The Indians paid no attention to the fallen bodies, of which, moreover, there were few. They advanced through the narrow street, up to their ankles in mud, stumbling against rocks. The most impatient, the most curious, the most exhausted among them jumped over the walls of the houses, went into the stables and henhouses, tore the locks off doors to penetrate the family’s quarters, to find a table still bearing the remains of the last breakfast, beds that still retained the warmth of bodies, the storage room in which a variety of impractical objects were scattered, unused.

Other Indians kept walking, seeking the heart of the battle. There was no barracks in San Pedro Chenhalhó and the Palacio Municipal was deserted. From inside the church came a murmur of people, hiding, huddled together. The Indians attacked.

They broke down the ancient wooden doors, eaten away by insects, with the butts of their rifles. Each blow was met with hysterical shrieks that were quickly stifled. When the way was clear, the Indians went in.

Inside the church there was nothing except women surrounded by their sons and their grandfathers. They were kneeling, their backs to the enemy, their eyes fixed on the altar. The commotion of the splintering doors and the invaders’ cries did not make them turn around. Their sole horizon was an image bent under the weight of its own miracles.

The Indians consulted with each other, unable to decide. The lack of an adversary paralyzed them. But then one of them discovered a piece of bread in the hands of a small boy and tried to grab it away. The boy cried in protest and his mother intervened, castigating the man’s behavior.

“Such a winikón! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? Let go of that, you miserable Indian!”

And she gave him a slap in the face. The Indian flung himself against the woman and shook her violently. Those who were nearby made a movement to interfere. An old man justified his inaction: “If my ailments didn’t nail me to the spot, I’d be standing up to you Indian wretches!”

“Don’t think you’re going to get out of this mousetrap alive! Our men will give you what’s coming to you.”

The threats turned into blows. The women brandished the scissors they had been hiding in their bodices. Others had armed themselves with saddler’s needles, with fistfuls of pepper they blew in their attackers’ faces.

“Bitch! You blinded me!”

“That and more is what you deserve, rebel Indian! I want to see you crawling to beg my forgiveness!”

The machetes came out, glittering. They hummed through the air, falling onto empty space or onto a body that split in half as a puddle of blood formed below.