The farmers pulled their luks from half-cut furrows and raised them like weapons; the stealthy woodsmen pulled the ax from the tree’s trunk before they had finished cutting it down and busied themselves filing away the notches that blunted its edge. Those who forded streams, who frequented watering holes, wrung out the cloths they had just beaten against the riverbank stones and placed them to dry in the sun; the merchants who went to and from Jobel left off their traffic to go to their villages, their huts, and instruct their families in the duties of orphanhood, widowhood, absence.

The old people, the women and the children remained where they were.

Neither the pregnant ewe about to give birth nor the young sheep nor the randy billy-goat could be exposed to the hazards of adventure or flight. They, at least, could run away—but the other things? The earthenware utensils whose surfaces were shaped and known by long habit; the wooden coffer, enclosing small, hidden treasures; the loom which gives rank and dignity to the weaver; the three tenamastates that the cooking pots rest on, warm from the embers. Who could carry the foodstuffs that would sustain them? The dried beef, hanging from a rough hook; the various kinds of beans and corn; the comfort of dried chiles and roasted coffee.

What roots them to the land are the things that have roots: the defenseless vegetable garden, the helpless fruit tree.

Each thing, as at the time of creation or during a time of peace, remains with its guardian.

Meanwhile the tribe moves like a great, clumsy animal, disjointed and headless, changing direction whenever it finds an obstacle in its path. The hills are blackened and the valleys echo with the sound of its movement.

Each one knows the place of hostility, the place where vengeance will be fulfilled; each one wants to present himself there and be satiated. The tribe disperses. A few men band together around Winiktón’s will and Ulloa’s orders. Their goal is Ciudad Real.

The others fall on the hamlets where the Ladinos have taken refuge, on the cattle ranches and coffee farms, on the towns. They kill when they are afraid or when they are shaken by rage. The people surrender and the Indians take possession of the land. There is no fight and their triumph has no heroic dimension. They abandon what they have conquered and continue on. It does not matter where. They must go farther.