the house where Regina must be waiting for him.
Gavilán was trotting in front of him. The afternoon shadows cast the image of the mountain on the tired bodies of the two soldiers. The major's horse stopped for an instant, waiting for the lieutenant's to catch up. Gavilán offered him a cigarette. As soon as the match was out, the horses started trotting again. But by then he'd seen the pain in the major's face and he lowered his head. He deserved it. They'd know the truth about his having deserted under fire, and they'd rip off his insignia. But they wouldn't know the whole truth: they wouldn't know that he wanted to save himself so as to return to Regina's love, nor would they understand if he explained. They also wouldn't know that he'd abandoned the wounded soldier, that he could have saved his life. His love for Regina would compensate for the guilt of abandoning the soldier. That's the way it should be. He lowered his head and thought that for the first time in his life he was experiencing shame. Shame: it wasn't shame that showed in Major Gavilán's clear, direct eyes. The officer rubbed his fuzzy blond beard with his free hand crusted with dust and sun.
"We owe our lives to you and your men, Lieutenant. You halted the enemy's advance. The general will welcome you like a hero…Artemio…Do you mind if I call you Artemio?"
The major tried to smile. He rested his free hand on the lieutenant's shoulder and went on, laughing dryly. "We've been fighting alongside each other for a long time, and look: we don't even call each other by our first names."
Major Gavilán's eyes asked for some response. The night fell with its incorporeal crystal, and the last glow flashed behind the mountains, now far away, hidden in the darkness, secluded. In the barracks, fires were burning that could not be seen from a distance in the afternoon light.
"The skunks!" exclaimed the major suddenly in a bitter tone. "They made a surprise attack on the town at about one in the afternoon. Naturally, they didn't reach headquarters. But they took their revenge on the outlying areas-their usual tricks. They've promised to take revenge on any town that helps us. They took ten hostages and sent us a message that if we didn't surrender they would hang them. The general replied with mortar fire."
The streets were filled with soldiers, people, stray dogs, and children, as stray as the dogs, crying in doorways. Some fires still burned, and women sat right out in the street on their mattresses, alongside whatever else they had salvaged.
"Lieutenant Artemio Cruz," whispered Gavilán, leaning over to reach the hearing of some soldiers.
"Lieutenant Cruz," ran the murmur from the soldiers to the women.
The people made way for the two horses: the major's bay, nervous in the crowd pressing up against it; the lieutenant's black stallion, his forehead low, letting himself be led by the bay. Hands reached out: the men from the cavalry detachment commanded by the lieutenant. They squeezed his leg in greeting; they motioned toward his forehead, where the blood had seeped through the rag; they muttered congratulations on the victory. They crossed the town. The ravine yawned in the background, and the trees were swaying in the evening breeze. He raised his eyes: the cluster of white houses. He looked for the window; they were all closed. The glare of candles illuminated the entryway to some houses; black groups, wrapped in rebozos, were crouched there.
"Don't anyone cut them down!" shouted Lieutenant Aparicio from his rearing horse, using his riding crop to beat back the hands raised imploringly. "We've all got to remember this forever! Everyone's got to know who we're fighting! They make the common people kill their brothers. Take a good look. That's how they killed the Yaquis, because the Yaquis didn't want their land taken from them. The same way they killed the workers at Río Blanco and Cananea, who didn't want to die of hunger. And that's the way they'll kill all of us unless we kick the shit out of them first. Take a good look."
The finger of young Lieutenant Aparicio pointed to the clump of trees near the ravine. The crude henequen ropes still drew blood from the necks; but the open eyes, purple tongues, and limp bodies barely swaying in the wind blowing down from the mountains proved they were dead. The eyes of the onlookers-some lost, some enraged, most with a sweet expression of disbelief, filled with quiet pain-focused on the muddy huaraches, a child's bare feet, a woman's black slippers. He dismounted. He came closer. He clutched Regina's starched skirt with a broken, choked sound: it was the first time he'd cried since becoming a man.