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Andrés
thought
what
a
waste
it
was
as
he
stepped
over
a
trip
wire
that
ran
between
two
of
the
haycocks
.
But
the
Republicans
would
have
had
to
carry
the
hay
up
the
steep
Guadarrama
slope
that
rose
beyond
the
meadow
and
the
fascists
did
not
need
it
,
I
suppose
,
he
thought
.
They
have
all
the
hay
they
need
and
all
the
grain
.
They
have
much
,
he
thought
.
But
we
will
give
them
a
blow
tomorrow
morning
.
Tomorrow
morning
we
will
give
them
something
for
Sordo
.
What
barbarians
they
are
!
But
in
the
morning
there
will
be
dust
on
the
road
.
He
wanted
to
get
this
message
-
taking
over
and
be
back
for
the
attack
on
the
posts
in
the
morning
.
Did
he
really
want
to
get
back
though
or
did
he
only
pretend
he
wanted
to
be
back
?
He
knew
the
reprieved
feeling
he
had
felt
when
the
Inglés
had
told
him
he
was
to
go
with
the
message
.
He
had
faced
the
prospect
of
the
morning
calmly
.
It
was
what
was
to
be
done
.
He
had
voted
for
it
and
would
do
it
.
The
wiping
out
of
Sordo
had
impressed
him
deeply
.
But
,
after
all
,
that
was
Sordo
.
That
was
not
them
.
What
they
had
to
do
they
would
do
.
But
when
the
Inglés
had
spoken
to
him
of
the
message
he
had
felt
the
way
he
used
to
feel
when
he
was
a
boy
and
he
had
wakened
in
the
morning
of
the
festival
of
his
village
and
heard
it
raining
hard
so
that
he
knew
that
it
would
be
too
wet
and
that
the
bullbaiting
in
the
square
would
be
cancelled
.
He
loved
the
bullbaiting
when
he
was
a
boy
and
he
looked
forward
to
it
and
to
the
moment
when
he
would
be
in
the
square
in
the
hot
sun
and
the
dust
with
the
carts
ranged
all
around
to
close
the
exits
and
to
make
a
closed
place
into
which
the
bull
would
come
,
sliding
down
out
of
his
box
,
braking
with
all
four
feet
,
when
they
pulled
the
end
-
gate
up
.
He
looked
forward
with
excitement
,
delight
and
sweating
fear
to
the
moment
when
,
in
the
square
,
he
would
hear
the
clatter
of
the
bull
’
s
horns
knocking
against
the
wood
of
his
travelling
box
,
and
then
the
sight
of
him
as
he
came
,
sliding
,
braking
out
into
the
square
,
his
head
up
,
his
nostrils
wide
,
his
ears
twitching
,
dust
in
the
sheen
of
his
black
hide
,
dried
crut
splashed
on
his
flanks
,
watching
his
eyes
set
wide
apart
,
unblinking
eyes
under
the
widespread
horns
as
smooth
and
solid
as
driftwood
polished
by
the
sand
,
the
sharp
tips
uptilted
so
that
to
see
them
did
something
to
your
heart
.
He
looked
forward
all
the
year
to
that
moment
when
the
bull
would
come
out
into
the
square
on
that
day
when
you
watched
his
eyes
while
he
made
his
choice
of
whom
in
the
square
he
would
attack
in
that
sudden
head
-
lowering
,
horn
-
reaching
,
quick
cat
-
gallop
that
stopped
your
heart
dead
when
it
started
.
He
had
looked
forward
to
that
moment
all
the
year
when
he
was
a
boy
;
but
the
feeling
when
the
Inglés
gave
the
order
about
the
message
was
the
same
as
when
you
woke
to
hear
the
reprieve
of
the
rain
falling
on
the
slate
roof
,
against
the
stone
wall
and
into
the
puddles
on
the
dirt
street
of
the
village
.
He
had
always
been
very
brave
with
the
bull
in
those
village
capeas
,
as
brave
as
any
in
the
village
or
of
the
other
near
-
by
villages
,
and
not
for
anything
would
he
have
missed
it
any
year
although
he
did
not
go
to
the
capeas
of
other
villages
.
He
was
able
to
wait
still
when
the
bull
charged
and
only
jumped
aside
at
the
last
moment
.
He
waved
a
sack
under
his
muzzle
to
draw
him
off
when
the
bull
had
some
one
down
and
many
times
he
had
held
and
pulled
on
the
horns
when
the
bull
had
some
one
on
the
ground
and
pulled
sideways
on
the
horn
,
had
slapped
and
kicked
him
in
the
face
until
he
left
the
man
to
charge
some
one
else
.
He
had
held
the
bull
’
s
tail
to
pull
him
away
from
a
fallen
man
,
bracing
hard
and
pulling
and
twisting
.
Once
he
had
pulled
the
tail
around
with
one
hand
until
he
could
reach
a
horn
with
the
other
and
when
the
bull
had
lifted
his
head
to
charge
him
he
had
run
backwards
,
circling
with
the
bull
,
holding
the
tail
in
one
hand
and
the
horn
in
the
other
until
the
crowd
had
swarmed
onto
the
bull
with
their
knives
and
stabbed
him
.
In
the
dust
and
the
heat
,
the
shouting
,
the
bull
and
man
and
wine
smell
,
he
had
been
in
the
first
of
the
crowd
that
threw
themselves
onto
the
bull
and
he
knew
the
feeling
when
the
bull
rocked
and
bucked
under
him
and
he
lay
across
the
withers
with
one
arm
locked
around
the
base
of
the
horn
and
his
hand
holding
the
other
horn
tight
,
his
fingers
locked
as
his
body
tossed
and
wrenched
and
his
left
arm
felt
as
though
it
would
tear
from
the
socket
while
he
lay
on
the
hot
,
dusty
,
bristly
,
tossing
slope
of
muscle
,
the
ear
clenched
tight
in
his
teeth
,
and
drove
his
knife
again
and
again
and
again
into
the
swelling
,
tossing
bulge
of
the
neck
that
was
now
spouting
hot
on
his
fist
as
he
let
his
weight
hang
on
the
high
slope
of
the
withers
and
banged
and
banged
into
the
neck
.
