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gringo army, many ranchers came to Dos Hermanos to talk to my father. Most of them thought that it was wise to remain quietly on our lands, to do nothing to goad the enemy. I hoped they would persuade my father against committing a rash act. But their advice he did not heed.
    "We will give the gringos a lesson," he would say over and over.
    I was greatly disturbed, for he wished me to feel as he did, as my brother Carlos would have felt, and I could not betray his trust.

14
    Winter was early that year. The first cold came in November and killed our gardens. On the day of the cold, word came that the American Army was marching up from the desert and would soon be in the mountains.
    The word was brought by one of the sheepherders, who had been tending our sheep there in the Oriflames. We sent the flocks with him every year when the grass grew thin at Dos Hermanos. While he was cooking his breakfast, he looked down into the pass that snakes up from the desert and saw something move through the tall mesquite. He watched closely and made out that it was a company of horsemen carrying rifles across their saddle horns.
    We were out at the pits early in the morning, my father and I, turning over the refuse to see if the crystals of saltpeter had begun to form, when the sheepherder rode up. He had left the sheep with his son in a meadow two hours' ride from Dos Hermanos, and hurried on to bring us the news.
    "How many horsemen did you observe?" my father asked him.
    The sheepherder could not count. Instead, he made a wide gesture meaning many. "They came in a long line, señor, one following the other. Many of them, on thin horses. They also carried a flag."
    "Not Spanish."
    "Of blue and white and red."
    "On the trail that leads to the hot springs?"
    "Yes, on that trail, señor."
    "Where they will camp, no doubt."
    "It seems possible, señor. At the springs."
    "While you watched them climbing the trail that leads to the springs did they observe you?"
    "No, señor. I lay on my stomach among the rocks and watched with great caution."
    My father sent the sheepherder back for the flock and rounded up three of our vaqueros. He gave one of them a message in writing to take to Don César Peralta.
    "Go with a fresh horse for your return," he said to the vaquero. "And return without fail before night."
    The other two vaqueros he also sent off with messages and fresh horses to the ranches of Don Baltasar Roa and Don Pedro Sanchez.
    "Bring me their answers by tomorrow's dawn," he said. "Also without fail. We prepare a surprise for the gringo."
    We went to the armory and again saw that things were in order. We had found little saltpeter in the pits, so there was no chance now to make powder for the muskets. Nor could we borrow any in the countryside, for none existed.
    "It is no disaster that we cannot use the muskets," my father said. "The lance will not fail us. You and I are acquainted with the lance, are we not?"
    "We are," I said.
    "It is especially you who are familiar with the lance. I started you young with the lance; indeed, as soon as you could ride without holding to leather. At six, as I remember. You could have won at the wedding had you wished."
    I stood holding tight to my favorite willow lance tipped with Toledo steel. I put it away in the rack and turned around to face my father.
    "You intend for me to be with you against the gringo?"
    He seemed surprised that I could ask the question. "Where else would you be at a time such as this?"
    "What will the men say? Don César and Don Baltasar and the rest?"
    "It does not matter what they say. We fight for honor and our lives, not for their plaudits. We will need every lance we can muster."
    The lance to me had been something for use in games, in mock battles on horseback against friends, not for use against an enemy, even a gringo enemy. Besides, it angered me that my father thought that my life was his to direct. But I held back my feelings.
    "What was the message you