Free The Underdogs by Mariano Azuela

control herself, and once again broke out in sobs.
    María Antonia laughed loudly and walked away.
    â€œSomeone has cast the evil eye on my daughter,” murmured Señora Agapita, perplexed.
    She thought quietly for a while. Then, after going over it carefully in her mind, she made a decision. She reached up to a spike nailed into a post in her hut, between the image of Christ and one of the Virgin of Jalpa, and grabbed the raw leather strap that her husband used to yoke the oxen. And folding the long strap in half, she gave Camila a thorough thrashing to drive away the evil spirits.
    As he rode on his chestnut horse, Demetrio felt rejuvenated. His eyes had recovered their peculiar metallic sparkle, and the red, hot blood was flowing again through his coppery, pure-race indigenous cheeks.
    The men all filled their lungs deeply, as if they were trying to breathe in the vast horizon, the immensity of the sky, the blueness of the mountains, and the fresh air infused with the sweet fragrances of the Sierra. They galloped on their horses as if they could thus take possession of all the land with their unrestrained running. Who among them thought then of the severe chief of police, of the grumbling gendarme, or of the pompous cacique? Who then thought any more of their wretched shack of a house, where one lives like a slave, always under the watch of the owner or of the surly, cruel majordomo? Who among them thought at that point of always having to be up before sunrise, with shovel and basket in hand, or lugging plow and goad, ready to go out and earn one’s daily serving of atole and frijoles?
    They sang, they laughed, and they hooted, drunk with the sun, the air, and life itself.
    The Indian pranced forward on his horse; flashing his white teeth, he told jokes and acted like a clown.
    â€œListen, Pancracio,” he asked very seriously. “In a letter I got here my wife has notified me that we have another child now. How can that be? I haven’t seen her since the days of Señor Madero!”
    â€œNah, tha’s nothin’. When ya left ’er the bun was already in the oven!”
    Everyone bursts out in loud laughter. Everyone except the Indian, who starts singing in a falsetto voice, grave and aloof and horribly off-key:
    I gave her a penny
but she said no, no, no . . .
I gave her a nickel
but she wanted more.
She begged and she begged
until I gave her a dime.
Oh, ungrateful women
showin’ no consideration at all!
    The clamoring finally ceased when the sun began to beat down on them.
    All day long they rode along the canyon. All day long they climbed up and down sloping hills, dirty, cropped hills like scabbed heads, hills always endlessly followed by more hills.
    In the late afternoon, they made out the vague outline of several tall church towers against the blue-ridged mountains in the distance, and beyond this, a road with swirling white dust and gray telegraph poles.
    They headed toward the main road, where they saw the shape of a man sitting on his haunches off to one side. They approached him. He was a ragged, ugly-looking old man working hard as he tried to repair a leather sandal with a dull knife. Near him grazed a donkey loaded with a bale of hay.
    Demetrio asked: “What’re ya doin’ here, gramps?”
    â€œI’m headin’ to town, bringin’ alfalfa for my cow.”
    â€œHow many Federales in town?”
    â€œYup . . . there’s a few, I think no more than a dozen.”
    The old man started talking. He spoke of very grave rumors. That Obregón was already laying siege to Guadalajara; that Carrera Torres had taken San Luis Potosí; and that Pánfilo Natera was in Fresnillo. 2
    â€œWell then,” Demetrio said. “You can go on ’head and head back into town. But ya better be careful and not tell no one who ya just saw out here, ’cause if ya do I’ll blow your brains out myself. I’ll find you even if ya go and