Knowing how to manage the deception is all that is required. César didn’t think very highly of the engineer’s skill. He didn’t think Ulloa had even formulated a concrete plan of action. The engineer was more inclined to calm the Indians than to inflame them.

“The ranchers are looking for a pretext so as not to carry out the orders. Let’s not give them one! Let’s not put the noose around our own necks!”

Winiktón stammered, trying to get the words out. He didn’t really understand what they meant, and it would damage his prestige in the eyes of the others if he showed his ignorance. He said that now was the time to make use of force.

One of the principal men raised his hand to protest. Here, far from Tzajal-hemel, within another religious sphere, Pedro and his wife, the ilol, were not persons to be feared. Why should their council be followed?

Other leaders broke in. They spoke energetically. Ulloa suspected that his message had been misinterpreted. Trying not to let anyone else hear him, he said to Pedro, “The army is coming. They’re after you and your wife, for the death of Padre Mandujano. But they’ll take everyone. Right now there is still time for all of you to escape.”

Pedro finally succeeded in silencing the murmurs and comments. Suddenly he was pained, not for himself and Catalina, but for all those who would be punished for a crime that by now no one knew who had committed.

“We must go back to the mountain. We must hide.”

“And leave San Juan’s church empty?” one of the men asked in disbelief. The others were silent, stupefied.

“During Holy Week!”

What foolishness! As if San Juan and the Virgen de los Dolores and Santiago and the dead Christ would allow their fiestas to be interrupted.

“There are soldiers, many of them. They have rifles, bullets.”

Fernando was gesticulating. His useless efforts to be understood made Santiago give a quick smile.

“You’ll be responsible for the slaughter if you don’t make them disperse!”

He had seized Winiktón’s shoulders and was shaking him hard. Pedro was shaking his head in anguish. He had never wanted that: the death of his people. He wanted justice. But in his imagination the image of justice always went together with the image of blood.